Babel

Ok...it's been too long. Blogs require consistency. Consistency is usually the result of routine. And right now, there is not one tiny figment of routine in my jumbled life right now.

I want to tell you about my grad applications, and how I've had music grad school (almost) "beaten" out of me by double parent guilt-tripping and other factors, and how I've had composer's block for 1.5 weeks now, and how I want to conduct/teach some ensemble somewhere. But I have a headache. And I don't want to think about it.

Instead, I'll philosophize.

Wikipedia says that there are 3000 to 6000 languages spoken in the world today. (Excellent accuracy, wikipedia.) Let's take one of those languages. English. Within the world's English speaking population, there are so many different accents, jargons, and semantics to take into account. But we can divide those different modes of expression into "genres."

Those genres can be grouped into elite and popular. Take the UK, for example. So many different dialects exist between Edinburgh and London, but Jafaican and Cockney dialects are considered popular, and your proper Queen's English is elite. To us in America, we're aware of this twofold distinction and notsomuch of the hundred or so different UK dialects.

Ask any musician. Music is a language. We study the theory of its grammar, listen to Horowitz's and Richter's expert readings of classic novels by famous authors like Chopin and Bach, and try to write our own speeches and short stories. However, we have a problem. Elite music aka classical music is dying.

Why?

Partly, because we consider it "elite!"

Creative Writing majors don't study James Patterson as much as they do James Joyce - if they do at all! Similarly, pianists aren't listening to Ligeti as much as they are Beethoven. Classical music concerts need to program pre-Stravinsky or no one will show up.

Conversely, I was listening to some Police song from the early 80s and my sister said something to the effect of "That's so old." New is always "in" when dealing with popular music. It's always regenerating. And at a ridiculously rapid rate! Therefore, it's stays alive.

The same cannot be said for classical music, because a paradigm has been created within this genre of music due to it's self-ascribed "elitism." Here's my theory:

The famous composers, the ones that have to be played in concert halls now in order to get attendees, are the ones who pushed the envelope and revolutionized their field in the past.

Beethoven shook things up so much that all of the Europe was in writer's block after he died. Who would be the next Beethoven? Schumann published in his newspaper that Brahms was going to be the next Beethoven. Brahms was so scared of messing up, that he didn't write his first symphony until 23 years later, and it might as well have been Beethoven's Tenth.

Wagner, egomaniac and crazy man, called himself the future of music and "created" the musical drama. He saw himself as the only person capable of building upon what Beethoven was trying to achieve in his Ninth Symphony. Again pushing the envelope.

Fast-forward a couple years, Rachmaninoff's critics called him Tchaikovsky 2.0. Not edgy enough. Not saying anything new. Stravinsky had 3 different periods in which he'd push envelopes in all kinds of different ways. Gershwin transfered jazz from the realm of the popular to the "elite" halls of classical music. Bartók, Barber, Ravel are all pushing, pushing. Webern, Schoenberg, Berg, all pushing. And so if you listen to the latter group's twelve tone expressionism, you might wonder "how do you push further than that?"

In the popular realm, it's not a matter of pushing as it is a matter of making it fresh. Recycling old materials to a modern audience who's never heard it before is still making it fresh. Kanye West samples Elton John and Daft Punk in his work and he's praised!

The atmosphere of classical music is such that I would feel uncomfortable if I borrowed significantly from a composer of the past. I'm not saying it wouldn't be appreciated. It might just be viewed as sophomoric or passe as if I have nothing new to say.

Now I should clarify that it's not that bad. I talked to a moderately well-known composer this summer who said that it used to be that one could not get into a school of music without serial/atonal compositions. Since the minimalist revolution, it seems that eclecticism is the spirit of the times. Anything goes. We're down to individual preferences. Is that good?

Yes and no.

I'm glad that tonal music isn't being shunned, at least not by everyone. I'm glad that tonal folk are also starting to appreciate the atonal works (me included). But, it is further proof that classical music will die in the next 50 years. Why?

There is a story in the Bible of the Tower of Babel. The people wanted to build a tower high enough to reach God. They kept pushing and pushing. God thought that this was stupid and wanted to humble them. They were all speaking the same language, so God gave them different languages. When someone said, "Pass me the hammer!" The other person said, "Que?! Que es un 'hammer'?" French, Urdu, Cantonese, Tagalog, Spanish, German all over the place. No one could understand each other. So they grouped with those who spoke their language and dispersed. The tower construction stopped and became ruins.

We're all speaking different languages in classical music. So classical music will stop and become ruins. Classical music is currently on life-support and at any moment, we will unknowingly pull the plug...

Ok. :(

Sorry for the depressing philosophizing today. I'll think happier thoughts between now and next time. :) Au revoir, Auf Wedersehen, Ciao, Goodbye!

My recital has been cancelled.

When you fail at what matters most to you, it hurts. I played my Rachmaninoff for Moldevort yesterday and then he cancelled it because he thought that I wasn't ready. He forgot my recital was coming up. We never scheduled a hearing. So, it's not just my fault.

Then again, accompanying Oklahoma, and rehearsing Stravinsky Concerto with the Wind Ensemble, and going on tour with NSA this semester...it's always looked impossible from the beginning. But that's what I do. Or at least what I used to do.

There's always more to the story, but the fact of the matter is...I'm depressed.

And I need headphones so I can listen to Rachmaninoff. Can I borrow some headphones? Anyone?

The Seventh Commandment

Everyone knows Rachmaninoff is my homeboy. I make the most ludicrous statements due to my deep infatuation with him: "Every heart has a language. Mine speaks Rachmaninoff." "Rachmaninoff made Chuck Norris cry." etc.

But, something happened today that challenged my blissful paradigm.

I was doing crossword #37 in Will Shortz's Greatest Hits (awesomeness in paper form) while listening to my classical station on Pandora, which has been tailored to churn out the best Late-Romantic Russian, German, and French music (awesomeness in audio form).

Then, Tchaikovsky's "Waltz of the Flowers" came on.

I should give you some back story before I continue. Growing up in the Caribbean, I was not familiar with the music of dead Russians at all. In fact, I only remember hearing classical music for the first time at age 7 or 8. Which is old in Mozart terms. I got to start piano lessons on my 7th birthday. After begging my parents for 2 years.

I remember distinctly the moment I fell in love with music, though. I was 8. My dad had ordered some Time Life product off the TV: "75 Best Loved Melodies" or something like that. The CD player was Mom and Dad's bedroom. Disc 1 was playing and I just happened to be there. Doing something that 8 year olds do. I forget.

Then, Tchaikovsky's "Waltz of the Flowers" came on.

I jumped up on the bed. I saw an orchestra on the floor. A long skinny white stick appeared in my hand and I was instantly clad in a tux with the flappy things in the back. I started conducting the invisible orchestra.

It was more like interpretive dance. I realized that I knew the piece completely. The CD had been played as I went to sleep every night, so it apparently entered my subconcious. I was cueing clarinets and horns. I was asking for more from the strings.

I was jumping up and down in a state of Pentecostal frenzy by the climax. Singing. Shouting. And with tears streaming down my face, I knocked out that ending. "Dah, dah, dah, dut, DAAAHHH, di DAH, DAH, DAH, DAH!"

I was so happy. I got scared when I felt my cheeks moist with tears, though.

So back to 2009. I bawl almost every time I hear Rachmaninoff's 2nd Symphony. I'm married to his music, but I had a little tryst with my first love a while ago...

I'm such an adulterer.

Rich in Heart and Full of Faith

Jamaica is magnificent. I find the quality of life here much better than life in America for some reason. It's not that Jamaica has fancier houses, faster cars, and bigger wallets. Quite the opposite, in fact. That last sentence was a huge understatement, too.

But, really, Jamaican life is richer. It's vibrant and alive.

Don't get me wrong. I like America. Most of the time. I like Americans. Most of the time. I guess...since I'm naturalized...I am American. But, really, I am Jamaican.

The government is suffering from years of past corruption and current confusion. The streets are riddled with potholes. Major cities are packed with homeless and peddlers and pickpockets. The morning news opens regularly with who got shot the night before. If you think you're suffering from a recession in America... hahaha. You're funny.

BUT, I'd choose to live here and raise my future family here than in America. Why?

I value humility of one's self and pride in one's country. And there's quite a lot of that here.

I value the privilege of growing up without extravagancies.

I value not taking things for granted.

I value culture, vibrant and flawed.

I value people, rich in heart and full of faith.

I value life, raw and uncut.

If a country's unofficial motto can be "No Worries," and that motto is visible on every face that line some of the congested, dirty streets in the middle of a worldwide recession, then there is obviously a lesson to be learned.

I choose Jamaica.

Falling Asleep

"Mrs. Adams died this morning at 8:14. Five minutes after I arrived to work. I didn't know that when a man with a baseball cap, red polo, and somber countenance walked in with not a tear. I did know, however, when Mrs. Adams' son walked out face red, sunglasses to hide that empty pain in his eyes, and a quivering hand as he signed out on the visitor sheet. I don't think I'm going to get used to the death in this place...the Grim Reaper is good buddies with the staff here. I guess he's not so grim to them anymore."

That's what I wrote in my journal on my second day of work at Hospice Atlanta. That day, I questioned myself...this is SAS? the fun, thought-provoking summer experience I was excited about?

The next day of work, 2 more people "fall asleep." Death is serious business to me. It's scary - the antithesis of life - and yet I've learned more about life in these first weeks than I have...well...all my life! And, no. I'm not exaggerating.

Last week Wednesday, I escorted a visitor to a patient's room.

The man asked, "Where are you a student?" "What's your major?"

I answered, "Emory." "Music - Piano and Composition. I'm also pre-med."

"OH! Mr. A___ B____ in this room has been a piano tuner all of his life. In fact, he tuned the piano of Rubinstein. He'd love to talk to you."

WHAT! He tuned Arthur Rubinstein's PIANO! Oooo, I want to talk to him. But, I don't have my mandatory TB test that I need in order to be allowed to see the patients...sorry I can't go in. ---that's what my head said.

This is what I actually said, "Oh sure, I'd love to. I can't get close, because I haven't been screened yet but I'll talk to him from the door...ok, I'll come in a little bit."

"Hello, A____. This young man is a pianist, and would love to talk to you sometime about your experience with Arthur Rubinstein."

Rasping, and with great deliberation, Mr. B____ said, "Oh! Come by...next time. We...can talk."

I whispered a quick thank you and left. Excited. As if I had talked to Rubinstein himself.

That was Wednesday.

I came back this Monday to work. I knew Mr. B____ hadn't died. He couldn't have. This conversation was a part of my destiny. He would dispense some life-changing wisdom that would make me change the world with music.

Mr. B____ died on Thursday. Peacefully, the nurse said.

Crap.

I was angry. I was sad. I was in denial. Hahahaha. no. That didn't happen, right?

I don't like expressing pain...I don't know how. I just write music, and it comes out. So that's what I did. And then it clicked.

Death isn't the antithesis of life. It's just the end. The end comes to everybody. That's what makes life so important. Good things can arise out of death. Mr. B___ got peace. His family got peace after a lengthy period of stressful circumstances. And I wrote a piece.

So, if life has an end that is imminent, shouldn't I do my best to make my life and the lives of others as fulfilling as possible? Is that through music or medicine? Is choosing my passion for music selfish or is it selfless? Is discarding my dream of using my hands to heal someone the right decision?

I have no beeping idea.

I do know that if I have had such huge breakthroughs in the first 2 weeks of SAS, then I can't wait to see "the new me" at the end of this endeavour.

Confession #2

Yes.

I'm addicted to crossword puzzles. 

I could have another blog called "Confessions and Ponderings of a Puzzle Addict." No joke.

I'm beginning to think that I have an addictive personality. I was really only introduced to crosswords my freshman year by a good friend of mine, Katy. She and her friends, Pat and Adna, used to do the puzzles in our school newspaper. I thought the puzzles were good conversation starters and restarters, but I didn't become a recreational user until...

Well, I guess I shouldn't call myself a user, due to obvious connotation. I prefer "puzzler." 

Yeah. Puzzler. I like it. 

So, I didn't become a recreational puzzler until about sophomore year. Katy and I would have crossword lunches, and I felt the urge to do the crosswords quite often and I couldn't bug Katy everytime so I found myself doing them alllll day. I wasn't too good at first but that rush that I got after completing a puzzle. WOO! ok....

I'll calm down. I promise.

BUT REALLY, it feels good. 

I'm not proud to say I'm a puzzler aka crossword addict. 

But it is the truth. 

And the truth shall set me free...right?

 

5 1 313 2 6!

Today, I met Doug. 

21 year old percussionist from Gainesville, GA. 

Former student of Gainesville State College.

Can play Amazing Grace on one string of the guitar.

Has a passion for music.

Nickname: The GongMaster

The friendliest person I've ever met.

Oh, and he's deaf.

I talked with Doug for about 15 minutes and it blew my mind. We are complete opposites upon viewing: I'm of a darker hue, from a foreign country, tall, shaven, and slim, while Doug was your typical "good ole southern boy," about 5'5'', chubby, with some facial hair. But I realized we were kindred spirits because we had something in common - an undying passion for music. 

Doug can't hear the glories of Rachmaninoff, or the awesomeness that is Steely Dan, but he can feel it. He said that he can feel the vibrations and the rhythm of the music [hence his attraction to percussion], but his curiosity to learn more about this art form outside the realm of his senses lead him to teach himself to play Amazing Grace on the guitar. He said he took a mathematical approach. He sang it to me.

5 1   313  2 1 6 5 ...etc.

Doug started having seizures when he was 19. He couldn't attend college after being diagnosed with epilepsy, so I don't know what he's doing know. 

He's on 10 different meds right now. For his seizures, he takes two medications which alter his mood, so he takes pills to keep his mood straight, but that weakens the seizure meds so he has to take another set of pills. He has stuff for allergies, some to sleep, some to stay awake, and some for back pain. 

Despite the drugs, Doug still emanated an exuberance and vitality that's not normally seen in handicapped individuals, and I really hesitate to call Doug handicapped, because, despite his hearing loss, Doug doesn't seem handicapped one bit. 

With joy and exquisite vocabulary, he detailed his process in "hearing" me speak. He can only hear vowels, so he read my lips, and my facial expressions, and body language for consonants, context, and tone, respectively. 

Doug is deaf, tone deaf, epileptic and all, but that does not stop him from appreciating the wonders of music. For a person who has never fully heard the human voice, his speech is quite musical. His voice is far from monotone. His inflections and cadence are natural, and he isn't afraid to try his hand at singing. :) 

I believe that when God gives someone a passion (especially, when all signs point to dead ends and everyone cries impossible), He intends to prove His power through that person. 

Even if you're atheist and disagree with my statement, my point remains the same: reach outside the confines of your being, find what ignites that spark in the core of your soul, fan the flames, and you'll be a light to others around you. 

I don't care if your passion is crocheting or aikido. 

If Doug can do it, you can too.