Cristophantom's Dream

I decided for my own education to kick it into a higher gear, and I wanted more training in the D-Flat Major scale before I tackled Clair de Lune seriously, so I obtained Andrew Lloyd Webber's piano arrangement for Music of the Night from The Phantom of the Opera, which--Hoorah--is in D-Flat Major. At parts it shifts into E major but no big deal there. It also has notation I haven't seen before so my eddication continues.

So I learned the right hand part--the melody-- of the first passage quite quickly. One thing about Sir Loyd Webber's compositions: Complicated they're not. The left hand accompaniment in the beginning is rather simple, so I played around with it and added the triplets from Cristfori's Dream--except I transposed them for D-Flat Major. Hee hee, this bastard stepchild actually sounded pretty good, and I felt like an improviseur. Musictheory is sinking in. This is nothing a second year music student under the whip of frothing instructors at, say IU or any other music school couldn't do with one hand taped behind their back with viola G-Strings, but for me it was rather cool.

It's Hard Isn't It?

The other day when I went to my piano lesson there was a very serious little boy practicing his A Major Scale while his equally serious mom hovered nearby in a chair. My teacher asked me to play a little bit of Cristofori's Dream for the kid, I think with the intention to loosen the little guy up. I told him if I had started at his age, by now I'd be good.

I would like to be good, but it's hard. I think this is the most difficult thing I've ever tried to learn. I'm still working on my first two "real" pieces" and just beginning a third. Granted, they're all ambitious pieces, and I'm slowly mastering them, but the operative word here is slowly.

People take lessons for years and in the company of other students, so they have camaraderie and feedback. I've just finished one and a half years of lessons, pretty much by myself; I have nobody with whom to practice and no peers to discuss my triumphs and setbacks. This blog is my sounding board: in the absence of companions, I talk to myself.

I think I would benefit from a small group of people along for the same ride. Maybe. On the other hand perhaps this solitary journey is meant to be just that--a private place for me to spend time with myself.

So I grind away at these works, and each week I play them a little better, making incremental improvements and inching my way toward the point where I can say, "Good enough."

Music Prevents You From Drooling Into Your Oatmeal

Or so says a growing body of research. Apparently playing music, or even just listening to music, can help prevent Alzheimer's and has even shown to improve cognitive functions in existing Alzheimer's patients.

A music therapy program raised melatonin levels and improved behavior and sleeping problems in 20 male Alzheimer's patients. The Alzheimer's patients underwent music therapy for 30-40 minutes, 5 days a week for one month. Blood samples were taken before the first session, at the end of the four weeks of therapy, and 6 weeks after the study's conclusion. Dr. Ardash Kumar and colleagues at the University of Miami School of Medicine (Florida), who reported the study in Alternative Therapies (1999;5:49-57), checked the levels of melatonin, norepinephrine, epinephrine, serotonin, and prolactin. These brain chemicals are known to affect mental state. They found that melatonin, epinephrine and norepinephrine blood levels had risen significantly by the end of the 4-week therapy program. Moreover, melatonin levels remained high 6 weeks after the program had stopped. Epinephrine and norepinephrine levels, by that time, had returned to their original readings. Serotonin and prolactin were not affected by music therapy. In addition to the hormonal changes, the participants in the study also became more active and cooperative and slept better.

"Relaxation with the type of music that calms you down is very beneficial," said Kumar. "To promote a sense of calm and well-being, you can listen to your favorite soothing music when you eat, before you sleep, and when you want to relax. Music therapy might be a safer and more effective alternative to many psychotropic medications. Like meditation and yoga, it can help us maintain our hormonal and emotional balance, even during periods of stress or disease."

Other studies have shown that challenging the brain with complex tasks helps stave off dementia, as well as a number of other proactive defenses: a healthy diet high on veggies and fruits; moderate exercise, a social network of friends; and avoiding stress.

Of course, the healthy benefits are derived only from actual music, not whatever it is my neighbors listen to, which sounds like steel structures falling apart while an audience of cats and orcas cheer on the demolition. Nor does it apply to rap, which makes one long for the sweet oblivion of dementia. See, I knew there were good reasons to (1) cultivate musical snobbishness and (2) in the face of common sense, decency and my neighbor's peace of mind, taking up practicing the piano at midlife. I may never be Rachmaninoff, but at age ninety I'll be sharp enough to know I'm atrocious.

Mozart's Starling

On May 27, 1784, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart purchased a Starling. This tiny bird so endeared itself to the mercurial composer that when it died three years later, an elaborate funeral ceremony was enacted for the bird, including a procession of veiled mourners, hymns, and Mozart read at graveside a poem he composed for the occasion:

A little clown lies here
Whom I held dear—
A starling in the prime
Of his brief time
Whose doom it was to drain
Death's bitter pain.
Thinking of this, my heart
Is riven apart.
Oh reader! Shed a tear,
You also, here.
He was not naughty, quite,
But gay and bright,
And under all his brag
A foolish wag.
This no one can gainsay
And I will lay
That he is now on high,
And from the sky,
Praises me without pay
In his friendly way.
Yet unaware that death
Has choked his breath,
And thoughtless of the one
Whose rime is thus well done.

Mozart's grief may have been more than an elaborate show. In fact, it's almost certain that his heartache was sincere. Starlings are among the more amiable and interactive of the imitative avians, and Mozart's journals reveal his delight in his feathered little friend. Starlings are noted for their rich repertoire of vocal sounds and Mozart, the musician, would have been particularly captivated by his pet's vocal talents. In fact, he exclaimed "Das war schon!" (that was beautiful), upon hearing its song.

Starlings seem to train their owners as much as the owners train the bird; rewarding attention with faster learning. Starlings can learn from recordings (while young) but learn far faster from direct human interaction. They're also apparently more likely to repeat phrases which elicit affection and treats from their human owners. Like cats, one begins to wonder who is the owner and who is the pet?

This particular starling's song inspired the beginning of the last movement of Mozart's Piano Concerto in G major, K.453, although--oddly enough--some scholars seem to believe the bird somehow learned the theme of the Concerto while still in the pet store. It's a long story and only of interest to academics who love to wrangle over such things; what we know is Mozart had a starling, and the starling whistled his Concerto, if a little off-key (G-sharp apparently, not G Natural). And that when this clownish little musician died, Mozart grieved, I found this touching. Mozart had a number of unattractive personality traits, but anyone who mourns over the death of a little bird can't be all bad.

Clair de Lune

I sat down and worked out the scale of Clair de Lune, and revised my earlier opinion. I am now sure it's in the key of D flat major. I'll have my opinion verified by Teacher in a day or so but I'm pretty sure. This is the key signature of D flat Major:
Which by golly is the bulk of Clair de Lune. But I figured it out by myself using the Tetrachord rule. Every scale consists of two Tetrachords connected by a whole step. If you know this, you can figure out the fingering or pattern of every key. I looked at the lowest flat, in this case "d" and started playing the scale there. It just so happened this played a perfect Major Scale. If it hadn't, I would have tried another flat note. I knew the scale was neither 'C" nor "F" Major; neither would have that particular pattern of flats. In fact C Major has no flats.

It's cool knowing enough Music Theory to understand this much at least. I dig it.

Busy, But Still Practicing

May is usually a crazy month for me, with performing demand at its peak--Post-Proms, mostly--and I've mostly recovered, it seems, from the bronchial woes of six months ago. Although I'm not at 100 percent yet. I am working out three to four days a week and feeling quite ambitious again, and making plans to launch a grand scheme I'm think of as THE PROJECT: a multi-armed assault of my presentational skills onto several venues at once.

Throughout this craziness I have been practicing my chops with Joplin (the B Section is coming together nicely) and Ol' Cristofori is sounding pretty good. Teacher and I decided to cut my lessons back to two this month due to my hectic schedule. I'm also trying to select the third piece to tackle, which we will do in June. I'm trying to decide between Clair de Lune or Bumble Boogie. I think it's going to be Clair de Lune. Clare de Lune will give me practice playing in a new key (from my cursory examination of the sheet music, it appears to be F Major, but then seems to change keys later on, but I'll have to consult with Teacher).

Of Sinister Restrooms

One of the gritty realities of life on the road is the ongoing game of Russian roulette the traveling performer plays every time he stops to use a public restroom. You simply have no idea what to expect when nature, whose whims and timing are both capricious and malicious, calls, and the stories I could tell you of what I've found festering across the thresholds of some of those sewers would boggle your mind.

I think the time has come to lift the veil of silence that has long masked this aspect of the performer's life, and that I am the man best qualified to perform this unmasking.

A thing I learned early in my performing career is you don't drive to a show in your work clothes. The seat of your pants wrinkle and the knees sag. One time I had a show in Johnson City, a three hour drive. It was August, a blistering month, so I dressed for a long drive in humid weather: shorts, tank top, sandals. My tux was in a suit bag. I planned to stop near the country club, change into the tux and stride into the venue in glorious sartorial splendor. I found a place to make my change, MAMAW'S QUIK STOP, a small filth-encrusted store and gas station. I got the key to the restroom (connected to a hockey puck by a bicycle chain) and walked around back.

Three disreputable homeless chaps loafed near the restroom; passing a bottle of what was clearly homemade lightning. They nodded and offered southern pleasantries; "Huh;" "Hey buddy;” "Howdy thar;" I nodded back. One toothless fellow, custodian of the communal jug, offered me a drink. I waved it away. "No thanks."

I entered the tiny building wearing cutoff denim shorts and a tank top. Ignoring the mingled odors of ancient urine, stale tobacco, staler beer, and the yeasty byproducts of various erotic adventures, five minutes later I emerged in a tuxedo, freshly shaved, hair slicked with gel. The old parties stopped their boozing in mid-swig, frozen in tableau like the three magi from
a Christmas display. They gazed in goggle-eyed wonderment at this splendid vision of elegance that had so casually appeared amidst their squalid lot, as though conjured from the very bottle they passed between them.

One of them found his voice. He asked, "Are yew James Bond?"

Of all the dank, fetid, putrescent, cankerous, foul pestholes in which I've been forced to seek refuge on my various travels, one in particular festers with awful virulence in my mind. I'll share it with you.

My son and I were en route from Tennessee to Indiana when sheer hydraulic pressure forced us off the road. We stopped in Jellico in search of a restroom. We pulled into a gas station and my son braved the unknown frontier first. He almost immediately burst forth, gasping for air, face a pale green. “Don’t go in there,” he wheezed. “It’s appalling.”

Shrugging, I entered the cinderblock enclosure. After all, biological imperatives cannot be ignored, and I was the battle-scarred veteran of far worse hellholes than this. Or so I thought.

It was bad. At first I thought a possum had exploded. Then I speculated perhaps some local had curbed his mule. The floor, rear wall, and yes—even the ceiling were spattered with stinking liquid, solids and some other writhing, seemingly semi-sentient material the constitution of which is still under debate by scientists from Oak Ridge. I didn't succumb to the venomous fumes because I was veteran of the road long enough to have mastered the yogic skill of holding my breath for the twelve and a half minutes necessary to complete my business, wash my hands and check my grooming in the mirror.

It occurred to me that if a person—a human being—had been responsible for this anomaly, then the following scenario must have played out. The hapless participant would have had to begin the procedure in the usual position. Then the inexorable reaction of Newtonian Law would have forced him first into a horizontal attitude and then, as the Vesuvius-like eruption continued, pressed his head to the floor until his, ah nether parts pointed straight toward the ceiling! I calculated the necessary vector equations in the grime-smeared mirror, and it was at this point I realized no natural process could have generated sufficient force, and supernatural agencies had to be at work. As calmly as I could I backed from the mausoleum and shut the door before I fell victim to a similar fate at the hands of demonic assailants.

I found my son wandering around outside, apparently still in shock. I helped him to the car, where he recovered slowly from his toxic experience with the harsher realities of life on the road. In his own words, "I lost feeling in my extremities. I grew cold all over, like I was dying. My legs shook. I almost didn't make it out the door. I saw spots before my eyes and I was trembling all over, like I'd inhaled nerve gas."

These are common symptoms experienced by novices when entering southern rest stops. The merest whiff of that air is more debilitating than serin. The trick to ensure survival is to take a deep breath before entering, hold it until you're finished, TOUCH NOTHING with your skin, and try not to look at anything, lest your psyche be scarred forever. Some things the mind of man was never meant to contemplate, and the feculent contents of southern public restrooms fall into that category along with the secrets of sausage factories and the inner workings of sunken R'lyeh.