Just look at this mess!

"For if you suffer your people to be ill-educated, and their manners to be corrupted from their infancy, and then punish them for those crimes to which their first education disposed them, what else is to be concluded from this, but that you first make thieves and then punish them? "
— Thomas More

Last night, I had a particularly interesting conversation about the state of musical affairs in the U.S.--and I suppose the world, why not. We were discussing the place for contemporary music in the recession era orchestra's programming. Two glasses of Cabernet into the chat, I was feeling kind of fiery, so things may have gotten a bit heated...not that anyone was surprised.

There will always be the questions of how to bring more patrons to concerts and how to secure repeat funding from donors. Some around the table approached the issue from the standpoint of accessibility, making the concert experience enjoyable and understandable to the audience. This meant increasing the more easily-embraceable factors of the concert [Old Favorites, if you will] and decreasing the factors that might alienate attendees [most commonly, New music]. It's excellent in theory, but the problem with this stance is that it perpetuates its own mess. When, in the history of concert programming, were pre-existing works given more stature than those happening in the present day? Had I more motivation, I'd research it, but seeing as how I'm sitting in Starbucks avoiding writing personal statements, I'm just going to throw out the question.

When?

Well, whenever it was, it was the beginning of the downfall of artistic vibrancy in society, and perhaps even the downfall of creative, subjective thought on the part of arts patrons. And it makes perfect sense, because the later is required for the maintenance of the former. Thriving communities depend on creativity--not only in their leaders but in their constituents as well--and this extends beyond the arts [though whether we realize it or not, they are part of every element of culture]. The creator is not the only member of the equation for whom it is necessary to think creatively. We can and must absorb/follow/listen/view creatively. We're Capitalists, for Pete's sake! Somewhere along the road to where we are, the creative following process became unnecessary [Maybe it was television.], and we developed a preference for the things we already know, hence the popularity of the Old Favorites and the disapproval of the unknown. We began to experience music the way I experience grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, as comfort food. Now don't misunderstand me; I LOVE tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, but I also get excited about the opportunity to taste butternut squash manicotti or edamame and tofu succotash. [On a sidebar, Luxe Kitchen & Lounge on Detroit, the Chef's special--pay $22, pick a protein, and let the chef go wild for three courses--might just change your world...but I digress] And I'll always be a sucker for Judy Garland and Loretta Lynn recordings, the second movement of the New World Symphony, and the third movement of the German Requiem, especially if Thomas Quasthoff is the soloist.

I do not dare discredit the historical concert or the validity of older works...The old is to be revered on the same level as the new. Without what has gone before us, we would have no precedent for anything that exists now. The trouble arises when we revere the old OVER the new, to the extent that we exclude it altogether. And I'm afraid that if we don't take action soon, exclusion of the new is the direction in which we're headed, toward living in a more humdrum world than we could ever imagine. So by attempting to please and pacify listeners...donors in particular, by giving them only what we think will be approved, we do our entire society a disservice [pardon my melodrama]. We teach stagnation. But isn't that the issue in the first place?

Obviously, something has to change. Every bleeding heart liberal [myself included] can complain about lack of progress, but by what means do we bring progress into being? We've tried the gingerly, not to mention somewhat cowardly, route--In an orchestral setting, this sometimes takes the form of opening with a ten minute contemporary overture by the composer-in-residence and then apologizing for it with Strauss waltzes and pieces akin to Beethoven's 5th for the rest of the concert. In the Cleveland Orchestra's case, this certainly takes the form of a single new music concert at the end of the season...to placate the New Music lovers...on a holiday weekend when everyone's out of town...with a truncated single performance concert schedule...because THAT'S not obvious at ALL. There have, of course, been other organizations who preferred to keep a certain kind of music all in one place. I believe one of them was called the Nazi Party. Bitter, am I? Rather than acceptance and embrace of newness, we perpetuate tolerance, at the very most. We've also taken the more divisive route of shoving a new piece in the middle of a concert with no relevance to anything else in it.

What I suggest: We have to take into account "those crimes to which [our] first education disposed [us]," to at best tolerate the new and revere the old above all else. And it is indeed, I believe, a crime. By steeping our culture in a particular aesthetic, we've deprived it of its ability to examine anything without a palette for excellence [i.e. the old "I just like things to have a pretty melody" adage]. That, I think, is our mess. To clean it up, we must educate compassionately. We should provide a context for the new and bridge the gaps in understanding. Give 'em a frickin' palette. Pre-concert lectures are a good beginning, but perhaps we should more often incorporate MID-concert discussion-- Explain how a new piece relates to an older piece--preferably with both on the same concert. I once heard a composer say that "we all have our own ways of dealing with the past [-Keith Fitch, 2009]." Sometimes these dealings are obvious, whether outright rejection of the past, pronounced continuity, or otherwise, and sometimes they require a bit of study to find in a work--but they are present. Concert administrators should take a studious and linear approach to programming, and please, for the love of God, something other than finding pieces that are Old, New, Borrowed, and Blue, etc. [that's a whole other rant for another day]. I'm speaking chronologically here. A good program can explain how Serialism relates to German Romanticism, how Minimalism relates to the classical Ostinato concept, or how Spectralism relates to Klangfarbenmelodie, whether intentionally or not. And I realize that in some cases we limit art by comparing it to everything that happened before. BUT, for the listener who needs a bridge, where else are we to turn?

I'm not writing revolutionary things here. I'm sure they've been expressed before, and more eloquently than I'm expressing them now. And these steps are likely being taken by certain arts organizations and more industrious orchestras. I'd just like to see them taken with more gusto. I'd like to see more steps taken in general, if not in the direction of my suggestions, then toward SOMEthing.

We've made the mess, and now we have to clean it up.

Jetting to Jet

[as inscribed on the inside jacket of Ennis Rees’ More of Brer Rabbit’s Tricks]

12/9/09

Hello, my Little Love,

Welcome to the world! I think you’ll find, within a few years of living here, that it’s a pretty nice place. There are a lot of mean Brer Foxes out there; make no mistake about that. But, more importantly, there are also good people—wonderful, kind, loving ones who make this a really beautiful place to be. And you, Sir, are lucky, because a lot of those wonderful people are members of your family who couldn’t be more thrilled to have you here! No matter what, my Dear, you will always be very, very loved. That’s a promise.

Ecstatically Yours,

Aunt Jenna

JETTING TO JET

I am sitting in the Akron-Canton airport, thrilled beyond expression, and rather overwhelmed—It’s an emotional day. Reason #1: Jet Richardson came into the world today at 2:42am--8 lbs, 12 oz, 21¾ inches long. I got the call this morning that he was here from my ecstatic parents—and I mean BARELY this morning. Naturally, I couldn’t sleep, so I’m drifting in and out of fits of delirium. That’s reason #2 for the overabundance of emotions.

Reason #3: I arrived at Cleveland-Hopkins International Airport this morning in hopes of redeeming my standby ticket for Atlanta on the 12:12 flight [Supporting myself as a composer and arts non-profit employee while I apply to PhD programs, airline tickets are the last things I can afford right now, so I’m relying on Delta buddy passes for air travel]. And as it turns out, the first winter storm of the season has made its way to Cleveland with full force, and the flight from Cleveland was cancelled due to inclement weather. GREAT! OF ALL THE [*expletive*] TIMES FOR A FLIGHT TO BE CANCELLED!! [I’m an Aunt now, so I figure I’d better work on cleaning up my sailor mouth.] So there I stood, helplessly, in the Delta check-in line as an airline worker handed me a seat request for the next flight at 2:30. “There’s no way you’ll get on that flight,” she said, feigning perkiness, “but good luck!” Still standing, though now markedly more shrug-shouldered, in the line that was now completely irrelevant, I heard a voice behind me. “I’m standby too. And I just changed my ticket to fly out of Akron. They said there are more openings there. My husband is going to drive me there—he’s just outside. Would you like to come?” I turned around, looked her up and down—seemed normal enough—middle-aged, tiny framed, short blond hair, pragmatically dressed for flying in a Nike work-out suit and a pair very clean-looking Sketchers—and I’d overheard her on a phone conversation with a daughter or someone earlier saying something along the lines of “ok Sweetie, love you too, etc.” Weighing my options and the probability of this woman and her husband being a couple of serial killers, I introduced myself. “I’m Jenna, and that sounds wonderful.”

“Sandy.”

In desperation, I dashed off to yet another line to change my ticket, behind a rather irate man with prematurely white hair terrorizing a frazzled airline worker [I get the feeling the white hair was NOT a genetic condition]. I gave her my best comforting smile as I tried in vain to curb a rapidly mounting panic attack and soon found myself outside, counting my breaths, baby gift-filled carry-on luggage in hand, waiting for Sandy’s husband Dave to drive around.

I learned in the car on the way to Akron that the Eberleins, Sandy and her husband of 23 years, have been running a private general medical practice for the past 10 years, have two daughters in college at Ohio State, and take frequent medical mission trips to Guatemala. They live in Lakewood and attend Bay Village Presbyterian Church--charming, delightfully caring people. Sandra’s father, who lives in Fort Meyers, FL, is ill, and she and her older sister are flying down to pick him up so that they can drive him from Florida to Cincinnati for a family reunion. “We’re all here to help each other,” Dave said, clad in scrubs, shining an earnest smile at me from behind the wheel. “Hey look!” smiled Sandy, “Jesus rays!” pointing toward strokes of sunlight shining through the clouds just beyond the grey mass overhead. In any other situation, with any other pair of people, I would’ve most certainly rolled my eyes and probably barfed in my mouth a little. But not here. For some reason, when Sandra Eberlein gaily alluded to a simple reminder of her spirituality [and shockingly to me with no discernable tinge of irony], I forgot for a moment about my Bible-belt induced cynicism. “Yeah,” I thought. “Jesus rays. There he is.”

*story break for boarding*

I am now on Delta flight 5020 to Atlanta. The storm cleared, but not before we were bumped off of the first flight we checked in for. Sandy’s sitting beside me, watching the Jesus rays from the tier of clouds above the plane. When we sat down, I helped her don an arm circulation sleeve. “My medication effects the blood flow in my arms,” she said. “What’s your medication for?” I asked, like a dufus. “I have breast cancer, and since my mastectomy, I’ve been taking medicine in place of chemo. 4 year survivor in August!” she said pumping a daintily victorious fist in the air.

WELL WOULDN’T THAT JUST BE THE [*expletive*] CASE? Good grief. Suddenly I feel like [*expletive*]. Not to say that her being a cancer survivor just automatically makes her a saint or something, but I, being of sound health with so much in my favor, manage to be a major [*expletive*] most of the time, rarely stretching beyond my comfort zone or taking chances to help people in need, or even people whom I find moderately annoying. What made her reach out to me, [*expletive*] girl? Today, of all days? I’m amazed at the way life works sometimes, at how well people can care for each other in the midst of difficulty and hopelessness, and at how blindly the caring is offered, fortunately for me.

Tomorrow, I’ll probably go back to being the jaded, insensitive [*expletive*] of a person that I was this morning. But today, right now, I think I might just be sitting next to a fucking angel.

Praise the Lord.

This one might hurt a little...

Amoeba Records should have its own zip code. After 2 hours of perusing and deliberating, carefully weighing my options and going through an extremely painful process of elimination, I selected 12 cds. Oh hell, I'll just list them. I need a way to affirm myself...and my aching wallet. If that's not what a blog is for I just don't know what is!

1. Louis Andriessen: Writing to Vermeer [Nonesuch; De Nederlandse Opera; Schoenberg Ensemble and Asko Ensemble: Susan Narucki, Soprano; Susan Bickley, Mezzo; Barbara Hannigan, Soprano; Reinbert de Leeuw, conductor]

2. Harrison Birtwistle : Secret Theatre [Deutche Grammophon; Ensemble Intercontemporain; Pierre Boulez, conductor]

3. Luigi Dallapiccola: Orchestral Works [Stradivarius; Orchestra Sinfonica Nazionale della RAI: Jean Guihen Queyras, Cello; Pascal Rophe, conductor]

4. Helmut Lachenmann : Schwankungen am Rand [ECM: Ensemble Modern; Peter Eotvos, director]

5. Bjork: Selmasongs

6. Bjork: Medulla

7. Frank Black: Teenager of the Year

8. Miriam Makeba: Homeland

9. The Roches: Moonswept

10. Tom Waits: Blood Money

11. Tom Waits: Mule Variations

12. Tom Waits: Real Gone


.:Sometimes I feel very pathetic. Must get a life. Must.

Eunice Kennedy Shriver and the Special Olympics

Eunice Kennedy Shriver and the Special Olympics

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Manhattan Sportage: Project Hike, Part II

Yesterday was the second of my hikes at South Chagrin Reservation. Since I just barely made it into the forest trails last week, I decided to hit the woods in a serious way this time around. A couple of friends (the kind and patient duo of Joe Neville and Karl Konz) and I trekked around several trails in the "heart of the forest" (at least that's what the map said), for the most part following the contour of the Chagrin River.

Now, the tricky thing about forest trails...they all pretty much look exACTly the same to me. Even while following a trail map (the ones provided by the Cleveland Metroparks have proved to be next to useless) AND using my new fancy shmancy compass/thermometer/whistle/LED light/magnifier/mirror (It called to me from the shelf at Dick's Sporting Goods), we managed to amble around in circles, repeatedly coming back to the same landmarks. That's also the thing about circles. One minute you're going east, the next west, then east again, then west again--so who knows where anybody's headed?

When, eventually, we made a command decision to head across the River (I had to apologize for Joe and Karl's shoes), we found all kinds of new things, including the Sulphur Springs Trailhead and picnic area--kind of a surreal scene, complete with a doppelganger of Cousin Eddie from the National Lampoon movies (we're talking wife beater, cut-off jean shorts, shin-length white tube socks, and white Reeboks--I'm a jerk) and some people walking around in the shallows of the river carrying a cat. Weird.

Past Sulphur Springs, we did a lot of uphilling, meandering around, seeing barely any trail markers, though they weren't exactly necessary because we could actually see SOM Center Road from the trail. Nature is a funny thing. It has no trouble being itself next to its opposite, whereas I had trouble avoiding grumbles about the sound of the cars interrupting my "natural" experience. What did I expect, really? We weren't exactly in uncharted territory--thank goodness, though it kind of felt like we were when we eventually got so turned around that we decided to screw it and do our last mile and a half of hiking along the highway to get back to where we started. Joe's GPS, unlike mine, is actually helpful. Lovely homes along SOM Center and Miles Road. Really, quite lovely. Just go on and call me Nature Girl from here on out.

Fiasco? Perhaps. But things could've been worse. For example, I could've gotten us all killed by yellow jackets. That would've definitely been worse. And we could've been so self-involved that we unintentionally ignored all that nature, even in small doses next to major highways, has to show us. She really is beautiful, when I let myself see her, when I get over the fact that I'm not in my realm, but in hers. As Father Gary says, "Don't let your road map keep you from getting lost and collecting seashells." So, in essence, were we lost, or just allowing ourselves to be where we were?

*Insert reflective pause for existential moment*

"Not all those who wander are lost..." J.R.R. Tolkien

We ended our excursion with a little drive into Chagrin Falls for some shakes at the Popcorn Shop.

Nice day....Nice day.

Manhattan Sportage: Project Hike, Part I

I've started a new project, where I take a hike a week. Yesterday was the first, through the South Chagrin Reservation, along the Chagrin River. Now I am, by no means, a skilled hiker. I guess I've hiked a lot, and I do hike from time to time, but I can't exactly read a topo map, and I don't know the names of plants or the difference between an escarpment and a hillside. Mostly, it just makes me happy to be outdoors. What exactly the difference is between hiking and walking, I'm not quite sure...Maybe...it's hiking if you're wearing a backpack?

So I begin my hike, sporting a pair of red Nikes and a Manhattan Portage backpack (VERY hardcore-hiker-looking, I know). I had planned to follow the Great Blue Heron Trail along the Chagrin River, up to the Swallow Loop Trail and back--all in all, 8ish or so miles.

The Great Blue Heron trail head was easy enough to find, right next to the Polo Fields, as it said on the map. Once I figured out which way was North, which took about 20 minutes and left me feeling quite pathetic (note to self--procure a compass--My Blackberry's GPS gets confused), I was on my way!

So there I am, marching along, smelling the sweet, grassy forest air, feeling pretty great about life and my new vow to be adventuresome... Ahh.. beautiful day, gentle breeze, enjoying th--KERSPLUNK! I find myself ankle-deep in a gucky mixture of mud and water with a little algae growing on top of it. Awesome. Nature! I can do this. What kind of novice hiker would I be if I let a little greenish-brown guck get in the way of my divine communion with Mother Earth? [Answer: a novice--exactly what I am--which should've given me a clue, but didn't]. I press onward, following what KIND of looks like a trail, but is mostly obscured by the 6-foot tall grass-plant-reed thingies that surround it for what seem like swimming pools of distance on either side (I'm exaggerating, of course, but at the time, I didn't think I was). The tall plant things become denser and denser, covering more and more of the "trail" until I can barely see my feet, and KERSPLUNK! Yet again. The guck returns. [I keep having flashbacks to that scene in Troop Beverly Hills where Shelley Long and her troop are wading through a swamp with a tennis racket because the Red Feathers (those bitches) turned the trail flags around.--It would've been nice to have a tennis racket right then.] The mosquitoes are now basically congregating in a cloud around my face. I can't see more than a foot in front of or behind me for all the damn foliage. I didn't realize I'd be taking a hike through the frickin' Vietnam jungle! I seem to recall having seen a marker for a bridle trail when I first entered the Great Blue Demon--We have a choice here: Would I rather continue to bat my way through the bush or dodge horse poop for three miles? Well Fuck this shit. Completely disoriented, I turn around and attempt to make my way back the way I came, back through the guck, back through the swimming pools of tall plants, now holding my arms in front of me after being repeatedly smacked in the face. By some kind of miracle from Jesus, I come to a clearing, though it isn't the one I started at, and there she is: SC1--Scenic Bridle Trail. ROUND 2.

The Bridle trail is wide, open, and goes through fields of wildflowers, often meandering along a roadside or two. And as it turns out, SC1 runs parallel to the Great Blue Heron. I do the bridle thing for a while, passing families with small children, geriatric walkers, runners, horse-back riders--of course, dog-walkers...I take a few close-up photos of flowers. It's beautiful. I'm bored.

Back to the bush!

Knowing exactly what I'm getting myself into this time, I plunge through the tall plants with a vengeance! Occasionally, the Blue Heron will dump me out at the river's edge, where the world opens up. I snap a few photos, have a transcendentalist moment, and eat some trailmix before sloshing my way across to the rest of the trail. At one point, four feet in front of me, a doe leaps across the trail, disappearing into the tall grasses. Eventually, I end up at the Squaw Rock Loop, which takes me up a hill and along a ridge overlooking the river. It's cooler in the heights, with a lovely canopy and a little more terrain, kind of perfect, actually. Reminds me the hike my family used to take every year in Helen, Georgia on our camping trip. How very pleasant! I pass a few little waterfalls and decide to take the bridle trail back, coming across a wetland and an abundance of wildflowers--well worth the gucky start!

Definitely--Not Walking.



I never did find the Swallow Loop Trail. Maybe next time.

Canada: cont'd

...on the lakes of Canada

Just returned from a little vacation to Southern Ontario, where my buddy Tim and I visited our dear friend Laura. We went on a tasting tour of the Niagara wine route and milled around Hamilton and Toronto for a few days.

...In Not Starving

During my last semester at CSU, I was interviewed by a first-year music appreciation student for a project--Great guy, Richard. He's an engineering major. His assignment was to interview someone who intends to pursue music as a career. This is what came out.

Interview

Richard Peplin

Cleveland State University

MUS 111

Please feel free to add or change questions. This is an opportunity to share how you feel. The questions are only a guideline.

1. When did you first decide to go into music as a career?

I believe I was a sophomore in High School. I had a particularly devoted Music/Theater teacher who invested a lot of energy in my development as a musician, giving me theory lessons during her free periods at school and teaching me private voice.

2. At what age did you first become involved with music?

I sang my fist solo at a tiny church in Lowell, GA at the age of 6. I learned the song, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," in Mrs. McClendon's class at Maple Street Elementary School--when music teachers made their way from room to room with a cart once a week. It comforts me to think that, despite the school system's downgrading of the arts to a special playtime activity, I still found my way toward a meaningful, academic pursuit of music.

3. How did your parents feel about a career in music? Were they supportive or were they concerned?

They were more excited about the prospect of me being a popular music singer or a Broadway star---not so jazzed about my being a composer/avant-garde new music vocalist, but still supportive. They'll always be supportive of whatever I decide to do, just so long as I'm being me while I do it.

4. Do you have any concerns about supporting yourself with a career in music?

It’s always a bit terrifying when I hear what other composers in my generation are doing—my biggest concern regarding my career right now is that there are too many other people in the same boat that I’m in with more talent and better connections. Eventually, we’ll all be applying for the same four jobs at the exact same time…quite disconcerting.

5. How do you feel about the “starving artist” stereotype that surrounds careers in the arts?

It could be either a stigma or a source of pride. To label oneself as a “starving artist” is to profess undying loyalty to the pursuit of one’s art and expression, no matter what the cost—which could make one either a model of dedication and integrity or a complete moron—It all depends on whom one does or doesn’t impress in the process.

6. History is full of eccentric composers (i.e. depression in romantic era composers). How do you feel this contributed to their work?

Something tells me that the eccentricities arose as a RESULT of their work [I’ve noticed myself getting progressively weirder since I began composing]. The work requires one to spend a lot of time alone with his or her introspection— not exactly a recipe for “normalcy”—whatever that means. The more time one spends alone, the less finesse one tends to have in social situations, the more those involved in the situations tend to label one as “eccentric,” mainly due to a lack of understanding of said “eccentric.” Self-respecting people very rarely label THEMSELVES as eccentrics—unless they’re fishing for recognition or attention. So really, the label of “eccentric” is likely more the coping mechanism of the general populous than an actual state of being. Am I projecting here in a big way? Yes..

7. Do you feel a certain degree of eccentric behavior is necessary for a successful career in music?

I maintain that eccentricity is in the eye of the beholder. But, just for funsies, let’s say that the “beholder” is your “average” CSI/ESPN-watching number cruncher at an accounting firm—wears a white collar shirt with a solid-color necktie and pleated slacks to work every day, goes out for $2 pitchers of Bud Light at Happy Hour after work, listens to whatever’s on the radio in the car—if he can sing along with it, it’s a f*ck’in awesome tune by his standards. When he gets home, he pops open a bottle of Gatorade and eats a box of Kraft Mac’n’Cheese for dinner. The most exciting and mind-expanding part of his week is when Anderson Varejao twists his ankle on the basketball court and the ESPN cameras do a close-up of his pained facial expression. “Dude,” he thinks, “that’s raw.” And when, inevitably, the famed athlete rises to his feat and hobbles off the court, from his armchair (Mac’n’cheese in hand) he finds himself mildly moved with a mixture of admiration and sympathy. Strained from his emotional exertions, he has to go to bed. As he swigs and gargles a capful of Listerine, he glances at a three-month-old copy of Sports Illustrated and makes his way to the end of what has just become an exhausting day. Let’s say that’s “normal”—i.e. “uneccentric.” … Given the right tutelage and the desire to create, he could be an amazing composer.

8. How would you describe the music you compose?

Colorful, kinetic, intuitive, and expressive—lovely, but not always pretty—occasionally spikey, often linear, hopefully honest. Mercurial.

9. How would you describe the correlation between your music and your personality?

Pretty damn close

10. What are the most important influences on your music?

...my life experiences, musical and otherwise—all that has contributed to my sense of what it means to be expressive, my sense of movement, and my emotional state

11. What composers have had an influence on you?

It is my opinion that we are all influenced in some manner or another by every composer we listen to, but those who have had the strongest influences on me have been my teachers: Charles Norman Mason, Dorothy Hindman, Andrew Rindfleisch, and Greg D’Alessio. Other than my teachers, I find a lot of inspiration in the musics of Johannes Brahms, L. v Beethoven, Louis Andriessen, Susan Botti, Erin Gee, Lee Hyla, Rand Steiger, George Crumb, Igor Stravinsky, Claude Debussy, and Olivier Messiaen.

12. Music is often a reflection of events of the period, how would you describe music written to reflect current events?

Times of strife, whether economic or military, etc., often lend themselves to artistic polemics. It seems that the current musical climate consists of composers who are either (1) trying desperately to write programmatic music responding to the state of the world, or (2) detaching themselves completely from the current state of affairs. Then again, I could be completely mistaken. In my case, I don't always know enough about what's going on to comment on it intelligently. I can allow it to affect my state of being and write music expressive of that, but that's about as close as I get to socio-political commentary. My most honest music comes from my expression of me--because that's pretty much all I'm capable of understanding at this point.

13. Do you think these are opportune times for composers?

Possibly. I suppose it all depends on the sort of music one writes—each has a different appeal. It could be that audiences will look for the music that is most accessible in a time of hardship—there is often comfort in accessibility, in which case composers of that realm will do quite well. OR, audiences will decide that they have nothing left to lose and become more adventurous with the music they pursue—if that turns out to be the case, my career might just be looking up.

14. The ability of music to depict a story is highly debated, where do you stand on the issue? Why?

Hmmmmmm……I think the ability of music to do one thing or another depends on the listener’s perception. On more than one occasion, I’ve heard a listener detail the stories he/she heard in a static piece of music (stories which I knew to be non-existent, as intended by the composer). So hey, if somebody thinks they heard a story in a piece of music, who’s to say that they didn’t? Eh? Wouldn’t that mean that the music did, indeed, tell a story—regardless of the composer’s intent?

15. What type of audience do you compose for?

Whoever will listen

16. In your own words, describe the place of music in society.

Music is a mode of communication that transcends speech and physical gesture. In my humble opinion, its function in society is to serve as a means of expanding our connections to one another (And I mean that in the least cheesy way that it can be said). I'm in a weird place at the moment, trying to convince myself of the validity of abstract expression for the sake of art and nothing more... I keep meeting these composers who base their pieces on the state of the environment or the economic crisis or political turmoil in this, that or the other region. They consider it their responsibility to comment on and illuminate important issues in the world--and that is a perfectly noble thing. My music, on the other hand, doesn't really comment on anything outside of itself. It is my belief that music teaches us facility of communication, the subjective nature of all things, and the value of intuition. And a music that invites listeners to experience a new expressive language has, maybe, done its job...? Maybe, in a way, I'm teaching the world to experience language that transcends prior knowledge or understanding, to experience things as they exist, without trying to define them... Maybe.

17. How do you feel about the use of music as therapy?

Worked for me!

18. Dr. Hirsch talks about the use of music as punishment. How do you feel about music being used this way? Can you think of any music that you would consider punishment if forced to listen to it?

I don’t like the idea of turning an expressive artform into a tool for reprimand. In its use as a negative tool, music is lent a rigid set of connotations (perhaps even definitions), which rob it of its highest quality—its freedom to be interpreted (come to think of it, it’s quite ironic, since using music as punishment is, in a way, a form of interpretation).

19. What are your plans for your music career?

God willing, I’ll get into a DMA or a Ph.D program somewhere, then carve out my own path as a composer/performer/professor/arts administrator.

20. How will you define success in your music career?

Oy. In a perfect world, I’d say that I’m successful if I find emotional fulfillment in what I do. But, alas, the bitter truth is that I’ll have to support myself somehow—and therein will lie my “success”—in Not starving.

Old School

Running out of quarters for the dryer can make for some rather interesting photography.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful...beautiful boy

Yesterday, I got an elated text message from my sister:

"I couldn't wait. We're still at the doctor's. It's a boy!!"

First, I had a jumping, screaming fit. Then I had a crying fit. Then I just sort of skipped around Cleveland Heights with a stupid giddy smile on my face for a few hours. Then I went to coffee with a friend and drug the poor dear to the Toy Store on Shaker Square. Then, deciding that no nephew of MINE was going to play with a wind-up midi Mozart machine, I finished his playlist (click on the image to actually read song titles).

Happy Moments from Jenna's Kitchen

Brunch: Oat Bran pancakes, asiago grits, fried green tomatoes, orange slices, apple butter, OJ, and French Press Guatemalan











Dessert: Figs with goat cheese, honey, rosemary, and crushed pistachios











Lunch: Peanut Butter and Apricot Jam on whole wheat nut bread with mixed nuts (pistachios, hazelnuts, and smoked almonds), blueberries, and orange slices









Dinner: Orange and Coriander-scented red lentil soup, spring greens salad with sliced yellow tomato, pan-crisped deviled eggs, and cream dressing









Foursies: Tomato and Fresh Mozzarella stack with a dressing of basil, pine nuts, red onion, dried currants, garlic and lemon juice
















Thanks, Sally Swift and Lynne Rosetto Kasper. The Splendid Table's How to Eat Supper is my new favorite thing.

Skype Brunch

Would you believe that I've never actually eaten out at a restaurant by myself? Well, okay, maybe that's not entirely true--I had some positively abominable Chicken Enchilada soup at the Chili's Too in the Charlotte, NC airport last week during a layover. And of course there are the quasi-fast foody sandwich joints, and the coffee shops that just happen to have food. In those instances, I usually bring a book or something to study, maybe a moleskine that I can write in while I sit and eat/drink, sometimes for practical reasons (like actually having work to do), but most of the time, so I won't feel pathetic because I'm eating alone...BEING alone.


But there is nothing un-beautiful about being alone.

This morning, with the aid of my darling friend, Ariana, I went out to brunch. Alone. Ariana, being the amazing woman that she is, agreed to Skype chat me through my first solitary dining-out experience (which, yes, I know, doesn't really make it a solitary experience--baby steps). We made it a date. I woke up, put on some make-up and a cute outfit, fixed my hair, just like I would were I headed out with a friend. I went to Tommy's on Coventry and asked for a table for one, where I sat and ordered myself a V8, some coffee, and a Johnny Z. omelet. Ari joined me from a coffee shop in Baltimore, and we gabbed our way through the better part of an hour, both receiving weird looks from the clientele in our respective dining establishments. Then my computer battery ran out. So I just sat there for a bit, eating my omelet and talking to no one. Having a date with Jenna. And in that moment (once I got over feeling like my throat was closing up), I felt appreciated. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and let myself be alone. I didn't need anyone to tell me I looked pretty. I didn't feel the need to convince anyone that I was worth their while or dazzle them with my knowledge of obscure Tom Waits albums or whatever shit I could come up with to prove how interesting I am. I was with me, with a Jenna, and she thinks I'm wonderful.