Space Time - Spring 2015 (short version)

Space Time, the short version of Spring 2015 from The Seasons, is now online for your listening pleasure.  Some explanation will probably be helpful.

Last month the Peter Schmid Quartet had a chance to record some of my music with a guest vocalist. This young man is named Elgnis Gnivres Tekcap.  Everyone called him Elgin.  He hails from the country of Abstemia which he said was somewhere in the Middle East.  Or maybe he said it was in the Caucasus.  Far away from California.

Elgnis Gnivres Tekcap

Elgin studied music in his home country.   He was eager to show us the unique Abstemian vocal styles. Despite the vast cultural differences, I think the Quartet did an excellent job of blending with his singing.

We asked him what he was singing about.  He told us he was riffing on one of the ancient legends of the native nomadic Abstemious peoples. This particular legend is called Tixe and the Elevator, which apparently runs to great length.  Modern Abstemian scholars have divided the epic into short segments, called books.  Here's as much as I can remember:

---

BOOK ONE

Tixe Retne lived in the small impoverished country of Teertsllaw, in the basement of the broken down shack belonging to his parents Pu and Nwod Retne.

Poor but honest, Nwod Retne plied the distinctive Teertsllawian trade of goatheading. You see, the local goats in those days grew small extra heads with the unique ability to breathe fire. A goatheaders job was to remove the dangerous second head before the obstreperous little bovid could burn down everything in sight.

Though Nwod found this work somewhat rewarding, the number of biheaded goats in Teertsllaw had dwindled ominously over the years and Nwod was no longer able to support his wife and son by beheading the biheaded.

"Tixe," Nwod said one morning, "you know that you are my favorite son."

"Yes Father. That's because I am your only son."

"Tixe, you must leave Teertsllaw and seek some small fortune with which to support your parents."

"I will do that Father because you are my favorite parents. But where shall I go?"

"Go to visit The Three Diabetes in the country of Gnosnaws. It is said that The Three can see the future. They are magical and will give you good counsel. And take this Goat Head with you."

Tixe look at the shriveled head with alarm. "Whatever for, Father?"

"Few people know this, but Goat's little heads still can breathe fire after they have been removed. But only once. Use it when things look darkest for you."

Tixe took the head from his father with a shiver.

"And here are five drachma - our family'e entire life savings. You may need to buy yourself a drink."

"FIVE drachma?" Tixe objected "That's not even one Euro."

BOOK TWO

Tixe set off immediately, trudging along the road to Gnosnaws, seeking The Three Diabetes, carrying a dead second goat head in a small sack. The five drachma jangled in his pocket. He had never left his home before and was definitely not looking forward to this obviously doomed journey.

As it turned out, Gnosnaws was extremely close to Teertsllaw and Tixe arrived that same day even before the sun had set. He had expected to have difficulty finding The Three Diabetes. Instead he noticed many billboards along the road advertising their magical fortune-telling services.

The first read: "The Three Diabetes - 5 Miles. Learn the future. Guaranteed".

Later: "Don't wonder what will happen next. Visit The Three Diabetes - 2 miles."

Each sign was more elaborate and brighter than the last. Finally Tixe came upon a massive billboard with an animated cat repeatedly pointing to a small run down shack. A mouse could be seen running into the shack. Periodically the cat would try to smack the mouse with a huge hammer.

The sign read "The Three Diabetes!!! 50 feet. Please have your question ready. Price: 2 drachma."

"This can't be right," Tixe thought as he looked at the building, "This looks just like my parent's shack."

Tixe paid his admission fee to a bored blonde Gnosnawsian girl wearing earbuds and was ushered into a small dark room. She handed him a brochure and motioned him to a chair. He sat there alone for a long time. There was no sound.

According to the xeroxed handout, The Three Diabetes are named Glipizide, Glimepiride and Glyburide. For some reason they appear to humans in the form of cats.

BOOK THREE

Tixe waited for The Three Diabetes. He heard what might have been a cat's meow in the distance. Startled, he looked up.

Tixe watched in amazement as two large gray and white cats and one small black one, the last barely more than a kitten, marched through a small cat door in exact formation, every movement identical, each pushing a small cat toy with their paws, their tails straight as arrows held exactly parallel to the floor. They marched in a circle for a long time and suddenly, all at the exact same moment, sat facing Tixe.

Still in perfect unison the cats moved their mouths. Tixe heard no sound. Instead there were three voices in his head. They spoke exactly together in a strange Gnosnawsian accent.

"What do you wish to know, Tixe?"

What Tixe really wished to know was how they knew his name but he had been alerted by the brochure to the fact that he was only allowed one question without paying additional drachmas.

"I am seeking a small fortune to support my impoverished parents." Tixe paused.

"Please state your question in the form of a question." said the three voices in his head, clearly irritated.  Still in perfect unison.

"How can I earn a small fortune to support my impoverished parents?"

"You must travel to the city of Ringburg in the country of Abstemia. There you must ascend the unclimbable mountain called Mount Foomboom seeking the mythical fire-breathing wooden bird Pegaleg.  Ride on Pegaleg's back and your fortune will be assured."

The Three Diabetes suddenly broke formation and began to scamper about just like cats are supposed to, stopping to lick their paws or swat at one another, completely ignoring Tixe. Even more suddenly, all at once, they ran off through the cat door. Tixe found himself alone again. He heard only the flapping of the small door.

Tixe pondered the information which had cost him 2 precious drachma. When he looked up he saw that the little black cat, the one called Glyburide, or was it Glipizide, had silently returned. It spoke to Tixe in perfect Teertsllawian:

“Should you ever return to ask us how we knew your name," Glimepiride (or maybe Glyburide) said, "Please bring us some decent food. The canned stuff they feed us here is absolutely for shit."

---

The story I heard never had anything about an elevator.

Click here to hear Space Time (Spring 2015 short version) by David Ocker - © 2015 David Ocker - 1174 seconds

The Peter Schmid Quartet is:
Peter Schmid, pianos
Lori Terhune, guitars
Cornel Reasoner, basses
Luis 'Pulpo' Jolla, drums and percussion

with special guest: Elgnis Gnivres Tekcap, vocals

Curious about how the vocals were done? click here.  

Want to hear some real singing? try this.

Music of Space Time reformatted:

Spring 2015, long version

Garbage Days of Spring 2015

The Bald Soprano

I was a junior in high school when I discovered absurdity. I understood absurdity immediately because it reflected my life so perfectly.  Absurdity kicked me down the road of being a creative artsy type and it continues to have a strong pull on me to this day.  Thanks, absurdity, old buddy.

My first encounter with absurdity took the form of The Bald Soprano, the play by Eugene Ionesco, presented as a particularly arresting picture book.  Today, I guess we'd call it a graphic novel.  Here's the cover:

That's Ionesco himself substituting both tragically and comically for the O's in his name.  The full cast can be seen as well, left to right: Mrs. Martin, Mr. Smith, Mary the maid, the Fire Chief, Mrs. Smith and Mr. Martin.  The whole book is rendered in black and white.  Each couple's lines are rendered in a different type face, the women in italic.  Pictures, stark high contrast black and white, show who is speaking and give a sense of the action.  Here's the back cover:

I'm pretty sure I liked this play before I even opened the book the first time.  Here's the text of the cover:

ionesco THE BALD SOPRANO followed by an unpublished scene.  Translated by Donald M. Allen.  Typographical interpretations by Massin and photographic interpretations by Henry Cohen.  Based on the Niccolas Bataille Paris production. Grove Press, Inc.  New York

I found The Bald Soprano in the library - I don't remember now whether that would have been my high school library or the public library.  A couple of years later, in college, when I had an extra ten bucks, I ordered my own copy which I still have today.  When it arrived I signed and dated it: October 3, 1970.  This play, in this particular format, became one of my artistic touchstones.  Eventually I saw a live performance - which disappointed me greatly.

The scene is a middle-class English interior.  The plot is pretty simple, I guess.  Mr. and Mrs. Smith tell some stories.  Mr. and Mrs. Martin arrive and reintroduce themselves to each other.  The Smiths and Martins tell more stories, occasionally interrupted by the Maid and the Fireman who, unsurprisingly, tell stories.  Everything devolves into a screaming frenzy.  And then it ends by beginning again at the beginning - except that the Martins and Smiths have switched places.

Nothing makes any real sense, of course.  The lines make sense in only the smallest bits.  Responses have tenuous relationship to what has preceded.  I guess that's what makes it Theater of the Absurd.  It's definitely that aspect which seemed to me to correspond exactly with what passed for conversation in my family - although for completely different reasons.  My family came to its absurd interactions through a combo of age disparity, English as second language and hardness of hearing.  None of that has anything to do with Ionesco.  The resulting effects, however, were strikingly similar in my mind.

Here's a sample from the awkward conversation as the two couples are settling down for their social evening together:

Mr. Smith: Hm. [Silence]
Mrs. Smith: Hm, hm. [Silence]
Mrs. Martin: Hm, hm, hm. [Silence]
Mr. Martin: Hm, hm, hm, hm. [Silence]
Mrs. Martin: Oh, but definitely. [Silence]
Mr. Martin: We all have colds. [Silence]
Mr. Smith: Nevertheless, it's not chilly. [Silence]
Mrs. Smith: There's no draft. [Silence]
Mr. Martin: Oh no, fortunately. [Silence]
Mr. Smith: Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.  [Silence]
Mr. Martin: Don't you feel well? [Silence]
Mrs. Smith: No, he's wet his pants [Silence]
Mrs. Martin: Oh, sir, at your age, you shouldn't. [Silence]
Mr. Smith: The heart is ageless [Silence]
Mr. Martin: That's true. [Silence]
Mrs. Smith: So they say. [Silence]
Mrs. Martin: They also say the opposite. [Silence]
Mr. Smith: The truth lies somewhere between the two. [Silence]
Mr. Martin: That's true. [Silence]

In the book each of those lines gets two facing pages.  All the space represents the long silences.  The particular line "The truth lies somewhere between the two." has given me comfort many times in many different situations over the 45 years since I first read it.

Here's a pair of pages showing the (much more lively) responses to Mrs. Martin's story about seeing a man on the street who had bent over to tie his shoe:

Notice that "fantastic" is divided up among three actors.  (Click on any picture for enlargements.)   Later in the play:

Mrs. Martin: Thanks to you, we have passed a truly Cartesian quarter of an hour.
Fire Chief: [moving towards the door, then stopping]: Speaking of that - the bald soprano? [General silence, embarrassment]
Mrs. Smith: She always wears her hair in the same style.

One more page for good measure.  Here the Fire Chief is encouraged to tell a story The Dog and the Cow - which I actually set to music sometime during my college years.  (That, along with the only other song I ever wrote, has since been lost.)

So why am I dragging this subject up now - beyond the need for basic blog padding, of course.  There's a story about that:

Leslie and I were having dinner in a local restaurant last month, one of those new-style buffets with the old-style trick of showing you the desserts while you're standing in line still hungry.  We didn't have much to talk about.  At the next table was a family - mother, father, grandmother and three tweens, two with smart phones.  They had a lot to talk about, most of which didn't seem too important.  There was an amusing lack of communication and several crises concerning the food.  Leslie and I found ourselves watching them as carefully as we could without being obvious.  They might have been somewhat embarrassed had they been able to watch themselves.  Maybe not.  On our way home, Leslie and I discussed various unresolved questions (like which parent was the child of the grandmother and the color of the mother's panties).  I was reminded of my encounter with The Bald Soprano and I explained to Leslie why this literature was important to me.  When I got home I re-read it for the first time in a very long time.  It felt good to experience The Bald Soprano again.  It brought back a lot of memories, although you can be very certain that none of them involved my mother letting anyone in a restaurant see the color of her panties.

---

Used copies of The Bald Soprano are available on Amazon.

Hell Mouth

John Adams, the most successful composer, has been my top client for decades. Hey John, thanks for all the work! (I mean, really.)

But he has shown very unusual lack of judgment recently by starting his own blog, Hell Mouth. I think the picture which begat this strange name must have been taken by John's wife, the photographer Deborah O'Grady.

Hell Mouth is starting at a furious pace: he's written five posts, extensive essays, in a little over a week. Here at MM I feel overworked if I do five short posts a month. But I've been at this for a while (4 years last month) and understandably my enthusiasm has waned.

John is a good writer. His skills have been honed recently by his biography Hallelujah Junction. I like his adjectives.

One of John's posts is entitled: On Surviving a First Rehearsal discussing the composition and premier of his most recent work City Noir (actually his third symphony). The public perception of how a piece of music travels from a composer's brain to a concert stage is a complete mystery to nearly everyone - even to some musicians. My job puts me right in the middle of one facet of that process. This explains why a lot of people have no clue about what I do for a living.

John devotes one paragraph to me.

City Noir is so densely layered that I need two full manuscript pages to embrace all the parts. Hell for the copyist, who is nonetheless unfazed, a total pro. David—started out playing clarinet with Frank Zappa. After 24 years knows my intentions nearly well enough to fill out a line that I’ve forgotten to write out.

Very cool.


Later John mentions the first rehearsal of City Noir led by boy wonder Gustavo Dudamel in Walt Disney Hall. I was one of very few people allowed to listen. The musicians had prepared for the rehearsal but none of them could have much of an inkling how John intended their parts to fit together. Loud things came out soft. Soft things loud. It came apart. It came back together again. Somehow Dudamel kept it all racing along - the entire piece. When he conducts, his hair subdivides the beat.

The composer, conductor and all the players were hard at work. Their job was to make City Noir sound correct; they had a very limited time for this. On the other hand, my job had been completed weeks before. I was just hanging out, listening in a manner none of them could afford, following the score as it whipped past.

And I was blown away. A roller coaster with breakneck twists and turns could never be that much fun. It was a simply amazing, mind-blowing thirty minutes of music, as if the spirit of Charles Mingus had somehow gotten into the souls of the Los Angeles Philharmonic. It was rough. It was raw. It rocked. Most likely I was the only one there enjoying this experience, it was indeed a great time which I shall not soon forget. At the end I just laughed.

Of course, you could never intentionally make an orchestra play like that. You do not tell a symphony orchestra to "Wail". By the second rehearsal the piece was taking its proper shape. Each rehearsal refined the music a bit more. I liked the finished piece as well. It's also a wild ride. But not as wild as that first reading.

Future orchestras, preparing City Noir, will have recordings to refer to so players will know when to project and when to hold back. The one-time unique experience I witnessed, nothing at all like the piece itself, is lost forever.


John also mentions how the players ask him questions - including about the B Double Sharp. I heard a lot about this note before and during the rehearsals. For you non-musicians, a B Double Sharp is a completely theoretical musical notation - it sounds the same as the familiar pitch C sharp. I can't think of a reason it would ever be used legitimately. Any suggestions?

This particular B Double Sharp is played by the Second Violins, Violas and Second Trumpet in measure 183 of movement one of City Noir. I just checked again. It really is in the manuscript - twice. Had I been thinking more clearly, I would have just changed it to a C#. The music would have sounded identical and no one would have noticed. Even the composer himself.


Read about how I was reduced to tears by a performance of one of John's pieces.
Read any or all of the Mixed Meters posts tagged "John Adams".




Hell Mouth Tags: John Adams. . . Hell Mouth. . . City Noir

Saving the World

One night in 1980 my friend John Steinmetz couldn't sleep. Instead, he drew pictures of blenders, those friendly, familiar kitchen companions. But these blenders came with unexpected labels on their buttons in place of the boring Whip, Frappe or Liquify.

Soon John shared his ideas with me and together we created The Blender Book, a xeroxed holiday greeting for our friends and families. The reactions ranged from baffled amusement to confused bemusement.


The back cover of The Blender Book showed a blender with four buttons marked Push, Poke, Prod and Press. We thought "What a good name for a publishing company." and so the imaginary Push Poke Prod Press was born. John and I hired each other as "Assistants to the President" and we awarded ourselves fictional startup grants from General Malaise, makers of the Electric Bowl, and the National Appliance Foundation.

Each holiday season for six years we produced a different book. The books, in order of publication, were:

• THE BLENDER BOOK
• Your Souvenir Guidebook to REALITY WORLD
• HOW TO SAVE TIME (Special Condensed Version)
• Amazing Stories of SIDEMAN
• SAVING THE WORLD
• SIDEMAN VS. SYNTH MAN

A magazine called Science Fiction Review even reviewed a couple titles. Here are quotes:

If you've ever wondered about the Metaphysics of Blenders, this is the booklet for you ..... I'm not sure it's worth $4.50. (The Blender Book, price $4.00)

Clever, often devastating satire on Disneyworld-type amusement parks and our absurd civilization. A 58-page half-size booklet, it may subjectively be worth $5, but not in 1957 money (inside joke --- see the Guidebook.) (Reality World, price $4.00)

Saving the World , billed as "A FULL LENGTH Push Poke Prod Press ADVENTURE, starring BENNY the BLENDER! and featuring The LITTLE SHIM", was a comic book.


Our hero, Benny the Blender, is featured in the masthead of this very blog, look at the top on the right. He was a blender of few words but with a good heart and bad eyesight (notice the thick glasses) who should never have been given a license to drive an air car. The Little Shim, Benny's sidekick, was an early personal computer - some sort of sentient, mobile Apple III or Commodore 64 with two floppy disc drives for eyes and a penchant for getting into trouble he can't get out of.

Here's a sample page from Saving the World. Click on it (or any illustration) for enlargements.
You can download the entire Saving the World in PDF format here. Happy Holidays, everybody - even if is a bit late.

The two books which featured John's stories about Sideman, a mysterious super-hero L.A. studio musician, were the most popular. John wanted the stories published under the pseudonym T. Simpson Parker, ostensibly an old studio musician himself, now retired to Palm Desert where he raised succulents.

Imagine my surprise to discover T. Simpson Parker listed in an online library catalog. Click here to see that. Four of the six PPPP books made it into a certain university library under the category Nonsense Literature, American.

Finally, here's a clipping from a Los Angeles Weekly of February 1986, written by Jonathan Gold. Yes, the same Jonathan Gold who went on to win some very important journalism prize or other and will surely be mortified to read this bit of doggerel online. Marvel at just how deeply a tongue can push into a cheek; probably the sign of a good food critic, huh?

Old School

(Hey, later in this post you'll find a new 30 Second Spot to play. And it ends with a little story about Frank Zappa's music. Otherwise read on as I wander aimlessly through the Santa Clarita Valley and 35 years of my life.)

My friend Art Jarvinen asked me to substitute for him this week in two classes he teaches at the California Institute of the Arts, called "CalArts" by those in a hurry, the institution we both attended during the neolithic when the place was nearly new.

CalArts is where I studied for two years to be both a clarinetist and a composer. I hadn't visited in decades. Simply going to the place meant revisiting countless memories. I'm convinced that some are better unremembered.

After graduating, however, some people whom I had met at CalArts and some people they had introduced me to played a large part in determining my "career path". In retrospect I can't complain. As I was told recently, I must be a success because I'm making a living and my wife hasn't left me. Thanks honey.

Anyway, my clock radio got me out of bed Wednesday morning to strains of a Brahms clarinet sonata, a clear reference to my performer past (KUSC showed some mercy by only broadcasting half the piece.) After my morning puttering I drove up to the Santa Clarita Valley just to look around.

The buildings along Lyons Avenue and San Fernando Road hadn't changed much except for the names on the signs. I had no trouble finding the Saugus Cafe, a place I haunted as a CalArts student. It didn't seem to have changed much either. (See it on a map.)



Inside I overheard some people discussing Indian tribes. One mentioned that Sitting Bull was buried in Sioux City, Iowa, the town where I grew up. Wow, another unsolicited reminder of my past! (Although the Indian chief buried in Sioux City is War Eagle not Sitting Bull. Here's a picture of War Eagle's grave site. Here's another that shows his view from there.)

After lunch I crossed San Fernando Road and made this panoramic shot of the cafe - I think it captures a certain essence of the place. (Click it to enlarge it.)


A few important transportation related pieces of earthbound flotsam attracted my attention - a hubcap and a caster. Yes, this is a very dry area. The high desert. Perfect for industry. Less perfect for human habitation.



I drove in the direction of CalArts which is located on McBean Parkway. When I first arrived here back in 1974 my friend Laurence Gold wrote to ask "What sort of people name a street McBean Parkway?"

I've always remembered L's question, partially because I didn't understand what bothered him about that name, but also because I had no good answer to give him. McBean was someone who worked for Newhall Land and Farm, the company responsible for the area's avaricious development.

Here's a picture, taken Wednesday, of a Newhall Land advertising sign near the CalArts campus proving that development continues. The backward pointing arrows tell people "Go back! The new tracts are back that way. Happiness awaits you in your new home". In this area what you're least likely to find at a place called "West Creek" or "River Village" ia any type of natural body of water.


I crossed over the freeway to where, during my student years, there had been only dry, barren chapparal and scrub. Now it is replete with the most standardized of tract housing and strip malls.

Naturally I gravitated toward the Starbucks. When I opened my car door I immediately saw a refreshing Starbucks ice blended drink which someone had left for me.


I sat at Starbucks long enough to create a new 30 Second Spot. I also heard an actual piece of classical music on their sound system (a bit of Rimsky Korsakov.) This is unusual because I've only noticed classical music in Starbucks at Christmas time.

My own little piece is not like Rimsky-Korsakov at all except for the use of sampled vocal sounds. It's entitled "For Just Like Two Minutes". I purloined the title from an otherwise unintelligible conversation between two young couples. "For Just Like Two Minutes" is 41 seconds long and is copyright (c) March 19, 2008 by David Ocker. Enjoy. Or not.

Finally it was time to approach the old school itself, now hidden behind the fully-grown trees which had been mere saplings during my student days. Standing before the front entrance I made another panoramic photograph. I was immediately struck by how little this view had changed. A few new signs, a few minor color changes and, of course, the trees were bigger. Click the picture to make that bigger too.



I wandered toward the cafeteria, site of some of my least memorable composition lessons ever, even though it boasted an awe-inspiring view in 1974 of green onion fields populated by migrant workers which was soon replaced by a view of now mansionized tract homes and green water-hazarded golf courses and which is now obscured by trees.

I had no difficulty navigating the long hallways, still barren save for signs announcing student events and opportunities. In B-Block, home to the music school, I confronted the same battered student lockers. I looked in on students learning African dance and music exactly as they had then.

Unlike the parking lot the inside was largely empty - possibly because of upcoming Spring Break. Student sartorial style hadn't changed much. I was clearly in a land where, outwardly at least, time had stood still.

Unlike during my time, the balcony around the music wing was open. I wandered outside to see this area I had never been allowed access to as a student. Here I took my final panoramic shot looking north towards more trees, more development and more mountains. Go ahead, click the picture.


I have a theory that the perceived quality of a chamber music concert is strongly affected by the size of the audience in comparison to the available space. In other words, if the chamber is nearly full the concert always seems better. If too few people are spread over too many seats, however, interest wanes. And so it seemed to be with my two classes.

The first class, in a small windowless room nearly filled with people sitting in a circle, struck me as being more successful than the second, held in a larger room with just a few students who sat against the back wall, some eating lunch, with an obligato flute player on that balcony flauting quite audibly just beyond the plate glass window as we tried to listen to music. Especially in the first class I had that old deja vu feeling. I felt like I had repeatedly been one of them long ago.

Back in the seventies in similar classes in these identical rooms we endlessly tried to verbalize about the essentially meaningless and therefore ineffable but inescapable thing called music with the fervent, almost religious, hope that something, anything, might prove useful in the future.

And so it still seems.

From my experience I tried to hint that the things and the words of a Cal Arts education have not been terribly useful to me. But I do owe a gratitude to those of my fellow students, at least those I have managed to remain in contact with, who in so many ways have been really important influences. So thanks, Art, for asking me to substitute teach. But please wait a very very long time before you ask again.


As I walked into the building Thursday, over near the Modular Theater, I could hear familiar music wafting from the Main Gallery. First I identified it as brass music, then as jazz (a strange sensation since there had been no jazz at CalArts in my years) and finally as Frank Zappa's piece Big Swifty.

It was being rehearsed by a brass quintet plus a drum kit. They were playing after the fashion of the Meridien Arts Ensemble. I watched anonymously as they worked out phrasing and tempo and tuplets and tried to find the right feel as they wondered who the strange old guy looking over their shoulders might be.

An hour later, after my class work was done, I walked to my car. Coming the other way was the Big Swifty trombonist. I introduced myself. He said they were hoping to learn the 3rd movement from Sinister Footwear soon. I'm definitely impressed.


Read about what Art Jarvinen was doing while I was subbing for him here.

Substitute Tags: teaching. . . music. . . music education. . . CalArts. . . xxxx. . . yyyy. . . California Institute of the Arts. . . Arthur Jarvinen. . . Frank Zappa. . . Big Swifty. . . brass quintet. . . Saugus Cafe. . . Valencia California. . . Santa Clarita Valley. . . War Eagle Monument. . . Starbucks. . . Newhall Land. . . McBean Parkway. . . trees

Consuming Music - Starbucks, Apple and Old Pasadena

AWFUL STARBUCKS MUSIC DRIVES ME TO IPOD

Over the years I've had surprisingly few issues with the music selection in my local Starbucks. Except at Christmas time, of course. Here's an early MM post about that. And another. And here's my own vaguely Christmas-related music.

Recently, however, there seems to be a New Starbucks Music Selection Policy. This began about the time they played one perfectly execrable Paul McCartney album and nothing else for an entire day, Instead of playing a different artist every song for a period of time (usually in related genres) they now play a few songs by one artist in a fixed sequence. And they play the sequence over and over.

Guess what! Those very songs are on albums for sale right there in Starbucks- what a surprise! Starbucks has to make a buck.


One artist in current rotation is Willie Nelson - never one of my faves - but I can tolerate a few tracks every year or so. After several dozen hearings in just weeks I made up my mind to get an iPod of my own. I borrowed Leslie's for a few days to test the idea. I settled on a 8-gig Nano. I'm not an early adopter of tech items but iPod is entrenched enough for even non-trendy people like me.


BUYING AN IPOD in OLD PASADENA

On Monday I set out for the official Apple Store in the trendy part of town, OLD PASADENA (usually referred to by us locals as OLD TOWN).


Any capitalist would regard Old Town as a huge success. Years ago it was:

• dilapidated old buildings,
• interesting funky shops,
• cheap restaurants,
• too few parking places
  
• plus a pawn shop and an adult bookstore.

Now it has become

• elegantly refurbished old buildings,
  
• expensive, upscale shops (Tiffanys is the highest note on the scale at the moment),
• countless trendy restaurants (mostly Italian),
• too few parking places
  
• plus a pawn shop and an adult bookstore.

(Why the pawn shop and adult bookstore have survived while most other businesses have moved out is something I don't understand.)


A few doors down from Tiffany's the Apple Store was a-hoppin' on a Monday morning. There was a line at the counter and activity everywhere in the store. Of course there was a "how to use your iPhone" class in the back.

When I got to the front of the line I told the chipper young lady that I wanted an 8-gig Nano. I handed over my card, told her I preferred a red one and a paper, not email, receipt. She simply reached under the counter and produced my iPod. I declined the shopping bag because I could put the whole Nano box in my pocket. I was back on the street in minutes.


I walked to the Old Town Starbucks (the one which does not provide a rest room for customers because of, they say, historic preservation laws). My Starbucks purchase took longer and required me to answer more questions than I had encountered at Apple. But otherwise it was pretty much the same. The clerk was even happier and more upbeat.

The two purchases seemed identical in style and format even though I spent almost exactly 100 times more at Apple than at Starbucks.

I left Old Town in a sullen mood, feeling slightly dirty for doing my patriotic consumerist duty and running the corporate gauntlet. That's also sort of the same way I feel at Disneyland.

Once I was driving past auto repair garages and little shops and churches I've never been been inside of and never will, I relaxed.


POSITIVE REACTIONS TO THE IPOD and HOPES FOR THE FUTURE

As a PC user I find any product that's both elegant and functional seems quite novel. The iPod box boasts "Designed by Apple in California". I hope the design team got extra cookies. And it's so small, easy to use and sounds good. It has reinforced my hope that my next new computer will be a Mac.

The box also says "Like a fine pair of jeans, iPod nano colors may vary and change over time." So my red iPod is going to fade? Would it help if I wash it only in cold water?


Initially I picked a couple dozen favorites albums, ones I'm sure I'll enjoy repeatedly, to load into it. I'll use this music to adjust to using my new device. These albums take about one fifth of total memory. The remaining space will be for unfamiliar music.

There is an awful lot of different music out there which I haven't heard yet. I'm still curious about a huge percentage of it.

And I have Willie Nelson and some corporate music flack at Starbucks to thank for this. But I won't be buying albums at Starbucks, of course, and I probably won't be buying mp3s at iTunes. I can only survive so much of that dirty "good Consumer" feeling.


THE INITIAL FAVORITE ALBUM LIST

At the beginning of Mixed Meters I started a list of "David's Favorite Music" - there are still only two entries - Karnak and Mingus. Hopefully this iPod will prompt me to expand that list. The order of these albums means something - not sure what - but something.

1. Astor Piazzolla - La Camorra
2. Karnak - Os Piratas Do Karnak (both discs)
3. Charles Mingus - Mingus Ah Um (original release)
4. J.S. Bach - The Goldberg Variations - Glenn Gould (1981)
5. Cicala Mvta - Ohkuma Wataru Unit - Deko boko
6. Raymond Scott - The Music of Raymond Scott
7. Frank Zappa - Studio Tan
8. Bonzo Dog Band - The Bestiality of Bonzo Dog Band
9. J.S. Bach/William Malloch - The Art of Fuguing
10. D.J. Shadow - The Private Press
11. Astor Piazzolla - Piazzolla Forever - Richard Galliano Septet
12. Domenico Scarlatti - Sonatas - Scott Ross (first 2 discs)
13. John Kirby - John Kirby
14. Spike Jones - Cocktails for Two
15. Gotan Project - La Revancha Del Tango
16. Albita - No Se Parece a Nada
17. Gloria Estefan - Mi Tierra
18. Ludwig van Beethoven/Uri Caine - Diabelli Variations
19. W.A. Mozart/various - Mozart in Egypt
20. Big J McNeeley - Big Jay in 3-D
21. Joe Newman/Rudy Schwartz Project - Don't Get Charred... Get Puffy
22. Joe Newman/Rudy Schwartz Project - Gunther Packs a Stiffy
23. Asleep at the Wheel - Greatest Hits
24. Leonard Bernstein - On the Town (selections & 3 Dance Episodes)

StarPod Pasadena Tags: iPod. . . Starbucks. . . Old Pasadena. . . consumerism. . . favorite music

Except for the stack of compact discs and Chowderhead with the iPod and coffee, all pictures were taken somewhere in Old Pasadena. Click to enlarge.

Me and Mahler; Me and Iowa

Forward: This is a long, completed essay about my relationship to the music of Gustav Mahler over 40 years. Go back to this post Buying a Guitar in Pasadena (Mahler's Seventh) to see how this topic first came up. Then go to In Which David Is Caught In The Act to see why it's coming up again now. What I wrote here is just as I left it last February but it feels vastly incomplete to me.

Here's what I think are the main points to be gleaned from all the upcoming verbiage:

Personally I have always sought out newer music to listen to (new pieces, new composers, new styles, genres etc etc). This has been a kind of innate search throughout my life.

As I develop interest in new audible things my interest in old things wanes. (There are lots of exceptions to this, however.)

This process feels completely natural to me; it feels like growth. It feels like aging. I believe it is an essential element in why I'm a composer.

It also appears to be very unusual attitude among classical music listeners who, I sense, do not like to admit that their relationships with "masterpieces" change over time, except to decide which interpretation is now the best ever.

With these points said, it's probably not necessary for you to read the rest of what I wrote.


The Story Starts Here

In a previous post I mentioned anecdotally that I no longer listened to Mahler because I "grew up".

Part-time Mixed Meters Reader Addison (who is the anonymous part-time blogger behind Me And Yobo and a full-time New Yorker with whom I attended college years ago somewhere near cow pastures and who is also a fellow adherent of the Church of The Goon Show) responded succinctly to my terseness "That's Harsh".

And if Addison missed my admittedly elliptical point, I suspect my other two readers did as well.

So, allow me to go on at length about Gustav Mahler and my relationship to his music - because it represents a vast influence on my growth over the years - even though I no longer care to listen.


Sioux City Iowa


Okay, the story starts in Iowa where I grew up in a city famous for the world's largest popcorn and honey processing plants. Back then there was a several story high pile of cow manure near the Interstate Highway representing the bedrock principles of the local economy. Not a place for serious, challenging music.

My own musical tastes were initially influenced by my parents. Their record collection ran the gamut from late Mozart to Dvorak - plus the occasional Broadway musical.

Plus anything that might be played at a summer band concert - which I heard not on recording but at actual summer band concerts. In Sioux City these were held in a miniature reproduction of the Hollywood bowl. (The Grandview Park Bandshell - big enough to hold a 50-piece band.)


My Father played clarinet in that band - and as a toddler I'd be in the audience with my mother waving my arms like the conductor, a man named Leo Kucincski. Once, running backstage after the concert to see my Father, I tripped over a dachshund with disastrous effect (on me, the dog was fine).


Hmmm - oh yeah - Mahler. Hang on, we're getting there.

As I reached my teen-age years, had I been the slightest bit a normal Iowa youth, I would have decided that this music was boring and succumbed to peer pressure, listening only to Herman's Hermits or the Dave Clark Five.


In the Library

Instead, having absorbed my parents entire collection, I searched on my own for more classical music. I discovered the modest record collection of the Sioux City Public Library - stone letters above the main entrance said "a gift from Andrew Carnegie". Let's blame him.

In the library I first encountered composers like Richard Strauss and Sergei Prokofief. Here I discovered a monaural copy of Leonard Bernstein conducting Mahler's Seventh. I'd never heard of Mahler, but the piece required two LP discs and it came in a thick black box instead of a simple record sleeve. How cool was that! I checked it out.

This was the mid-sixties. Mahler was having a revival. Not that his symphonies were readily available everywhere, let alone on the frontier between Nebraska and Iowa. In the important centers of Art and Intelligence (places like Chicago) he must have been performed and discussed. But all I knew about Gustav Mahler is what I could read in the liner notes to this album.


This is where the story really starts. Although I was trapped in Sioux City, I would come home after school and listen to music before my parents returned from work. In this environment I was captivated by Mahler's Seventh Symphony. Can you say "Bolt From the Blue". This piece is generally regarded as his most enigmatic. That's because it really is his most enigmatic. Not your recommended introduction to Mahler.

As a late-middle-age know-it-all with the advantage of hind-sight, I can tell you that in Mahler's music I encountered a person who didn't have all the answers and wasn't afraid to say so. I didn't know it then, but this was important.

Mahler's musical space encompassed conflict, irresolvable influences, indecision, uncertainty and finally inconclusive resolutions. Eventually I discovered that other creative artists dealt with such issues, but back then Mahler, for me, was a first faint glimpse into a universe I wanted to experience.

Not long after this I went away to college. That's where I met interesting people with similar interests for the first time. People like Addison whose offhand "That's Harsh" comment is responsible for this self-indulgent run-on essay. Let's blame him for this, okay?



Going Away to College

Back then I put very great emphasis on the notion of "going away" to college. The Rabbi of our congregation had told me "Sioux City is a place you come from". I already knew that but I was simply flabbergasted that any adult would say it out loud. I wanted out. Going to college meant getting out.

Although the physical distance from Sioux City to Carleton College was only a few hundred miles, I found myself on a totally different planet (er, Planet Carleton?). There were still cows nearby, but no huge pile of shit. Plenty of other changes happened to me during this time period, of course, but for now I'm trying to stick with Mahler.


(And this is where the story really starts.) At Carleton I finally met other people who were interested in Mahler. We finally experienced all the symphonies. It was a really big deal when someone scored the first copy of a Mahler's Eighth recording - Solti conducting Chicago. We listened to each piece over and over. We traveled to the Cities to hear the Minnesota orchestra perform Mahler live listening raptly from the nosebleed seats of Northrop Auditorium. We were greatly offended by a tired principal trumpet player cracking too many high notes.

Each of our interests in Mahler certainly stemmed from different sources. Most meaningful to me were Mahler's Jewish/Christian and performer/composer conflicts. My friend had their own reasons although we didn't really know how to discuss them.

As a college senior I remember my roommate Mark Lindenbaum (now a doctor who still plays his tuba quite a lot) saying "The amazing thing about Mahler is that I feel like I really know him as a person." I couldn't disagree. Today knowing a composer's personality only through his music (accurately or not) still seems like a huge, remarkable accomplishment.


I'm not saying Gustav would have been an easy man to talk to, only that I would have some idea of what to expect when I met him. At the moment I can't think of another composer I could make that claim that about. I know a lot of music that just makes me wonder what kind of weirdo nebbish wrote it. (Yep, I do agree that my own music would fall into that hole.)

There were a number of Mahler highlights for me during my after school years. A broadcast by Leonard Bernstein explaining Mahler's Ninth as a different kind of farewell symphony. Ken Russell's film Mahler - okay, WAY over the top, but the soundtrack was a wild ride of bits and pieces of symphonic Mahler combined creatively. An early proto-mashup of Mahler.


But over all of this, I never lost my original fascination for the Seventh Symphony. I attended every Seventh performance that I could - including extending my stay in London in 1984 to hear the LSO.

The Enigmatic Ending

Something strange happened (and this, of course, is where the story really starts). It happened slowly mind you, but imagine the mid-90s. I lost my patience for all of Mahler's music. The comfort I used to find from his music was replaced by annoyance and discomfort. "Okay, I get it," I thought "What else is there to listen to?"

It seems rare to me for any fan of classical music to admit to changing tastes. I still respect and honor Mahler, but I don't care any longer for the experience itself. Much of the music in my parents collection, back in the 60s, is like that. I would never have a reason to ask to hear it. If life gives me Mahler I won't avoid the experience, I just won't seek it out.

Alas, the immediate cause of the "I grew up" anecdote was the upcoming LA Philharmonic performances of Mahler's Seventh in Disney Hall. I was speaking with the wife of the conductor of those concerts. Had I thought about it, I might have gone to hear the music in the Disney acoustic as the reviews were glowing. But I doubt I would have gotten caught up in the music itself.

So, Addison, babe - that's where I stand on the subject of Gustav Mahler's music. It was a flippant remark but grounded in truth. I hope you appreciate how much work your "That's Harsh" caused me in preparing this essay. Heck, I hope you read even half of it. Let's squeat lunch at Goodhue when you get the chance.



Postlude

And that's where the manuscript breaks off. I stopped work on this essay on February 22, 2007. I'm not going to try to expand on it now (July 8, 2007) although I made a few small edits. You get it pretty much just the way I left it.

There are a few errors. For example I have it on good authority they no longer serve meals at Goodhue. Mostly it brings up, in my mind, all sorts of avenues and alleys about who I am, where I came from, why I do what I do, like what I like, and create what I create.

Sometimes it's useful to strip off the clothing of nowness, dive into the pool of back-thenness, and search around for anything in need of rescuing. I did listen to several Mahler symphonies to make sure I haven't grown even more of late to the point that I need Mahler again. I don't appear to have done that. Maybe someday. I hope I live long enough to find out. Sigh.

Mahler and Me and Iowa Tags: Gustav Mahler. . . Sioux City Iowa. . . Carleton College. . . Me and Yobo. . . classical music. . . growing up. . . Mahler symphonies. . . David Ocker

Most of the pictures will enlarge if you click them.

The Sioux City Stockyards Photo comes from here.

The Grandview Park Bandshell picture came from here. There used to be many, many more benches.

The picture of Goodhue (plus other Carleton campus pictures) came from here. You must imagine this during a Minnesota winter.

The still shot of the Nazi Girl on the Cross from Ken Russell's Mahler was found here.

Here's a fascinating article Mahler and the Crisis of Jewish Identity by Francesca Knapp and Raymond Draughon