Sunday, March 28, 2010
Don't Change the Subject, Please
Ever since the passage of the unpopular Health Care and American Bankruptcy Bill last week, the mainstream news media have been having a case of the vapors over right-wing "violence." While, doubtless, there are kooks in any political movement, some of us more cynical types believe this is a manufactured issue. The Democrats want desperately to change the subject: so, please stop talking about Congress' dragging America one giant step closer to Soviet Union-style economics, and let's talk about more pressing concerns, such as, well, those dangerously violent conservatives. And mean. And unhinged. And violent. Did we already say that? And violent.
Of course, Republican violence has apparently been a problem for some time. In this little known incident at the 2008 Democratic Party Convention in Denver, for example, anti-Democratic protesters threw bricks through the windows of charter buses -- sending some people to the hospital -- and dropped bags of sand off of overpasses and onto vehicles passing by. It seems strange nobody heard of this, doesn't it?
Well, not so strange really. It happened, alright. Except it happened not at the Democratic Convention in Denver, but at the Republican Convention in St. Paul. The protesters were not anti-Democratic, but anti-Republican. John Hinderaker writes about it here.
Funny how the narrative shapes the news, isn't it?
Of course, Republican violence has apparently been a problem for some time. In this little known incident at the 2008 Democratic Party Convention in Denver, for example, anti-Democratic protesters threw bricks through the windows of charter buses -- sending some people to the hospital -- and dropped bags of sand off of overpasses and onto vehicles passing by. It seems strange nobody heard of this, doesn't it?
Well, not so strange really. It happened, alright. Except it happened not at the Democratic Convention in Denver, but at the Republican Convention in St. Paul. The protesters were not anti-Democratic, but anti-Republican. John Hinderaker writes about it here.
Funny how the narrative shapes the news, isn't it?
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
There's an Awful Lot of Quit in the GOP
I have been proud of the way the Republican Party has stood tall in a stiff wind and tried to block Obamacare. So imagine my chagrin at coming across the following remark from Republican Senator John Cornyn of Texas (from National Review's The Corner):
We are here today, at this tragic place in history, because too many Republicans thought they could get cozy with liberal initiatives. America doesn't need two liberal parties; one is more than enough.
Update (3/25/2010): I see that Sen. Cornyn got the message. It's amazing what you can get from a Republican when you watch him constantly and have him cornered.
"There is non-controversial stuff here like the preexisting conditions exclusion and those sorts of things," the Texas Republican said. "Now we are not interested in repealing that. And that is frankly a distraction."
What the GOP will work to repeal, Cornyn explained, are provisions that result in "tax increases on middle class families," language that forced "an increase in the premium costs for people who have insurance now" and the "cuts to Medicare" included in the legislation.So here's my message to Sen. Cornyn: If you are not interested in repealing the entire bill, then I am not interested in voting for an entire Republican, nor am I interested in writing the Republican Party an entire check. The polls show that 58% of Americans oppose this bill. If the GOP can't turn that mandate into anything, then what good are they? I'll stay home on the first Tuesday in November and drink martinis. How's that for a distraction, Sen. Cornyn?
We are here today, at this tragic place in history, because too many Republicans thought they could get cozy with liberal initiatives. America doesn't need two liberal parties; one is more than enough.
Update (3/25/2010): I see that Sen. Cornyn got the message. It's amazing what you can get from a Republican when you watch him constantly and have him cornered.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
The Euthyphro Dilemma Ain't What It Used to Be
Is the pious loved by the gods because it is pious, or is it pious because it is loved by the gods?This question was posed by Socrates to one of his foils. As posed to a Christian, the dilemma asks essentially this: does morality exist apart from God and God simply decrees whatever it happens to mandate? Or does morality exist because it is decreed by God? The question is intended to debunk the notion that God is the source of an absolute moral standard. If morality is absolute but separate from God, then God had nothing to do with it, so what need have we for God? Whereas, if God decreed morality, then it is simply a product of God's whim and is therefore arbitrary -- i.e., not absolute.
As a Reformed Christian, I don't see a dilemma here. Do you?
Attacks on the Christian faith come in all forms. Many educated non-believers think the way to beat God is to try to make his followers feel intellectually insecure. This is nothing new -- even Paul warned:
See to it that no one takes you captive through hollow and deceptive philosophy, which depends on human tradition and the basic principles of this world rather than on Christ.
As Christians, we stand on Biblical truth, not the cleverness of man, and thus have no reason to feel insecure about anything. So let's take the dilemma apart and peek under the hood...
We can quickly dismiss the first part of the dilemma: there can be nothing higher than God, nothing that transcends God, no separate standard to which He can be held up, indicted or shamed. Morality must somehow originate with God.
As to the second part: does God actually decree morality, or is it simply a reflection of His character?
Consider this: if there happened to be only one person in all of existence (including God), would morality then exist? How much of morality presupposes relationships?
The Ten Commandments address the rules governing two types of relationships: man's relationship with God, and man's relationship with other men. Every commandment presumes these relationships exist. Do not worship other gods. Do not murder. Do not steal. Do not covet anything of your neighbor's. These rules make no sense in a universe of one.
How about the Golden Rule?
Again, this presupposes relationships, by explaining how to participate in good ones: treat others with the respect you would like them to grant to you.
The essence of morality appears to be relationships, and how to get them right. One could argue that even one person alone in the universe could sin against himself, but it isn't obvious how. The sins we refer to as "self-destructive" are judged bad because of their effects on others, and because they are an affront to God's gift of life -- if there was no one else to be affected, and no god to affront, what then? If the only person in the universe was an abusive drunk, he couldn't go home and beat up his wife. If he was a drug addict, he'd have no job to lose. If he was suicidal, there would be no one to mourn his passing, and no one dependent on him to suffer from his absence.
Christianity is the only religion in which not only is God eternal, but so are relationships. As Father, Son, and Holy Spirit -- Three Persons in One -- God has participated in perfect relationships from the very beginning. This means we cannot impute arbitrariness to God; He is eternal and unchanging. This means morality is not some unknown, unknowable, abstract thing hanging out there somewhere in space, nor is it a set of arbitrary dictates issued by a lonely monadic deity. Morality is the way the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit relate to each other and have related to each other for all time -- and which defines how we, as God's creatures, should relate to each other. In the Bible, whenever the Father speaks of the Son, it is with the utmost respect, deference, and love -- and likewise, when Jesus speaks of His Father and of the Holy Spirit. Their eternal relationship would not have been sustainable for more than a few minutes without the sort of loving care they take of it. They can no more afford to be arbitrary than we can afford to be arbitrary in our relationships with our spouses, children, and other loved ones. When God tells us to love one another, He is asking us to do no more than what He already does, and has done for all eternity.
To be fair to Socrates, the nature of our Triune God had not been fully revealed in his day, not even to His [the Lord's] people, the Jews. It made perfect sense for Socrates to presume that a monadic god could be arbitrary or whimsical in his decrees. (In fact, this is precisely how Islam conceives of Allah: a monadic god who changes his mind about what is right or wrong.) If God were monadic, then he would have been (at least for some period of time) the fellow we were just talking about a few paragraphs ago: the only person in existence. The very first time he created other beings, relationships would also have been created for the first time -- and hence so would morality. So much for eternal and unchanging; so much for absolute morality.
So Socrates had an excuse; those who pose the question nowadays do not. If morality is absolute, the only consistent explanation to be found is from the Bible: morality originated with our Lord. If morality is not absolute, we have no reason to worry about whether we're adhering to it, and no reason even to suppose we can know what it is. Better to pose the question to the moralistic unbeliever: if you don't believe in the Lord, why do you act as if morality exists apart from your own particular tastes, whims, and preferences? And if that's all morality is, why are others obligated to obey it? Having such frank discussions probably will not change their minds or hearts -- that's the Lord's job. But it's our job, whenever possible, to give them pause.
The Ten Commandments address the rules governing two types of relationships: man's relationship with God, and man's relationship with other men. Every commandment presumes these relationships exist. Do not worship other gods. Do not murder. Do not steal. Do not covet anything of your neighbor's. These rules make no sense in a universe of one.
How about the Golden Rule?
So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets.
Again, this presupposes relationships, by explaining how to participate in good ones: treat others with the respect you would like them to grant to you.
The essence of morality appears to be relationships, and how to get them right. One could argue that even one person alone in the universe could sin against himself, but it isn't obvious how. The sins we refer to as "self-destructive" are judged bad because of their effects on others, and because they are an affront to God's gift of life -- if there was no one else to be affected, and no god to affront, what then? If the only person in the universe was an abusive drunk, he couldn't go home and beat up his wife. If he was a drug addict, he'd have no job to lose. If he was suicidal, there would be no one to mourn his passing, and no one dependent on him to suffer from his absence.
Christianity is the only religion in which not only is God eternal, but so are relationships. As Father, Son, and Holy Spirit -- Three Persons in One -- God has participated in perfect relationships from the very beginning. This means we cannot impute arbitrariness to God; He is eternal and unchanging. This means morality is not some unknown, unknowable, abstract thing hanging out there somewhere in space, nor is it a set of arbitrary dictates issued by a lonely monadic deity. Morality is the way the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit relate to each other and have related to each other for all time -- and which defines how we, as God's creatures, should relate to each other. In the Bible, whenever the Father speaks of the Son, it is with the utmost respect, deference, and love -- and likewise, when Jesus speaks of His Father and of the Holy Spirit. Their eternal relationship would not have been sustainable for more than a few minutes without the sort of loving care they take of it. They can no more afford to be arbitrary than we can afford to be arbitrary in our relationships with our spouses, children, and other loved ones. When God tells us to love one another, He is asking us to do no more than what He already does, and has done for all eternity.
To be fair to Socrates, the nature of our Triune God had not been fully revealed in his day, not even to His [the Lord's] people, the Jews. It made perfect sense for Socrates to presume that a monadic god could be arbitrary or whimsical in his decrees. (In fact, this is precisely how Islam conceives of Allah: a monadic god who changes his mind about what is right or wrong.) If God were monadic, then he would have been (at least for some period of time) the fellow we were just talking about a few paragraphs ago: the only person in existence. The very first time he created other beings, relationships would also have been created for the first time -- and hence so would morality. So much for eternal and unchanging; so much for absolute morality.
So Socrates had an excuse; those who pose the question nowadays do not. If morality is absolute, the only consistent explanation to be found is from the Bible: morality originated with our Lord. If morality is not absolute, we have no reason to worry about whether we're adhering to it, and no reason even to suppose we can know what it is. Better to pose the question to the moralistic unbeliever: if you don't believe in the Lord, why do you act as if morality exists apart from your own particular tastes, whims, and preferences? And if that's all morality is, why are others obligated to obey it? Having such frank discussions probably will not change their minds or hearts -- that's the Lord's job. But it's our job, whenever possible, to give them pause.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Karen Carpenter and the Art of Singing
As a working musician, I have performed in many dozens of weddings. Probably more like hundreds. This necessarily means I have had to listen to many dozens of wedding singers. Thus I have had many occasions, as part of the captive audiences of these prim ceremonies that are part Judeo-Christian tradition, part Valhalla, and all middle-American kitsch, to ponder the elements of the vocal arts. It is a simple fact that there are more people who think they can sing than there are people who can sing. No problem -- I think I can play trombone, so I understand the dilemma. The act of performing music confers a certain mental and emotional "high" on the performer, and it doesn't really need to enter into the equation whether the performer is very, or even any, good at it. I have played next to trombone "players" that have made me cry, and I mean that quite literally. About twenty years ago, I performed Holst's "The Planets" -- one of my favorite orchestral pieces -- playing the first trombone part in an orchestra whose roster included the worst trombonist (playing second) I have ever met. Bad players are everywhere; what made him special is he could play badly at 150 decibels. You can't ignore a racket like that, anymore than an Iraqi soldier in a foxhole could ignore the booming bon mots of a loaded B-52. I wept. But he was happy. And I have felt like weeping at many weddings -- not so much out of joy for the radiant bride, but unbridled grief for my irradiated ears. No matter. Deaf to my mute protests, on and inexorably, insufferably on would march the joyous cackling. The worse the wedding singer, the more apparent the ecstasy she radiates. Sort of a spin on the old Lady Clairol hair-coloring commercials, in which an exultant female exuberantly proclaimed, "If I have only one life to live, let me live it as a blonde!" Except, the wedding singer blazes forth with the following practical manifesto: "If only one person in this building can be happy, let it be me!"
Bah humbug. The good news in all this misanthropy is it has taught me to love good singing. So, as Paul enjoined us, "Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things." Which brings us to Karen Carpenter.
Over the Christmas holidays, my wife and I drove back and forth to her parents' house -- that's four days on the road, so we brought along a lot of music CDs with which to while away the time. I brought along a "greatest hits" album of the Carpenters, knowing that my wife likes them. (I have to temper my penchant for boring her to pieces with bombastic Shostakovich symphonies.) It was such a pleasure to hear those old songs again, most of which were released when I was in high school. But now, I was listening not with teenaged ears, but after years and years of musical training and professional experience. There are many times I have gone back and listened to the music of my youth with more educated ears and, shall we say, more experienced tastes. (Some might say jaded.) And I can tell you this: it can be quite disappointing. A lot of music we once loved does not withstand the test of time. (Once upon a time, I enjoyed playing Leroy Anderson tunes; all I can say about that now is the trumpet's infamous "horse whinny" at the end of "Sleigh Ride" lost its wittiness sometime around the 400th performance.) A lot in the Carpenters' music can justly be dismissed as schlock -- the sappy arrangements, the late Sixties' stylistic elements, and to some degree the uninspiring tunes they made her sing. One thing they couldn't hide under a bushel was Karen Carpenter's amazing, phenomenal talent.
I still remember the first time I heard her voice. The Carpenters were on the radio, singing "Close to You," which was their first #1 hit. It wasn't their last. There was something about her voice -- rich, warm, sparkling, intimate. It made me (perhaps the most unromantic ninth grader in the world, at that time) want to sit alone with her and quietly hold her hand, and I didn't even know what she looked like. American pop culture has produced many wonderful singers, but Karen Carpenter was special. I consider her to have had a once-in-a-generation voice. In my lifetime, I have been privileged to hear three such singers: Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, and Karen Carpenter. Judging by the singers I accidentally hear nowadays when I can't hit the mute button quickly enough, Ms. Carpenter may have retired the honor. As one commenter on YouTube (where I found the video attachments for this post) astutely observed, "WOW, what a music, what a singer, what a talent... BRAVO; R. I. P. Compared to the Carpenters, today's music is equivalent to waterboarding."
My wife Debbie was a music student at Cal State-Long Beach back in the early Seventies; Karen and her brother Richard Carpenter had also attended that school, just a few years ahead of Debbie. Debbie tells me (I haven't verified this) that Karen never got her music degree; she and her brother were too busy gigging, it seems, to bother with attending classes. All I know is that at some point, she and her brother signed with Herb Alpert's A&M Records. Alpert, the "King Midas" of pop music from about 1965 to 1980, earned his fame as a trumpet player -- his "Tijiana Brass" albums in the mid-Sixties had minted him millions -- so he knew a little something about pop music. Alpert himself had made a #1 hit record in 1968, singing (not playing) Burt Bacharach's tune, "This Guy's In Love With You." I can imagine the phone conversation Alpert must have had with the mightily prolific Bacharach upon signing the Carpenters:
And here's how it turned out, complete with a trumpet solo in the Alpert style (a musician friend and wit describes Alpert as "the inventor of the short note")...
Alpert made his second fortune with the Carpenters. (He made his third fortune in the Disco era with fluegelhornist Chuck Mangione. True to form, he made yet another bundle of bucks when he sold A&M records -- in jest, it is said that the two biggest robberies of the 20th century occurred when Herb Alpert bought A&M Records, and again when he sold it.)
How to describe Karen's singing? Analytical thinking is a blessing and a curse, as the act of analyzing something requires taking it out of context. I have read that people listen to music with the right side of their brain -- the intuitive side -- until they become trained in music, and then forever afterwards listen with their analytical left brains. So with that disclaimer, let the analysis proceed...
I sense that there are four basic aspects, or dimensions, to singing:
The dimension of skill, I think, is exemplified by the great jazz singer, Mel Torme, who succeeded wildly, in spite of a having a rather ordinary vocal quality, by employing his virtuosity at jazz harmony to the hilt, with intellectual precision. Let Mel show you how it's done:
The dimension of style defines the context by which the other dimensions are judged. An operatic voice quality, for example, is perfect for the style of, well, opera -- but may not be appreciated in the confines of jazz or rock. Skill may not matter so much in the rock or blues styles, but matters a lot in jazz and Classical music. The archetype for style in the world of "big band" jazz was Mr. Frank Sinatra, one of the few singers from my parents' day still popular with the younger folks. As you can hear from the attached clip, Frankie doesn't try to compete with Mel Torme in terms of vocal gymnastics, but delivers the musical message with his brash and indelible persona. Sinatra defines the style.
And finally, the dimension of soul is illustrated with a clip of Janis Joplin's intense and deeply personal blues singing. Soul, she had in absurd abundance, and little else; as my buddy Ray puts it, "Every time she sang, she took a blow torch to her vocal chords." Her voice quality was that of a blown speaker; there was very little craft or apparent skill; the style, if it existed, was her own. What sold Janis Joplin records (in great abundance) was that, in every phrase she sang, she put everything she had on the line. It isn't always pleasant; sometimes it's painful -- but it's always Janis. Click on the video to take another little piece of her heart:
So how does all that help us to describe Karen Carpenter? All four dimensions -- floored; all eight cylinders screaming. In short, she was perfection -- or about as close as we can get to perfection in music. Like Bing Crosby, like Nat King Cole, she was the complete package. Her vocal quality was nothing short of sublime; she owned a deep, silkily textured contralto voice -- about as close to basso profundo as a female voice is likely to get -- yet she never allowed her voice to become thunderous or plodding. Her skill was at the expert level; it's hard to tell just how good she was, because the pop music of the late Sixties and early Seventies was not exactly what one might call 'demanding'. She was certainly much better than she needed to be. On the dozen tunes featured on the Carpenter's Greatest Hits album, for example, I could detect only one passage in which her intonation was anything less than flawless, even though many of the melodies feature wide, even awkward, leaps in pitch. In "Close to You," for example, the phrase "Just like me/They long to be/Close to you," contains a minor third interval followed by an leap, in the same direction, of a perfect fifth, which is then reiterated except with an accented suspension of the sixth resolving to the fifth -- treacherous ground for a mere pop singer. No matter: Karen was no mere pop singer. She tripped lightly across the phrase like everything else she sang -- playfully, gracefully, and in tune.
The style of pop music from that era is forgettable, but Karen Carpenter elevated it, like everything else her musicality touched. It's a shame we never got to hear what she could do with better material. It has become something of a pilgrimage for successful singers nowadays -- even the hard-core rockers -- to make recordings of the old jazz standards and torch songs from the Forties and Fifties, usually with a big band kicking in the background; this vast and growing list includes such musical luminaries as Linda Ronstadt, Toni Tennille, Bette Midler, Sting, Rod Stewart, even Willie Nelson. There's a reason for this: the music of my parents' generation was far better than ours, and (it goes without saying) immeasurably better than the current generation's. Song writers such as George Gershwin, Cole Porter, Harold Arlen, Hoagy Carmichael, Johnny Mercer, Harry Warren, Jerome Kern -- all possessed a skill at writing melodies that was only briefly challenged by the Beatles and no one else since, plus a sense of lyrical wittiness that was last spotted years ago in a black and white photo on a milk carton. By contrast, almost any Burt Bacharach tune (probably the best from that era) can be characterized as a series of short, catchy phrases best sung with a crisp, staccato delivery -- the style of the times. Same with other Carpenters' hits such as Geld & Udell's "Hurting Each Other," and Carol King's "It's Going to Take Some Time." It's not bad stuff, but it is simply inadequate to the task of conveying any range of emotions beyond amused boredom -- emotions which inhabit songs such as, say, Hoagy Carmichael's classic, "Stardust", or Harold Arlen's "Laura." It's like comparing "Doonesbury" to Van Gogh.
You can catch a glimpse of how Karen Carpenter may have fared with more substantive melodic content in only a couple of Carpenter's tunes. Leon Russell's "Superstar" affords such a glimpse. "Superstar" appears to be a song about the unrequited love of a naive young woman for a touring guitar-playing rock star. Opening with a plaintive melodic introduction by a solo oboe (are oboes ever not plaintive?) and French horns, Karen schools the rest of the singing world by showing how to out-plaintive an oboe. But then, after a heart-melting stanza, the song regresses to the last refuge of corny rock cliches -- namely, a chorus of syncopated encomiums to "Baby". Such immortal lyrics as these plumb the very depths of shallow mediocrity:
Another tune that hints at Karen's even greater potential was "For All We Know" (Carlin/Griffin/Wilson). It has a real melody, for one thing, requiring actual phrasing -- no problem for Ms. Carpenter. I think this tune could have even been arranged for big band, with few changes (I think the tune needs an additional melodic theme or bridge of some sort, but what's already there is fine.)...
In addition to her vocal talents, Karen was quite a good drummer, earning kudos even from the irascible Buddy Rich, who wasn't famous for passing them out. Her brother Richard was an excellent keyboardist and won several awards for his arrangements -- he did all the arrangements for the Carpenters. I find the arrangements quite skillful, but ultimately too saccharine for my personal tastes -- Victor Herbert on insulin. Sometimes, less is more. (Decolletage, for example, invites admiring glances, whereas toplessness can scare them away.) But top-notch drumming and arranging can be bought for a couple hundred dollars an hour. What the Carpenters had that set them apart was Karen's rare precious gem of a voice. It would have been great to hear her in front of the Nelson Riddle Orchestra, singing a few of his arrangements.
Karen Carpenter died in 1983 at the age of 32, from a heart attack arising from anorexia nervosa. She was taken from us way too soon. She had only just begun.
een
Jan 31, 2010 Note: After some feedback, I've decided that I have probably been a bit unfair to Richard Carpenter, so I would like to backtrack maybe a little and clarify maybe a little, too. I dismissed much of their output as "sappy arrangements" when I should have written "sappy tunes" -- a choice of words which does not place the responsibility for the perceived sappiness solely on Richard's arranging chops. Later, I hit him perhaps with what musicians call "pianissimo praise" when I said, "I find the arrangements quite skillful, but ultimately too saccharine for my personal tastes -- Victor Herbert on insulin." I stand by my opinion of pop music from that era (and it is an opinion), but I should add that the Carpenter arrangements fit right in. Is that praise or derision? Sorry, I'm just not fond of that style. (To be fair, pop music hasn't improved since then, so that's another way to look at it.) That Richard Carpenter did it skillfully is a given. But, to me, it seems okay to wish that Karen Carpenter had done something a little grander with one of the very best arrangers from an earlier era, such as Nelson Riddle or Billy May -- and I think all of that would have happened had she lived longer. The very best voices deserve to be heard in the very best of settings.
It takes chops to be a skillful arranger. Being a critic (and that is the role in which I cast myself when writing this post) takes no chops at all. But it does require a degree or two of honesty. I have to call it as I hear it, and hope I can do so without ruffling too many feathers.
Also: check out the comments section, where I am set straight on the history of A&M Records.
Bah humbug. The good news in all this misanthropy is it has taught me to love good singing. So, as Paul enjoined us, "Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things." Which brings us to Karen Carpenter.
Over the Christmas holidays, my wife and I drove back and forth to her parents' house -- that's four days on the road, so we brought along a lot of music CDs with which to while away the time. I brought along a "greatest hits" album of the Carpenters, knowing that my wife likes them. (I have to temper my penchant for boring her to pieces with bombastic Shostakovich symphonies.) It was such a pleasure to hear those old songs again, most of which were released when I was in high school. But now, I was listening not with teenaged ears, but after years and years of musical training and professional experience. There are many times I have gone back and listened to the music of my youth with more educated ears and, shall we say, more experienced tastes. (Some might say jaded.) And I can tell you this: it can be quite disappointing. A lot of music we once loved does not withstand the test of time. (Once upon a time, I enjoyed playing Leroy Anderson tunes; all I can say about that now is the trumpet's infamous "horse whinny" at the end of "Sleigh Ride" lost its wittiness sometime around the 400th performance.) A lot in the Carpenters' music can justly be dismissed as schlock -- the sappy arrangements, the late Sixties' stylistic elements, and to some degree the uninspiring tunes they made her sing. One thing they couldn't hide under a bushel was Karen Carpenter's amazing, phenomenal talent.
I still remember the first time I heard her voice. The Carpenters were on the radio, singing "Close to You," which was their first #1 hit. It wasn't their last. There was something about her voice -- rich, warm, sparkling, intimate. It made me (perhaps the most unromantic ninth grader in the world, at that time) want to sit alone with her and quietly hold her hand, and I didn't even know what she looked like. American pop culture has produced many wonderful singers, but Karen Carpenter was special. I consider her to have had a once-in-a-generation voice. In my lifetime, I have been privileged to hear three such singers: Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, and Karen Carpenter. Judging by the singers I accidentally hear nowadays when I can't hit the mute button quickly enough, Ms. Carpenter may have retired the honor. As one commenter on YouTube (where I found the video attachments for this post) astutely observed, "WOW, what a music, what a singer, what a talent... BRAVO; R. I. P. Compared to the Carpenters, today's music is equivalent to waterboarding."
My wife Debbie was a music student at Cal State-Long Beach back in the early Seventies; Karen and her brother Richard Carpenter had also attended that school, just a few years ahead of Debbie. Debbie tells me (I haven't verified this) that Karen never got her music degree; she and her brother were too busy gigging, it seems, to bother with attending classes. All I know is that at some point, she and her brother signed with Herb Alpert's A&M Records. Alpert, the "King Midas" of pop music from about 1965 to 1980, earned his fame as a trumpet player -- his "Tijiana Brass" albums in the mid-Sixties had minted him millions -- so he knew a little something about pop music. Alpert himself had made a #1 hit record in 1968, singing (not playing) Burt Bacharach's tune, "This Guy's In Love With You." I can imagine the phone conversation Alpert must have had with the mightily prolific Bacharach upon signing the Carpenters:
"Hey, Burt, this is Herb..."
"Hey, Herb. How's it hanging?"
"Listen, Burt -- I just signed this chick and her brother with A&M. You've got to hear this girl sing. She has a voice that was designed by God Himself to be put on hit records."
"No kidding!"
"Yeah, no kidding, I'm serious. You have got to hear her! Do you have a tune she might use? Maybe something Dionne Warwick hasn't already sung?"
"Hmmm. A chick vocalist, huh? How is her intonation? Good ear? Good rhythm?"
"Pitch? Good Lord, man, she can hear the grass grow! And rhythm? Why, you should hear her play a drum set! No technical problems, none at all. She's a pro."
"Wow! A chick drummer! No foolin'? Well, I've got a little number called, "Close to You"... I always thought it would be a hit, but that hasn't happened yet. Dionne put it on one of her earlier albums, but it never went anywhere. I'll bring it with me, if you want me to come down."
"Yeah, you should.... Bring it, and get ready, you've never heard anything like this..."
And here's how it turned out, complete with a trumpet solo in the Alpert style (a musician friend and wit describes Alpert as "the inventor of the short note")...
Alpert made his second fortune with the Carpenters. (He made his third fortune in the Disco era with fluegelhornist Chuck Mangione. True to form, he made yet another bundle of bucks when he sold A&M records -- in jest, it is said that the two biggest robberies of the 20th century occurred when Herb Alpert bought A&M Records, and again when he sold it.)
How to describe Karen's singing? Analytical thinking is a blessing and a curse, as the act of analyzing something requires taking it out of context. I have read that people listen to music with the right side of their brain -- the intuitive side -- until they become trained in music, and then forever afterwards listen with their analytical left brains. So with that disclaimer, let the analysis proceed...
I sense that there are four basic aspects, or dimensions, to singing:
- Vocal quality; what instrumental musicians refer to as "the sound".
- Skill, or vocal prowess.
- Style, or rather, how successfully a singer reflects the requirements of a particular style of singing.
- "Soul", borrowing from the lexicon of the black musicians of a generation ago; this is the emotional, evocative component of singing.
The dimension of skill, I think, is exemplified by the great jazz singer, Mel Torme, who succeeded wildly, in spite of a having a rather ordinary vocal quality, by employing his virtuosity at jazz harmony to the hilt, with intellectual precision. Let Mel show you how it's done:
The dimension of style defines the context by which the other dimensions are judged. An operatic voice quality, for example, is perfect for the style of, well, opera -- but may not be appreciated in the confines of jazz or rock. Skill may not matter so much in the rock or blues styles, but matters a lot in jazz and Classical music. The archetype for style in the world of "big band" jazz was Mr. Frank Sinatra, one of the few singers from my parents' day still popular with the younger folks. As you can hear from the attached clip, Frankie doesn't try to compete with Mel Torme in terms of vocal gymnastics, but delivers the musical message with his brash and indelible persona. Sinatra defines the style.
And finally, the dimension of soul is illustrated with a clip of Janis Joplin's intense and deeply personal blues singing. Soul, she had in absurd abundance, and little else; as my buddy Ray puts it, "Every time she sang, she took a blow torch to her vocal chords." Her voice quality was that of a blown speaker; there was very little craft or apparent skill; the style, if it existed, was her own. What sold Janis Joplin records (in great abundance) was that, in every phrase she sang, she put everything she had on the line. It isn't always pleasant; sometimes it's painful -- but it's always Janis. Click on the video to take another little piece of her heart:
So how does all that help us to describe Karen Carpenter? All four dimensions -- floored; all eight cylinders screaming. In short, she was perfection -- or about as close as we can get to perfection in music. Like Bing Crosby, like Nat King Cole, she was the complete package. Her vocal quality was nothing short of sublime; she owned a deep, silkily textured contralto voice -- about as close to basso profundo as a female voice is likely to get -- yet she never allowed her voice to become thunderous or plodding. Her skill was at the expert level; it's hard to tell just how good she was, because the pop music of the late Sixties and early Seventies was not exactly what one might call 'demanding'. She was certainly much better than she needed to be. On the dozen tunes featured on the Carpenter's Greatest Hits album, for example, I could detect only one passage in which her intonation was anything less than flawless, even though many of the melodies feature wide, even awkward, leaps in pitch. In "Close to You," for example, the phrase "Just like me/They long to be/Close to you," contains a minor third interval followed by an leap, in the same direction, of a perfect fifth, which is then reiterated except with an accented suspension of the sixth resolving to the fifth -- treacherous ground for a mere pop singer. No matter: Karen was no mere pop singer. She tripped lightly across the phrase like everything else she sang -- playfully, gracefully, and in tune.
The style of pop music from that era is forgettable, but Karen Carpenter elevated it, like everything else her musicality touched. It's a shame we never got to hear what she could do with better material. It has become something of a pilgrimage for successful singers nowadays -- even the hard-core rockers -- to make recordings of the old jazz standards and torch songs from the Forties and Fifties, usually with a big band kicking in the background; this vast and growing list includes such musical luminaries as Linda Ronstadt, Toni Tennille, Bette Midler, Sting, Rod Stewart, even Willie Nelson. There's a reason for this: the music of my parents' generation was far better than ours, and (it goes without saying) immeasurably better than the current generation's. Song writers such as George Gershwin, Cole Porter, Harold Arlen, Hoagy Carmichael, Johnny Mercer, Harry Warren, Jerome Kern -- all possessed a skill at writing melodies that was only briefly challenged by the Beatles and no one else since, plus a sense of lyrical wittiness that was last spotted years ago in a black and white photo on a milk carton. By contrast, almost any Burt Bacharach tune (probably the best from that era) can be characterized as a series of short, catchy phrases best sung with a crisp, staccato delivery -- the style of the times. Same with other Carpenters' hits such as Geld & Udell's "Hurting Each Other," and Carol King's "It's Going to Take Some Time." It's not bad stuff, but it is simply inadequate to the task of conveying any range of emotions beyond amused boredom -- emotions which inhabit songs such as, say, Hoagy Carmichael's classic, "Stardust", or Harold Arlen's "Laura." It's like comparing "Doonesbury" to Van Gogh.
You can catch a glimpse of how Karen Carpenter may have fared with more substantive melodic content in only a couple of Carpenter's tunes. Leon Russell's "Superstar" affords such a glimpse. "Superstar" appears to be a song about the unrequited love of a naive young woman for a touring guitar-playing rock star. Opening with a plaintive melodic introduction by a solo oboe (are oboes ever not plaintive?) and French horns, Karen schools the rest of the singing world by showing how to out-plaintive an oboe. But then, after a heart-melting stanza, the song regresses to the last refuge of corny rock cliches -- namely, a chorus of syncopated encomiums to "Baby". Such immortal lyrics as these plumb the very depths of shallow mediocrity:
Don't you remember you told me you loved me, Baby?Oh great: septuplets. It loses me somewhere around the fourth "Baby". Makes me think of diaper pails. Anyhow, don't take my word for it, listen for yourself:
You told you'd come back this way again, Baby!
Baby, Baby, Baby, Baby, oh Baby,
I love you, I really do.
Another tune that hints at Karen's even greater potential was "For All We Know" (Carlin/Griffin/Wilson). It has a real melody, for one thing, requiring actual phrasing -- no problem for Ms. Carpenter. I think this tune could have even been arranged for big band, with few changes (I think the tune needs an additional melodic theme or bridge of some sort, but what's already there is fine.)...
In addition to her vocal talents, Karen was quite a good drummer, earning kudos even from the irascible Buddy Rich, who wasn't famous for passing them out. Her brother Richard was an excellent keyboardist and won several awards for his arrangements -- he did all the arrangements for the Carpenters. I find the arrangements quite skillful, but ultimately too saccharine for my personal tastes -- Victor Herbert on insulin. Sometimes, less is more. (Decolletage, for example, invites admiring glances, whereas toplessness can scare them away.) But top-notch drumming and arranging can be bought for a couple hundred dollars an hour. What the Carpenters had that set them apart was Karen's rare precious gem of a voice. It would have been great to hear her in front of the Nelson Riddle Orchestra, singing a few of his arrangements.
Karen Carpenter died in 1983 at the age of 32, from a heart attack arising from anorexia nervosa. She was taken from us way too soon. She had only just begun.
een
Jan 31, 2010 Note: After some feedback, I've decided that I have probably been a bit unfair to Richard Carpenter, so I would like to backtrack maybe a little and clarify maybe a little, too. I dismissed much of their output as "sappy arrangements" when I should have written "sappy tunes" -- a choice of words which does not place the responsibility for the perceived sappiness solely on Richard's arranging chops. Later, I hit him perhaps with what musicians call "pianissimo praise" when I said, "I find the arrangements quite skillful, but ultimately too saccharine for my personal tastes -- Victor Herbert on insulin." I stand by my opinion of pop music from that era (and it is an opinion), but I should add that the Carpenter arrangements fit right in. Is that praise or derision? Sorry, I'm just not fond of that style. (To be fair, pop music hasn't improved since then, so that's another way to look at it.) That Richard Carpenter did it skillfully is a given. But, to me, it seems okay to wish that Karen Carpenter had done something a little grander with one of the very best arrangers from an earlier era, such as Nelson Riddle or Billy May -- and I think all of that would have happened had she lived longer. The very best voices deserve to be heard in the very best of settings.
It takes chops to be a skillful arranger. Being a critic (and that is the role in which I cast myself when writing this post) takes no chops at all. But it does require a degree or two of honesty. I have to call it as I hear it, and hope I can do so without ruffling too many feathers.
Also: check out the comments section, where I am set straight on the history of A&M Records.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Merry Christmas 2009
We’ve been sending these Christmas letters now for at least twenty-five years, and, to my chagrin, I’ve noticed the plot is always the same. It always starts in January and ends in December. One of these days, we’re going to have to try writing an avant-garde Christmas letter that starts at Christmas and works backwards to the New Year’s Eve hangover. Not quite sure if the space-time continuum would hold up for that. Might earn us a visit from William Shatner: “You! Could! Rip! The fabric of the! Universe! So stop doing! That!”
We certainly know how that would feel, after the cruise last Christmas with Debbie’s parents, Bill and Audrey Wallace. An ostensible deal, on paper: five-day Western Caribbean Carnival Cruise, departing from Mobile, Alabama (close to Bill and Audrey’s house), $400 a head. But on the first day, it didn’t seem like such a bargain. The boat was eight hours late in boarding, so we spent an entire Saturday playing Mexican Train in the Mobile Civic Center, waiting with approximately 400 unhappy families. Turns out our ship was Carnival’s oldest, built sometime after the Monitor sank -- it’s the same one that was used for humanitarian purposes during the Katrina catastrophe. Ever had one of those hotel beds where, if you put a quarter in the slot, it would vibrate you to death? Well, we didn’t need one of those, as we were situated right above the 30,000 cubic-inch diesel engine. All the way through Mobile Bay to the Gulf, we were shaken and stirred by vibrations that were less than good, thus averting a Beach Boys copyright suit. (We later learned that the vibrations were mostly caused by the shallowness of Mobile Bay, and they diminished considerably once we had made it to the open sea.) We got off the boat in Cozumel. Then, we turned right around and got back on. The Third World looks better on television, and safer. The rest of the cruise was spent winning trivia contests, going to shows, eating wonderful food, and exploring such burning issues of the day as, “Can a bartender from Turkey make a decent martini?” Turns out he can, indeed –- in fact, after the first night, the waiter remembered my martini specifications down to the last twist of lemon. The professionalism of the servers on these cruises is a marvel to behold, particularly after many years of sullen, lip-pierced, teenage-style service at the local fast-food depot. Sometimes they were a little too professional. At dinner, Debbie made the mistake of mentioning that she is lactose-intolerant -- so the ship assigned Karen, a stunning young Filipino woman, to be Debbie’s personal “Lactose Nazi” for the balance of the trip. “Dere vill be nein cheating!” (Darn it.) It was a wonderful cruise. We had a great visit with Debbie’s parents, and the diesel engine bade us farewell in the best way it knew, by shaking loose our gold fillings on the return through Mobile Bay.
My buddy Ray and I went again to the Eastern Trombone Workshop, where we heard some very nice college trombone ensembles, along with the incomparable U.S. Army Blues Jazz Band. The trombonist in the Army’s jazz solo chair is a thin fellow named Harry Watters, an amazing player, who sports the best pompadour seen in the D.C. area since Ronald Reagan. Every time he played, I’d nudge Ray and say, “There he goes again!” In April, I got to play a solo with Dr. Dave Champouillon’s jazz band at Eastern Tennessee State-- an old standard called “Makin’ Whoopee!” I was hardly the star of the show -- Dr. Dave had three guest trumpeters, all respected pros (one of them had played lead trumpet for Harry James). Just to show what a great sense of humor he has, Dave scheduled me to go on right after the trumpet soloists’ flashiest number – which was like following the Battle of Britain with a Sunday nap. Dave just needed a cushion of about five minutes so his soloists could rest their chops before the big finale -- so I like to think of my contribution as having provided the necessary Whoopee cushion.
We mentioned our sun room re-modeling project last year, and now it is completed -- a terrific place to sit in the summer evenings and watch the robins duke it out just before sundown. At the moment, it is a Nor’easter room, as we are (presently) in the throes of one of those charmingly nasty North Atlantic storms that pulls down the power lines -- and makes me feel like the whole world’s a big cold-water rinse cycle and I’m a sweater with a ketchup stain. This year, we tackled the master bathroom, because Debbie had spotted a crack in the floor of the fiberglass shower stall. We didn’t know the half of it, as it turned out. When Carl (our remodeler) tore out the old shower stall, there was an even bigger crack in the concrete slab underneath the shower; it was about two feet long and eight inches wide, following the path of the drain pipe -- which was attached to, well, nothing. All we had was an open trench to the dirt beneath our foundation, and the drain pipe to nowhere. We know the master bedroom was a room addition to the original house, but we will never know whether the building contractor ripped off the previous owners, or the previous owners ripped us off. Either way, a dirt hole in your bathroom isn’t code -- not even in Virginia Beach, where the building inspectors think it’s just fine for highway runoff to drain through a private condo’s garage (ask us how we know). But long story short, the new bathroom is gorgeous, beautiful enough to bring a picnic basket and gaze at, in awe. There’s even a nice place to sit.
Our other “big money” project this year was on our car. We took our 1982 Checker Marathon to an auto-restoration place in Norfolk called FantomWorks; two months and many dollars later, we drove off in a class-A restoration. The hardest part was picking the color. At first, I thought maroon would be great -- until Dan (the restorer) explained the good and bad of metallic paint. Rats. Then, I considered doing it up like a New York cab (since that is how most people remember Checkers), but who wants to drive around town when tourists on the sidewalk are trying to hail you? So I asked Debbie, “What color do you think would look good?” She replied, “It’s your car, Lee, you have to pick a color you’ll be happy with.” So we went through a dozen paint chip books. I’d proclaim, “I like this color!” only to watch Debbie squinch up her nose and say, “Well, paint it any color you like, but I don’t like this one. Too washed out.” Hmmm. “Hey! Here’s a nice one!” Debbie shook her head, “Too dark.” Wow. Picking colors is harder than I thought. “Now this one is great!” Debbie cocked an eye and said, “Too boring!” After many such exchanges, Debbie had a revelation: “Look, here’s a wonderful sky-blue! The top could be white and the car would have a great Fifties look!” So, we painted it sky-blue and white. It really does look fantastic, in a time-warp kind of way, and Debbie is always very good about complimenting me on my choice of colors. I have to admit it was inspired.
Debbie made her goal with Weight Watchers this year -- she's lost a total of 60 pounds -- and in two months she will have maintained her “goal” weight for a year. She’s also been watching a lot of episodes of “What Not to Wear” on The Learning Channel, and has taught herself to dress in accordance with Johnny Mercer’s famous lyric: to “Accentuate the Positive.” I never have to harbor paranoid fears anymore about people staring at me, when Debbie is on my arm. She is even more beautiful than the lovely young lady I married almost 27 years ago. Her name was Debbie, too.
An elementary school was closed, and the year-round schedule schools were changed back to the standard Sep-Jun school year -- so Debbie lost her cherished schedule. She is still the music director at our church, despite her lapse in taste of letting me be her primary male vocalist. (I do a mean Jim Morrison impersonation, however -- not that this would help her case with the church’s elders.) She has also impressed the men at the church with her ability to prepare breakfasts for the men’s meetings – in particular, sinfully, wickedly delicious Krispie Kreme Donut bread pudding. It puts our church’s elders in an awkward position -- eating every morsel of Debbie’s dessert, and then having to subject her to church discipline for tempting the weak.
We’ve added another cat to the menagerie. We thought Gabby, our huge 17-lb. female Siamese, needed a companion, so we went to the SPCA and came back with Buster, an even more huge 22-lb. male Siamese. So how did that work out? Gabby spends all of her time trying to ignore him, while Buster keeps clamoring for her attention. Does this remind anyone else of high school dances? Gabby has become Greta Garbo in track shoes, having to beat feet constantly to escape her Brobdingnagian suitor. When she runs, the feet move, but the body is still -- like a Hanna-Barbera cartoon character. Buster, on the other hand, lopes like a constipated raccoon, which is about half right. We want him to lose weight so the vet will quit glaring at us.
No one knows what the future brings in these uncertain times. But we’re fortunate in knowing that we have a Lord who looks out for His people. It brings comfort to know that a leaf does not fall from a tree without His approval. The Child born in Bethlehem sits at God’s right hand, and all is well. Debbie and I wish you the merriest of Christmases, the happiest of new years, and the blessings of the almighty King who brings joy and meaning to an otherwise empty and pointless existence. Spend a few minutes this Christmas season to remember the greatest gift of all -- God’s own Son, to redeem the sins of many.
We certainly know how that would feel, after the cruise last Christmas with Debbie’s parents, Bill and Audrey Wallace. An ostensible deal, on paper: five-day Western Caribbean Carnival Cruise, departing from Mobile, Alabama (close to Bill and Audrey’s house), $400 a head. But on the first day, it didn’t seem like such a bargain. The boat was eight hours late in boarding, so we spent an entire Saturday playing Mexican Train in the Mobile Civic Center, waiting with approximately 400 unhappy families. Turns out our ship was Carnival’s oldest, built sometime after the Monitor sank -- it’s the same one that was used for humanitarian purposes during the Katrina catastrophe. Ever had one of those hotel beds where, if you put a quarter in the slot, it would vibrate you to death? Well, we didn’t need one of those, as we were situated right above the 30,000 cubic-inch diesel engine. All the way through Mobile Bay to the Gulf, we were shaken and stirred by vibrations that were less than good, thus averting a Beach Boys copyright suit. (We later learned that the vibrations were mostly caused by the shallowness of Mobile Bay, and they diminished considerably once we had made it to the open sea.) We got off the boat in Cozumel. Then, we turned right around and got back on. The Third World looks better on television, and safer. The rest of the cruise was spent winning trivia contests, going to shows, eating wonderful food, and exploring such burning issues of the day as, “Can a bartender from Turkey make a decent martini?” Turns out he can, indeed –- in fact, after the first night, the waiter remembered my martini specifications down to the last twist of lemon. The professionalism of the servers on these cruises is a marvel to behold, particularly after many years of sullen, lip-pierced, teenage-style service at the local fast-food depot. Sometimes they were a little too professional. At dinner, Debbie made the mistake of mentioning that she is lactose-intolerant -- so the ship assigned Karen, a stunning young Filipino woman, to be Debbie’s personal “Lactose Nazi” for the balance of the trip. “Dere vill be nein cheating!” (Darn it.) It was a wonderful cruise. We had a great visit with Debbie’s parents, and the diesel engine bade us farewell in the best way it knew, by shaking loose our gold fillings on the return through Mobile Bay.
My buddy Ray and I went again to the Eastern Trombone Workshop, where we heard some very nice college trombone ensembles, along with the incomparable U.S. Army Blues Jazz Band. The trombonist in the Army’s jazz solo chair is a thin fellow named Harry Watters, an amazing player, who sports the best pompadour seen in the D.C. area since Ronald Reagan. Every time he played, I’d nudge Ray and say, “There he goes again!” In April, I got to play a solo with Dr. Dave Champouillon’s jazz band at Eastern Tennessee State-- an old standard called “Makin’ Whoopee!” I was hardly the star of the show -- Dr. Dave had three guest trumpeters, all respected pros (one of them had played lead trumpet for Harry James). Just to show what a great sense of humor he has, Dave scheduled me to go on right after the trumpet soloists’ flashiest number – which was like following the Battle of Britain with a Sunday nap. Dave just needed a cushion of about five minutes so his soloists could rest their chops before the big finale -- so I like to think of my contribution as having provided the necessary Whoopee cushion.
We mentioned our sun room re-modeling project last year, and now it is completed -- a terrific place to sit in the summer evenings and watch the robins duke it out just before sundown. At the moment, it is a Nor’easter room, as we are (presently) in the throes of one of those charmingly nasty North Atlantic storms that pulls down the power lines -- and makes me feel like the whole world’s a big cold-water rinse cycle and I’m a sweater with a ketchup stain. This year, we tackled the master bathroom, because Debbie had spotted a crack in the floor of the fiberglass shower stall. We didn’t know the half of it, as it turned out. When Carl (our remodeler) tore out the old shower stall, there was an even bigger crack in the concrete slab underneath the shower; it was about two feet long and eight inches wide, following the path of the drain pipe -- which was attached to, well, nothing. All we had was an open trench to the dirt beneath our foundation, and the drain pipe to nowhere. We know the master bedroom was a room addition to the original house, but we will never know whether the building contractor ripped off the previous owners, or the previous owners ripped us off. Either way, a dirt hole in your bathroom isn’t code -- not even in Virginia Beach, where the building inspectors think it’s just fine for highway runoff to drain through a private condo’s garage (ask us how we know). But long story short, the new bathroom is gorgeous, beautiful enough to bring a picnic basket and gaze at, in awe. There’s even a nice place to sit.
Our other “big money” project this year was on our car. We took our 1982 Checker Marathon to an auto-restoration place in Norfolk called FantomWorks; two months and many dollars later, we drove off in a class-A restoration. The hardest part was picking the color. At first, I thought maroon would be great -- until Dan (the restorer) explained the good and bad of metallic paint. Rats. Then, I considered doing it up like a New York cab (since that is how most people remember Checkers), but who wants to drive around town when tourists on the sidewalk are trying to hail you? So I asked Debbie, “What color do you think would look good?” She replied, “It’s your car, Lee, you have to pick a color you’ll be happy with.” So we went through a dozen paint chip books. I’d proclaim, “I like this color!” only to watch Debbie squinch up her nose and say, “Well, paint it any color you like, but I don’t like this one. Too washed out.” Hmmm. “Hey! Here’s a nice one!” Debbie shook her head, “Too dark.” Wow. Picking colors is harder than I thought. “Now this one is great!” Debbie cocked an eye and said, “Too boring!” After many such exchanges, Debbie had a revelation: “Look, here’s a wonderful sky-blue! The top could be white and the car would have a great Fifties look!” So, we painted it sky-blue and white. It really does look fantastic, in a time-warp kind of way, and Debbie is always very good about complimenting me on my choice of colors. I have to admit it was inspired.
Debbie made her goal with Weight Watchers this year -- she's lost a total of 60 pounds -- and in two months she will have maintained her “goal” weight for a year. She’s also been watching a lot of episodes of “What Not to Wear” on The Learning Channel, and has taught herself to dress in accordance with Johnny Mercer’s famous lyric: to “Accentuate the Positive.” I never have to harbor paranoid fears anymore about people staring at me, when Debbie is on my arm. She is even more beautiful than the lovely young lady I married almost 27 years ago. Her name was Debbie, too.
An elementary school was closed, and the year-round schedule schools were changed back to the standard Sep-Jun school year -- so Debbie lost her cherished schedule. She is still the music director at our church, despite her lapse in taste of letting me be her primary male vocalist. (I do a mean Jim Morrison impersonation, however -- not that this would help her case with the church’s elders.) She has also impressed the men at the church with her ability to prepare breakfasts for the men’s meetings – in particular, sinfully, wickedly delicious Krispie Kreme Donut bread pudding. It puts our church’s elders in an awkward position -- eating every morsel of Debbie’s dessert, and then having to subject her to church discipline for tempting the weak.
We’ve added another cat to the menagerie. We thought Gabby, our huge 17-lb. female Siamese, needed a companion, so we went to the SPCA and came back with Buster, an even more huge 22-lb. male Siamese. So how did that work out? Gabby spends all of her time trying to ignore him, while Buster keeps clamoring for her attention. Does this remind anyone else of high school dances? Gabby has become Greta Garbo in track shoes, having to beat feet constantly to escape her Brobdingnagian suitor. When she runs, the feet move, but the body is still -- like a Hanna-Barbera cartoon character. Buster, on the other hand, lopes like a constipated raccoon, which is about half right. We want him to lose weight so the vet will quit glaring at us.
No one knows what the future brings in these uncertain times. But we’re fortunate in knowing that we have a Lord who looks out for His people. It brings comfort to know that a leaf does not fall from a tree without His approval. The Child born in Bethlehem sits at God’s right hand, and all is well. Debbie and I wish you the merriest of Christmases, the happiest of new years, and the blessings of the almighty King who brings joy and meaning to an otherwise empty and pointless existence. Spend a few minutes this Christmas season to remember the greatest gift of all -- God’s own Son, to redeem the sins of many.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Trombone 101
I don't really write as often as I should about trombone or trombone-playing. Heck, I don't really play very much anymore. I'm becoming a gentleman! That is, someone who knows how to play trombone, but doesn't.
Back in the Seventies, I was a student trombonist and played at every opportunity. In the Eighties, I spent four years in an Air Force band; when I separated from the military, I worked as a computer programmer in various locales, and played a little here and there. For a while, I was the second trombonist in the Boulder Philharmonic, and also played in various municipal bands in northern Virginia. We moved to Omaha in 1988, and I started playing seriously again. Then, in 1991, I won the bass trombone position in the Lincoln Symphony -- a decent orchestra, but (at the time) about as entry-level as a professional symphony job gets. I also played with a lot of brass groups in Omaha and did some subbing with the Omaha Symphony. But inexplicably, I somehow got old and gigging began to take too much of my energy and peace of mind. So when we moved to Virginia, I made it a point not to pursue trombone on a professional basis and just to enjoy whatever playing comes my way. And it hasn't been much -- too many youngsters out there doing what I spent my youth doing. I played for a community orchestra for several years, and still play in church. Once in the archetypal blue moon, someone offers me a little money to play. But not very often. It's an avocation, now.
It's strange how the passions that once stirred our souls are finally put into perspective, if one just lives long enough. Sometimes I really wonder why I ever majored in trombone-playing. I had a four-year ROTC scholarship, and could have majored in anything. I've always loved history and writing, and I've always been adept at math and science, so I could have gone off happily in almost any direction. But I really did love to play the trombone, and was (at first) blissfully ignorant about how hard it could be to make a buck in that field. It's a tough profession, even for those who are very, very good at it.
Young and stupid, that was me. But... you don't know what you don't know. What I didn't know was how good the competition was, and how far behind I was relative to the trombone players who were graduating from the conservatories and colleges with great music programs. Though I played for years in grade school, I never had a trombone lesson until I was a freshman in college -- and I never had a lesson from a real trombone professional until I was a junior. I knew I was behind the 8-ball, but imagined that I could work my way out of the hole. Unfortunately, musical intelligence is very different from the types of intelligence that had always (well, not quite always) enabled me to do well in my academic studies. Age and experience count for something, of course, and hard work never hurts -- but if God didn't put it in there, it just ain't in there. I'm sure there were freshman at Eastman Conservatory who could play rings around me when I was in grad school, and most of them weren't going to make it in the field, so what chance did I have? It took a while for me to learn all this. It took even longer to accept it.
Fortunately, God always works His plan out according to His perfect will, even when we think we're doing all the driving. Life is good. I'm fifty-five, and still love playing trombone. What's especially fun now is to watch the young players as they start to "get it" and begin making great leaps and strides in their playing. Bill McGlaughlin was my first real trombone teacher when I was a student and he was a trombonist with the Pittsburgh Symphony; he went on to become a conductor, composer, and radio personality. As Bill explained to me, "Music is a great art, but a lousy profession." I like watching and hearing the young players who are just discovering it's a great art. It makes me remember how I used to feel.
Really, though, it is an odd instrument to fall in love with. It's like saying your favorite actor is Charles Durning. Now, Durning is indeed a great actor, but with his portly frame and comical face, he was never a big star and certainly never a leading man. Like Mr. Durning, the trombone is by and large a member of the supporting cast -- and also like Mr. Durning, it shines in that role. Except for the triangle, almost every other instrument gets to play all the solos and take all the bows; the trombone players, meanwhile, usually play the background chords and sometimes get to carry the melody as a section, but seldom as individuals. Not many trombone players have become prominent soloists. (The last one whose name was a household word was Tommy Dorsey, and he died in 1956.) For me, the joy of playing trombone is in the sound, especially the sound of a good trombone section. The trombone is a good solo instrument, but it really comes into its own as an ensemble instrument. When two or more are gathered, the mating together of the overtones is magical -- rich, dark, intense. Our job, mainly, is to help create the context in which others shine. This requires a selfless attitude, and as a result, trombone sections are generally free of the Prima Donna attitudes that can poison the experience in many other sections and settings. At least, that has been my observation.
So, what would I tell a young player who wants to make a go of it? Here are some observations, take 'em or leave 'em.
1. I remember, first of all, the advice given to me by another one of my trombone teachers, the late Byron "B.B." McCulloh: "Find a profession that you wouldn't mind doing for the rest of your life, and then practice like hell!" He meant to say, learn a decent profession to fall back on -- a good "day gig", in the vernacular of music pros. (For me, it has been programming. I'm not God's gift to programming any more than I was His gift to the trombone world, but mediocre programmers often get paid, while mediocre trombone players often don't.) Then, if you still want to do the trombone thing, you practice your butt off, play as much as possible, and take auditions. Of course, if a young player likes teaching, he can major in music education and become a teacher, or go the academic route (which is almost as competitive as performing). The point is, art is a wonderful thing, but try not to starve. Trust me, I've been there. It isn't as much fun as it sounds.
2. When it comes to selecting your trombone teacher, never settle for second best. Once you know what kind of player you'd like to be, it should focus your mind on who to study with. So go and study. I studied in Pittsburgh with Pittsburgh Symphony players because, to me, they represented the ideal trombone sound. To be honest, there were better sections, but there weren't any better sounding sections -- they had an ensemble sound quality that really sparkled. If I had not joined the Air Force, I would probably have moved from there to Chicago to study with the Chicago Symphony guys (assuming one of them would have had me), or perhaps Philadelphia, another great-sounding section. There is no sense languishing under a teacher who isn't doing you any good. I've done that, too. Which leads me to...
3. Trust your instincts. When I have made serious errors in judgment, usually it's because I overvalue my thinking and undervalue my instincts. I studied for a year under a fine gentleman at a good Midwestern music school. Don was an accomplished player -- a fabulous technician, with an encyclopedic knowledge of trombone, its history and literature. But for me, he wasn't the right teacher; I knew this instinctively within a week or two, but allowed my intellect to talk me out of my conclusion. Don was the ideal teacher for someone with a more intellectual and methodical approach to trombone. That wasn't me at all -- I'm an instinctive learner, and can't always articulate what I'm doing. I have to hear it and be immersed in it. For me, the best lessons are when I get to trade licks with the teacher and play duets, or at least to play melodious etudes or excerpts and have them demonstrated back to me when something needs improving. But Don was more of a lecturer, and expected you to get it from his explanations. He's had some wonderful students, and I know he was a good teacher. Just not for me. (And frankly, he deserved better than me as a student.)
4. About equipment -- try to buy the trombone or trombones that make it easy for you to sound like that little trombone-player in your head. You can start a lot of arguments between trombonists (usually a peaceable lot) by claiming this or that instrument is the "best" trombone on the market. What you want is the best instrument for you. In the U.S., most orchestral players seem to prefer Bach or Edwards trombones, while Conn trombones are perhaps more popular in England. But no brand of trombone is the monolithic ideal, and many other fine trombone makers have a lot to offer -- Shires, Greenhoe, Kanstul, Yamaha, Getzen, B&S, Courtois, Rath, and others make wonderful trombones.
I've owned more than my share of bad trombones, and I was too stubborn to admit it's the trombone's fault. Back in the 1970s, trombone makers were entering their Dark Ages and for many years it was hard to find a decent trombone. Conn had moved their manufacturing operations from Elkhart, Indiana to Texas or Mexico, and I suffered for years with a 1972 "Mexi" Conn -- not a particularly good horn, even though 1960s Conns are justifiably sought out as some of the best trombones ever made. When I won the Lincoln Symphony bass trombone position in 1991, I didn't even own a bass trombone (I won the audition on a borrowed Yamaha), so I had to buy one. I wound up buying what I hope was the worst Bach bass trombone ever built. After getting my butt kicked by this lousy piece of plumber's crease for two years, I was so desperate for a decent horn that I spent big bucks on a custom-made Edwards bass trombone, and couldn't have been happier with the results -- I still play it to this day. When you've been trying to make music with junk horns all your life, a good trombone is a joy, and a great trombone is a revelation. Edwards makes a great trombone, and many of the world's greatest trombone players such as Joe Alessi of the New York Philharmonic and the entire Philadelphia Orchestra trombone section agree.
But since the Nineties, the other manufacturers have come around. The Pittsburgh Symphony section (it's a different section today) sounds fantastic on Yamahas. Ian Bousfeld of the Vienna Philharmonic and Michael Powell of the American Brass Quintet sound like the Lord's own personal herald trombones on Conn 88Hs. Jay Wise of the Omaha Symphony makes a Shires bass trombone sing like Caruso. I have personally played Conns and Greenhoes which are as good as anything I've ever played. Kanstuls are very popular on the West Coast, offering a sizzling sound and solid workmanship. I hate to say it because I really love all of my Edwards trombones (I own three of them), but if I were starting out from scratch, I'd have to seriously consider trying to find something as good for less money (though it may not be possible!). The situation that sent me scurrying to a "boutique" trombone maker doesn't appear to exist anymore; trombone-making has come back out of the Dark Ages.
The most important thing is to buy a trombone that won't hold you back as a player. If you don't sound good, you want it to be your fault, not the instrument's. So go to a trombone convention or workshop -- some place where you can sample many different makes and models -- with someone whose ears you trust (teacher, fellow student, fellow pro) and try as many trombones as you can. When you find the horn that lights up your soul, you and your buddy will know. (I had that feeling last March at the Eastern Trombone Workshop when I played a B&S tenor trombone with a "crown" around the bell -- mmmm! -- and when I played a Greenhoe-Conn 62H bass trombone -- yowza!) Obviously, money is always an issue, but -- trust me on this -- buy the best horn (for you) that you can at all afford. If you're unfortunate enough to be uplifted only by the most expensive horns (my favorite Greenhoe-Conn tips the cash register at about $6 grand), that's too bad. But then again, the pain of paying for it is temporary, while the joy of playing it goes on and on and on. My advice is to go for that joy, and spend as much as you need to spend.
4. Now, back to that little trombone-player in your head: listen to as much music as you can. Listen to all the orchestras and big bands, old recordings or new, and decide what you love and what you only like. Symphony players should not neglect the classic big bands and the wonderful Nelson Riddle and Billy May arrangements from the Fifties and Sixties (and all those great barking bass trombone passages played by the legendary George Roberts); and jazz or commercial players should pay heed as well to the venerable symphony sections -- e.g., the Chicago Symphony recordings from the Fifties to the Eighties, and London Symphony recordings from, well, anytime. Music is an imitative art, and you can't imitate it unless you can hear it in your head before you blow a note. It goes without saying you have to practice hard, but unless you know what you're supposed to sound like, practicing hard is like running very fast in a circle in your back yard -- lots of huffing and puffing, but you get nowhere fast.
5. Play as much as you can. Symphonies, concert bands, jazz bands, combos, rock bands, solos, church music -- you name it. Back when I lived in Pittsburgh, I was once the only white dude in an otherwise all-black disco band. (A light-blue polyester leisure suit, complete with psychedelic yellow shirt with giraffes patterns on it, never looked worse than when it was worn by yours truly.) The more you play, the more confidence you'll acquire, and the more versatile you'll be.
6. Try to get along with people. (I should talk.) Two things that will turn you into everybody's least favorite section player are a metastasized sense of entitlement, and being overly impressed by your own wonderful self. As always, Christ shows us the way. If God Himself can be humble, it ill becomes us to preen and prance. God is certainly not impressed by the greatness of our works; He remembers we are only dust.
Back in the Seventies, I was a student trombonist and played at every opportunity. In the Eighties, I spent four years in an Air Force band; when I separated from the military, I worked as a computer programmer in various locales, and played a little here and there. For a while, I was the second trombonist in the Boulder Philharmonic, and also played in various municipal bands in northern Virginia. We moved to Omaha in 1988, and I started playing seriously again. Then, in 1991, I won the bass trombone position in the Lincoln Symphony -- a decent orchestra, but (at the time) about as entry-level as a professional symphony job gets. I also played with a lot of brass groups in Omaha and did some subbing with the Omaha Symphony. But inexplicably, I somehow got old and gigging began to take too much of my energy and peace of mind. So when we moved to Virginia, I made it a point not to pursue trombone on a professional basis and just to enjoy whatever playing comes my way. And it hasn't been much -- too many youngsters out there doing what I spent my youth doing. I played for a community orchestra for several years, and still play in church. Once in the archetypal blue moon, someone offers me a little money to play. But not very often. It's an avocation, now.
It's strange how the passions that once stirred our souls are finally put into perspective, if one just lives long enough. Sometimes I really wonder why I ever majored in trombone-playing. I had a four-year ROTC scholarship, and could have majored in anything. I've always loved history and writing, and I've always been adept at math and science, so I could have gone off happily in almost any direction. But I really did love to play the trombone, and was (at first) blissfully ignorant about how hard it could be to make a buck in that field. It's a tough profession, even for those who are very, very good at it.
Young and stupid, that was me. But... you don't know what you don't know. What I didn't know was how good the competition was, and how far behind I was relative to the trombone players who were graduating from the conservatories and colleges with great music programs. Though I played for years in grade school, I never had a trombone lesson until I was a freshman in college -- and I never had a lesson from a real trombone professional until I was a junior. I knew I was behind the 8-ball, but imagined that I could work my way out of the hole. Unfortunately, musical intelligence is very different from the types of intelligence that had always (well, not quite always) enabled me to do well in my academic studies. Age and experience count for something, of course, and hard work never hurts -- but if God didn't put it in there, it just ain't in there. I'm sure there were freshman at Eastman Conservatory who could play rings around me when I was in grad school, and most of them weren't going to make it in the field, so what chance did I have? It took a while for me to learn all this. It took even longer to accept it.
Fortunately, God always works His plan out according to His perfect will, even when we think we're doing all the driving. Life is good. I'm fifty-five, and still love playing trombone. What's especially fun now is to watch the young players as they start to "get it" and begin making great leaps and strides in their playing. Bill McGlaughlin was my first real trombone teacher when I was a student and he was a trombonist with the Pittsburgh Symphony; he went on to become a conductor, composer, and radio personality. As Bill explained to me, "Music is a great art, but a lousy profession." I like watching and hearing the young players who are just discovering it's a great art. It makes me remember how I used to feel.
Really, though, it is an odd instrument to fall in love with. It's like saying your favorite actor is Charles Durning. Now, Durning is indeed a great actor, but with his portly frame and comical face, he was never a big star and certainly never a leading man. Like Mr. Durning, the trombone is by and large a member of the supporting cast -- and also like Mr. Durning, it shines in that role. Except for the triangle, almost every other instrument gets to play all the solos and take all the bows; the trombone players, meanwhile, usually play the background chords and sometimes get to carry the melody as a section, but seldom as individuals. Not many trombone players have become prominent soloists. (The last one whose name was a household word was Tommy Dorsey, and he died in 1956.) For me, the joy of playing trombone is in the sound, especially the sound of a good trombone section. The trombone is a good solo instrument, but it really comes into its own as an ensemble instrument. When two or more are gathered, the mating together of the overtones is magical -- rich, dark, intense. Our job, mainly, is to help create the context in which others shine. This requires a selfless attitude, and as a result, trombone sections are generally free of the Prima Donna attitudes that can poison the experience in many other sections and settings. At least, that has been my observation.
So, what would I tell a young player who wants to make a go of it? Here are some observations, take 'em or leave 'em.
1. I remember, first of all, the advice given to me by another one of my trombone teachers, the late Byron "B.B." McCulloh: "Find a profession that you wouldn't mind doing for the rest of your life, and then practice like hell!" He meant to say, learn a decent profession to fall back on -- a good "day gig", in the vernacular of music pros. (For me, it has been programming. I'm not God's gift to programming any more than I was His gift to the trombone world, but mediocre programmers often get paid, while mediocre trombone players often don't.) Then, if you still want to do the trombone thing, you practice your butt off, play as much as possible, and take auditions. Of course, if a young player likes teaching, he can major in music education and become a teacher, or go the academic route (which is almost as competitive as performing). The point is, art is a wonderful thing, but try not to starve. Trust me, I've been there. It isn't as much fun as it sounds.
2. When it comes to selecting your trombone teacher, never settle for second best. Once you know what kind of player you'd like to be, it should focus your mind on who to study with. So go and study. I studied in Pittsburgh with Pittsburgh Symphony players because, to me, they represented the ideal trombone sound. To be honest, there were better sections, but there weren't any better sounding sections -- they had an ensemble sound quality that really sparkled. If I had not joined the Air Force, I would probably have moved from there to Chicago to study with the Chicago Symphony guys (assuming one of them would have had me), or perhaps Philadelphia, another great-sounding section. There is no sense languishing under a teacher who isn't doing you any good. I've done that, too. Which leads me to...
3. Trust your instincts. When I have made serious errors in judgment, usually it's because I overvalue my thinking and undervalue my instincts. I studied for a year under a fine gentleman at a good Midwestern music school. Don was an accomplished player -- a fabulous technician, with an encyclopedic knowledge of trombone, its history and literature. But for me, he wasn't the right teacher; I knew this instinctively within a week or two, but allowed my intellect to talk me out of my conclusion. Don was the ideal teacher for someone with a more intellectual and methodical approach to trombone. That wasn't me at all -- I'm an instinctive learner, and can't always articulate what I'm doing. I have to hear it and be immersed in it. For me, the best lessons are when I get to trade licks with the teacher and play duets, or at least to play melodious etudes or excerpts and have them demonstrated back to me when something needs improving. But Don was more of a lecturer, and expected you to get it from his explanations. He's had some wonderful students, and I know he was a good teacher. Just not for me. (And frankly, he deserved better than me as a student.)
4. About equipment -- try to buy the trombone or trombones that make it easy for you to sound like that little trombone-player in your head. You can start a lot of arguments between trombonists (usually a peaceable lot) by claiming this or that instrument is the "best" trombone on the market. What you want is the best instrument for you. In the U.S., most orchestral players seem to prefer Bach or Edwards trombones, while Conn trombones are perhaps more popular in England. But no brand of trombone is the monolithic ideal, and many other fine trombone makers have a lot to offer -- Shires, Greenhoe, Kanstul, Yamaha, Getzen, B&S, Courtois, Rath, and others make wonderful trombones.
I've owned more than my share of bad trombones, and I was too stubborn to admit it's the trombone's fault. Back in the 1970s, trombone makers were entering their Dark Ages and for many years it was hard to find a decent trombone. Conn had moved their manufacturing operations from Elkhart, Indiana to Texas or Mexico, and I suffered for years with a 1972 "Mexi" Conn -- not a particularly good horn, even though 1960s Conns are justifiably sought out as some of the best trombones ever made. When I won the Lincoln Symphony bass trombone position in 1991, I didn't even own a bass trombone (I won the audition on a borrowed Yamaha), so I had to buy one. I wound up buying what I hope was the worst Bach bass trombone ever built. After getting my butt kicked by this lousy piece of plumber's crease for two years, I was so desperate for a decent horn that I spent big bucks on a custom-made Edwards bass trombone, and couldn't have been happier with the results -- I still play it to this day. When you've been trying to make music with junk horns all your life, a good trombone is a joy, and a great trombone is a revelation. Edwards makes a great trombone, and many of the world's greatest trombone players such as Joe Alessi of the New York Philharmonic and the entire Philadelphia Orchestra trombone section agree.
But since the Nineties, the other manufacturers have come around. The Pittsburgh Symphony section (it's a different section today) sounds fantastic on Yamahas. Ian Bousfeld of the Vienna Philharmonic and Michael Powell of the American Brass Quintet sound like the Lord's own personal herald trombones on Conn 88Hs. Jay Wise of the Omaha Symphony makes a Shires bass trombone sing like Caruso. I have personally played Conns and Greenhoes which are as good as anything I've ever played. Kanstuls are very popular on the West Coast, offering a sizzling sound and solid workmanship. I hate to say it because I really love all of my Edwards trombones (I own three of them), but if I were starting out from scratch, I'd have to seriously consider trying to find something as good for less money (though it may not be possible!). The situation that sent me scurrying to a "boutique" trombone maker doesn't appear to exist anymore; trombone-making has come back out of the Dark Ages.
The most important thing is to buy a trombone that won't hold you back as a player. If you don't sound good, you want it to be your fault, not the instrument's. So go to a trombone convention or workshop -- some place where you can sample many different makes and models -- with someone whose ears you trust (teacher, fellow student, fellow pro) and try as many trombones as you can. When you find the horn that lights up your soul, you and your buddy will know. (I had that feeling last March at the Eastern Trombone Workshop when I played a B&S tenor trombone with a "crown" around the bell -- mmmm! -- and when I played a Greenhoe-Conn 62H bass trombone -- yowza!) Obviously, money is always an issue, but -- trust me on this -- buy the best horn (for you) that you can at all afford. If you're unfortunate enough to be uplifted only by the most expensive horns (my favorite Greenhoe-Conn tips the cash register at about $6 grand), that's too bad. But then again, the pain of paying for it is temporary, while the joy of playing it goes on and on and on. My advice is to go for that joy, and spend as much as you need to spend.
4. Now, back to that little trombone-player in your head: listen to as much music as you can. Listen to all the orchestras and big bands, old recordings or new, and decide what you love and what you only like. Symphony players should not neglect the classic big bands and the wonderful Nelson Riddle and Billy May arrangements from the Fifties and Sixties (and all those great barking bass trombone passages played by the legendary George Roberts); and jazz or commercial players should pay heed as well to the venerable symphony sections -- e.g., the Chicago Symphony recordings from the Fifties to the Eighties, and London Symphony recordings from, well, anytime. Music is an imitative art, and you can't imitate it unless you can hear it in your head before you blow a note. It goes without saying you have to practice hard, but unless you know what you're supposed to sound like, practicing hard is like running very fast in a circle in your back yard -- lots of huffing and puffing, but you get nowhere fast.
5. Play as much as you can. Symphonies, concert bands, jazz bands, combos, rock bands, solos, church music -- you name it. Back when I lived in Pittsburgh, I was once the only white dude in an otherwise all-black disco band. (A light-blue polyester leisure suit, complete with psychedelic yellow shirt with giraffes patterns on it, never looked worse than when it was worn by yours truly.) The more you play, the more confidence you'll acquire, and the more versatile you'll be.
6. Try to get along with people. (I should talk.) Two things that will turn you into everybody's least favorite section player are a metastasized sense of entitlement, and being overly impressed by your own wonderful self. As always, Christ shows us the way. If God Himself can be humble, it ill becomes us to preen and prance. God is certainly not impressed by the greatness of our works; He remembers we are only dust.
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