Shaken, not stirred

Yesterday afternoon found me cramming music in the laundry room, which I found strangely comforting. What was not comforting was the timer on the light, which would snap off every so often in a most horror-movie-esque fashion. Nothing quite as spooky as a clothes dryer in the dark. I hope I can scrape together some enjoyment of this music in the midst of the unpleasantly short rehearsal period and general flat-outness that has been going on with pretty much everyone in the group these days. We're like a bunch of overworked racing dogs, and even though there aren't a bunch of hairy men reeking of cigarlic and yelling at us to go faster, that's sort of how it feels.

To top things off, I made the mistake of asking my neighbor to please keep the noise down last night. It was only about 11, but I was tired and grumpy and this guy screaming profanity was the last thing I wanted to listen to. Plus, he was taking it outside, which made it louder. So I opened the window and made my petition. He was so obviously smashed that there was no hope of conversation. He gazed skyward at me in my glasses and pajamas and sweatshirt and asked me to sing something, which was sort of touching, since he's the selfsame one who has occassionally made fun of my practicing, which really hurt my feelings at the time. I told him it would be against the law to make that much noise at that hour. Then he challenged me to call the cops and started up one of his broken records. All Your Most Favorite of the Swears, I think that one's called.

One real grace note has been listening to Josh practice violone and gamba. The violone posesses the most unearthly beautiful sound. And Josh's meditative musicality is a joy.

My first day among the people of the afternoon. The "Maid to Order" car, the "Garden of Weedin'" truck, and the nannys wheeling their larval charges around this yuppy neighborhood of mine. I am, fittingly, at the public library.

Holy Week went by in a blur of candles and disappointment. I threw all of my energy into the Couperin, which- as many of you know- was a heartsquishing bust for reasons beyond my control. The new problem is that I now wish that I had spent some of that energy on the music for this weekend, which is coming at me like a freight train. Live and learn, I guess. On the upside, the music is terrific. I've got 2 words for you singers out there: Pelham Humphryes. Absolutely amazing composer. I get to sing a whole bunch of 014 motives, and it's not even Second Vienna School.

John and Mary and I are in a cafe in Tacoma. It smells like a Glade Plug-in, and we just heard Willie Nelson singing "All the girls I've loved before." We are sitting in overstuffed pleather couches, taking it easy after our Couperin bash-through. It is like paradise on earth, so happy am I to have this hour of respite. All things considered, it was a fun rehearsal. We are playing it up in the choir loft, which is always a joy. For one thing, it will be warmer, and it's fun to kind of be as part of the organ for a change, rather than a float.


It's a good thing that I'm so busy, because it gives me less opportunity to get all mushy and preemptively nostalgic about my job being almost over. We found a new receptionist last Friday, and I'll be training her on Monday and Tuesday, then it's all over! Oh, what nice people they are! We had fruit and bagels this morning, and an applicant who took all morning to test, so we couldn't spend enough time crowing about one thing or another. I'm really going to miss those ladies.

Get me to the church on time

Lord, I have the sin of fear. Fear that I have accepted too much employment from your followers. Um... okay, I'm not exactly John Donne, but seriously, I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed by the sheer volume of sacred music that I'm about to sing. Well, what the heck. Bach ran around from church to church for years in Leipzig, and he had to write the music! Of course, he was Bach..... yeah, that's not comforting. To say that something is humanly possible is not to say that it is Bachly possible. Very different thing. But enough whining! The music is great, and I feel far more energized than I have for months.

More Catholic Tastes

I am a temporary alto section leader for Holy Week at a church in Shoreline. Thrills and chills a-plenty. This morning, we were singing a round to fill the time during Eucharistic preparation, and I didn't realize that we would stop rather short and at complete random, depending upon the pace of the priest. My eyes were glued to the score, and I had an awkward moment before halting...but the little old lady next to me kept going! The poor thing sang an extra "Liberate, Dominum! Li-!" on her own, which was total, movie-cute, comic gold. Apart from that, I did a lot of trembling from smoke inhalation. The air was absolutely sodden and some poor woman passed out, which is not that uncommon.

In closing:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3f72CTDe4-0

Mondfleck

Der Mondfleck (The moonfleck)
By Albert Giraud, trans into German by Erich Hartleben, then into English by Andrew Porter

With a snowy fleck of shining moonlight
on the back side of his smart new frockcoat
so sets forth Pierrot one balmy evening,
in pursuit of fortune and adventure.

Sudden - something's wrong with his appearance,
he looks round and round and then he finds it -
there's snowy fleck of shining moonlight
on the back side of his smart new frockcoat.

Hang it! Thinks he: a speckle of plaster!
Wipes and wipes, but he can't make it vanish!
On he goes, his pleasure has been ruined,
rubs and rubs until it's almost morning
at a snowy fleck of shining moonlight.

***

I have taped a bright yellow sign on the office door today, which informs our temps that we won't be open late on Fridays anymore. If the sun were shining through the window at my back, there would be a patch of sunlight right where the yellow sign is, and in my peripheral vision, it gives the impression that the patch of sun is actually there. I keep turning my head to observe that the sun has come out, but it's still gray and rainy outside....

Springtime in Apartment 2

Punch and Judy were up and at eachother's throats long before the crack of dawn this morning. "Evil woman!" howled Sad Sack's tenor. "Grumble grumble," grumbled the Bird Lady's baritone. When I was finally up and interested in their conversation, it was impossible to make out the details over the general plumbing racket. It sounded like furniture was being moved. The two of them tend to stick with a phrase for a long time when they deem it effective, and I'm getting mighty tired of hearing "Evil Woman!" keening up through the floor. It always get that dumb ELO song stuck in my head. And now I'll bet it's stuck in your head, too. Sorry about that.

On Ego and the Pure Vessel

I know a church pastor in my neighborhood who is one of the most generous vessels of human compassion I've ever met. Once in awhile I sing at one of their services in exchange for using the church for concerts and practice, and every time, she tells some story in her sermon that makes me want to curl up in a ball and cry because it's so beautiful and fraught with conflicting emotions. I always have to get ahold of my blubbering self and sing right after that, which always makes me realize that the real purpose of the musician is to be a vessel, too. For practical reasons, you can't cry and sing at the same time. You can't do it for aesthetic reasons either, because if you cry, they worry about you and can't concentrate on the music. It always amazes me that Laurie doesn't cry when she preaches, but I guess it's the same kind of thing.

Ego is such a big problem for us music types. Given that it's one of the most competitive professions in existence, it's a tall order for a musician to be free of insecurity, envy and pride. But I'm beginning to think there's just no room for that if the music is going to be meaningful and pure.

In Praise of Couperin and The Dream

Couperin is like floppity Mozart. Couperin is poised and a challenge to sing, and his music requires great technique. Couperin is like a flock of birds that wheel and turn in a big spiral in the sky, and stay in the air like that for an amazingly long time. (Mozart's birds land with more frequency, I think.)

I wonder if The Secret isn't like the one and only lucid dream that I was able to harness and transform. It started as a typical tedious nightmare of trying to accomplish a bunch of undoable tasks. I was somehow roped into waiting tables, and some people wanted water. Every time I turned on the tap, milk came out, and that's how I figured out that I was dreaming. But rather than try to get anything sorted out, I just changed the scenario to the way I wanted things. I made it so that I was outside in a warm, grassy field on a moonlit night with a bunch of my friends. My lack of success in all previous and subsequent attempts to control a lucid dream has been because I have tried to follow the sequential and textural rules of the dream. The trick is to remember that those rules are all in my mind.