On Baseball

I've spoken before about my believe in baseball, and with this year's World Series having an off day today, I figure there's no better time to revisit it than now.

But I'm going to be short and sweet. In other words: I'm going to let someone else do the talking for me. But this pretty much sums it up.

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"What baseball means to me...A sense of continuity...A cavalcade of characters...Enough anecdotes to fill a hundred rain delays...Debates that always rage, and are almost never settled...Familiar surroundings, always holding the possibility of something you'd never expect..."
Bob Costas

Why Music?

My private teacher gave me the assignment to journal (yes, I'm using it as a verb) my thoughts on what I want my music to say. It is pretty rambly and self-exploration-filled, so I thought it would be perfect to post here. If you read all of it, more power to you...I'm sure there'll be more of these coming, as I want to get back to blogging more regularly for my own good...even (especially?) if nobody reads it.

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I know I was supposed to think about what I want to say in my music and why I compose now, but to arrive at this, I think I need to work through a few questions.

First, is of course, what composition is to me, and why I compose. Partially because of Duke Ellington's “Prelude to a Kiss.” I was given the recording off of “Indigos” by my high school piano teacher, and the combination of Duke's writing and Johnny Hodges' playing, it made me speechless. I said right then that I wanted to do that.

I guess what I want to do with it starts simply with that I am a hopeless romantic, and to me, composing is just like falling in love. Sometimes it feels good at first but then it loses all meaning as time goes on. But sometimes, it feels good and then it grows truer and truer with every passing moment. And when trying too hard to re-create the latter, the former is inevitable.

I feel like I've only ever written three songs that feel true after they've been written. All ballads, by no coincidence. (Partially because I'm drawn to ballads as a pianist because of my lack of chops and the 1925 upright piano I learned to play on whose hammers were so warn that its tone was made for ballads, and partially because I feel emotion runs through me and through ballads easier...) The first was a piece I wrote in high school called “Away,” that the melody and chord changes still hold that emotion to me whereas a lot of the rest of it doesn't, because it was used as an audition piece and therefore I worked it until it was dead. I'd love to go back and re-work it now, and still intend to. And the latest was “Broken Love Song” last May, which was an undeniable result of the time at which it was written and the horrible depression I was battling through and the breakup that happened to spiral me downward into my worst. (I was already battling depression and the breakup made things worse when it looked like they were finally getting better. The breakup did not cause the depression.)

Perhaps not so ironically, “Broken Love Song” was the first step to getting out of the depression. Part of what was depressing me was the fact that my music felt forced and lacked that emotion that I so deeply craved, and was reminded of every time the gods decided to cruelly play that Duke recording when my computer or MP3 player was on random – which seemed to happen more often than mathematically possible in a digital library of over a month of music. “Broken Love Song,” when I wrote it, I actually was quite unsure of it. When I was singing the melody still two days later, I knew I had something I'd be happy enough with for class.

The day of the reading was probably one of my darkest as far as the depression goes, having nothing to do with the reading itself. At that point, the only thing keeping me going was a blog I kept – and continue to – that at the time was a mix between a cry for help, amusing anecdotes, and an up-and-down journey of self-exploration. (I deliberately do not say 'self-realization', because that's a long process that I'm still exploring, if not entirely obvious by this piece of writing.) The reading was the first step to help, and it's the small things. I'm going to quote my blog from the next day:

I'm looking for the right words of wisdom that I've gotten in order to end this entry, but there are no words. Just looks. The look Bill Kirchner gave me Tuesday night after a new piece of my was read by a big band. He knew I wasn't sure about it, and he just looked at me, smiled, nodded, and said, "Ya did fine."

So that, more or less, gets me to the present day. And I'm scared to try to answer the question of what it is I want to say with my music now, my artistic statement, if you will. I'm scared that exploring this question, I will only be able to answer that I'm saying in my music that I'm depressed and need help. Right now, the only thing my music is saying is that I'm young, have a decent technical knowledge, and have a hell of a lot of growing up to do, both musically and otherwise. As much as I hate to admit it, I'm still an immature kid in a lot of ways. I'm just under a month shy of my 22^nd birthday, and I've never been accused of being my age. On the one hand, I look at myself as someone unbelievably mature for my age who has done a lot of things in his life and has some great stories, especially for a 22 year old. And on the other, I'm immature and hide it.

I guess the fact that I have so much trouble answering this question adds to my fears that I am a fraud. I mean, it used to be so easy for me to just sit down and write. Some of the things that were easy for me once are still easy for me: I can still play by ear with little problem. I still memorize by sound – only better than ever because my ears are better – but that's because my brain will only internalize by aural abilities. I can take a lead sheet and arrange it for 3 horns or 4 horns easier than ever.

But I don't. Maybe for the same reason that it's hard for me to write as easily as I once did, before I called myself a 'composer'. (I wouldn't call myself a 'musician' or a 'composer' until I had outside validation of acceptance to music school. Before that, I was an 'aspiring musician' or someone who did music heavily in life and that's where my passion was, but I didn't throw the terms around lightly. Comparably, I write, and I write better than many 'writers' I know, but the fact that I have no outside validation – and don't look for it – with writing, I will never call myself a 'writer'.) Maybe it's harder for me to compose now because I have too much knowledge and I have higher standards. Or maybe it's simply that I'm not at a piano every day anymore – both because I do not have a piano in my residence, and for the physical issues of my shoulder injury that a piano does truly hurt if I play too much. (Which creates some issues in some classes when I cannot physically get the work done. To pass out of piano lessons, I had to do an extra semester and make a deal that I would be passed more on effort than on results.)

So this all somehow brings me back to what it is I'm saying, or want to say, with my music now.

I guess, more than anything, I want to say that I'm not a fraud. But beyond that, I want to paint portraits and evoke emotion. I don't want to paint portraits in the film score sense – although that would be nice for financial reasons – but I want to paint emotional portraits. I want to be able to capture something true.

I wish I could be less vague, especially because I bet I cannot find a composer alive (or dead) who would ever say he didn't want to capture truth. So perhaps I should figure out what my 'now truth' is.

So I want to capture something that is both hopefully for the future and nostalgic for the past, and yes, unhappy in the present. In a way, I think doing this is what makes something timeless: something that speaks to both the past and the future and it's only real relationship to the present is that it exists now.

But my problem with this is simple: I don't like the thought that I am stuck within the constraints of ballads and songs with a minor feel – even if not in a minor key. So beyond that timelessness of an unhappiness that, in my mind, isn't really unhappy but better described as 'romantic', I also want to capture a timelessness of childhood and innocence. (Best example I can think of off the top of my head is Marian McPartland playing “Moon River” on her Piano Jazz program when Henry Mancini was on. It has longing in it, nostalgia in it, and even an up-tempo and playful/childish section in it. That one rendition basically sums up what I want my music to say.

I've got a long way to go, though, and I know it. And the work to get there excites me and scares me like nothing else. I'm excited by it, but scared because I just don't know where to begin. My natural abilities have only carried me so far, and they're running out and I cannot keep playing to them before I fall into the “all his music sounds the same” place. I like having a distinct voice, but I don't want it to be a monotone voice.

And that's probably enough self-exploration for now. I'm sure there'll be more, much sooner than I have

Composing and Love

Composing is just like falling in love. Sometimes it feels good at first but then it loses all meaning as time goes on. But sometimes, it feels good and then it grows truer and truer with every passing moment. And when trying too hard to re-create the latter, the former is inevitable.

Only in New York

Most people have heard this story, but I’ve got a little bit of writers’ block and haven’t blogged this one yet, so…here goes.

This is my favorite NYC moment in my 3+ years here.

So I do these walks – or did until I joined a gym. Long walks. Every Sunday. 10 miles a walk. (Closer to 8 or 9, but 10 sounds more impressive, and I’ve broken 10 about once every 6 weeks in three years of walks…so we’ll say 10 miles a walk.)

My walk was less than a block from being done. I lived on 12^th Street at 3^rd Avenue, and I was walking south on 4^th Avenue between 12^th and 13^th Streets when I was stopped.

“Excuse me!” a baritone voice said.

Now usually when people talked to me on my walks, I kept going. I justified this to myself as ‘I have headphones in; I may not be able to hear him anyway; I’m a rude New Yorker; I’m just fitting in; I’m in a bad mood and I’m doing him a FAVOR by not talking to him.’ But for some reason, this was not one of those times. I stopped dead in my tracks, pulled my earphones out of my ears, and turned around.

I looked up to see a greater-than-6-foot black man with dreadlocks looking down at me. I looked up, hoping he would ask a question I could answer so he wouldn’t be disappointed and I could do good in the name of all things scrawny and Jewish.

“Yes?” My voice went up in tone, slightly unsure and slightly in anticipation of the impending favor I was hoping to grant.

“Would you like to have a karate duel to the death?”

He said that totally straight faced, as if this was as normal of a question as ‘do you have the time?’ or ‘where’s the nearest subway?’ I paused for a minute. Not to think over my answer, because we all knew I’d say ‘no’, for fear that he actually would duel me to the death and my karate is rusty at best, (seeing as I’ve never practiced karate or even dressed as a ninja for Halloween, my only karate experience is countless Jackie Chan movies) but rather just to replay the question a few times and make sure I heard him right.

“Umm…no thanks.”

“Okay,” he answered in what can best be described as the all-knowing movie-voiceover guy voice.

And just like that, he turned around and kept walking north on 4^th Ave as I kept walking south.

I constantly wonder if he ever asked anyone else to duel him, or if I was the only one. For some reason, this question stays with me more than the obvious ‘why?’ question.

I also wonder what would have happened had I said ‘yes’, but I think some questions are better left unanswered.

Mancini and Ginger Ale

Sometimes life throws little moments of perfection in with the hectic-ness of day-to-day living.

For me, it’s sitting in the Café Car on an Acela Express from Boston to New York looking out the window at the water along the Connecticut Coast with a clear blue sky listening to Marian McPartland’s solo piano interpretations of Henry Mancini while sipping a ginger ale.

The Secret of Socks

Those who know me know that among the many idiosyncrasies I have, one is my life-long goal to obliterate awkward elevator silence. Most of the time, I fill this awkward elevator silence with awkward elevator conversation – or more common yet, awkward elevator monologue, but in these monologues I’ve explored a lot of things.

My favorite monologue came in the dead of winter last year when someone looked at me and said, ‘you look happy in spite of the weather.’ I said, ‘of course I am; I know the secret to true happiness!’ She looked at me quizzically.

I looked down at her feet, looked down at my feet, and, with my usual indefatigably cheerful tone said, “fleece socks!”

She looked at me, confused more than anything. (Why anyone who has ever shared an elevator with me is confused when I come up with statements like this is beyond me, but the point remains: She was confused.)

So I explained myself quite simply. Warm, dry feet are happy feet. And when I have happy feet, I have a happy body. And when I have a happy body, I have a much better chance of having a happy me.

I was caught in a rainstorm amidst a bad day on Tuesday this week, and after sitting in class for 2 hours trying to dry off, my feet remained unhappy. The rest of me was dry and getting over the horrible happenings of morning, but my feet – cold and wet. So I bought new socks. Within 5 minutes of new socks, and thus warm and happy feet, the world turned around. Phone calls started to come in my favor. Class work seemed less dull. My ginger ale tasted better. My ice cream – well that tasted fantastic!

(Good company always helps, but even with the best company in the world, without happy feet, whomever I’d share the ice cream with would not get to enjoy me for me because, well, my feet would get in the way.)

So my feet may or may not have a mind of their own, but they certainly have emotions of their own which have an undeniable effect on my affect.

So I submit to you, the blogosphere, the secret of true happiness is simple: happy feet.

And that is the secret of socks.

Casey at the Bat

I apologize for the fact that I missed an entry-day. My internet has been on-again off-again, mostly off again. But it gave me time to reflect without writing, which, for those of you who know me, know is a dangerous thing.

But rather than try and put my brain out there for all to read as I usually do, I will spare you, just this once.

Instead, with the last month of the Major League Baseball regular season upon us, I will share with you a poem that I’m sure most of you have read. Casey at the Bat. There is nothing like hearing this poem read while the presenter is near tears at the end. But since this is not an audio blog, you’ll need to use your imagination.

We read this poem as a group in our nursery school graduation. We all memorized a stanza and then recited the last “there is no joy in Mudville, mighty Casey has struck out” line together. (Funny the random memories I have 17 years later…or is it 18 at this point…)

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Casey At the Bat
Ernest Lawrence Thayer

The Outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that -
We'd put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;
And its likely they'd a-killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out.