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Concert Day

Concert Day

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Bow has met bass, performers have met conductor, the intrepid Dr. Joe Ceo, and in a few hours we will practice briefly, then take our turn on stage.

There are about 50 or 60 of us in the Reunion Orchestra, of wildly varying ages and abilities. Take the string bass section for starters. Our first chair is a professional bass player, a conservatory graduate and first chair of the Buffalo Philharmonic; he’s about 20 years out of high school. Next is a member of the Lexington Philharmonic and longtime teacher who was in the youth orchestra a couple of years before I was. Next to me is a 2017 high school graduate who was playing his final concert with the Central Kentucky Youth Orchestra this time last year.

Not that any of this matters. Playing music together banishes age and occupation. What’s important is being in tune, on time and willing to give our hearts to the task at hand.

And of that there is no question.  We traveled from New York and Texas and California and Virginia to do just that.

Have Bow, Will Travel

Have Bow, Will Travel

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I am usually an optimist, but not enough to pack my string bass bow in checked luggage on the flights from Little Rock to Lexington. The bow, and my concert black clothes, were stuffed into my smallish briefcase. Or, to be more precise, my computer, notebooks, journal, book and clothes were stuffed in the briefcase. The bow was resting on top of it as I roamed around the Charlotte Airport.

To back up a bit here … The Central Kentucky Youth Orchestra is providing a string bass but I’m providing the bow for this weekend’s musical activities. I’m so glad it’s not the other way around, but the bow has presented some logistical challenges. It’s too large to fit into a carry-on bag, which is why I was checking luggage to begin with. And it’s fairly delicate, too, so it has been well padded.

Now the bow and the bassist (seems presumptuous … but that would be me) are on their way to pick up the bass and take it to Bryan Station High School, where the rehearsal (and the fun begins).

Have bow, will travel.

My Musical Dad

My Musical Dad

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Today would have been Dad’s 95th birthday, and he would have gotten a kick out of it. Imagine me such an old man, he’d say, with his trademark grin.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Dad and music as I practice for the concert next weekend. How he made sure Tchaikovsky or Rachmaninoff was blaring from the stereo, about his excitement finding the “Suite from Spartacus” in a bargain bin.

Dad grew up on church and popular music; classical music he found on his own. He never grew tired of telling me how: It was watching “Fantasia” that turned him on (and not in the way that my generation got turned on during “Fantasia”). He heard Leopold Stokowski and the Philadelphia Symphony play Beethoven’s “Pastorale” and Mussorgsky’s “Night on Bald Mountain” — and music was never the same.

In fact, Dad was on a committee tasked to find the money to fly the Central Kentucky Youth Orchestra to a music educator’s conference in Russia. Since the invitation was unexpected, he and the other committee members had only a few months to finance the trip. Dad used all his sales personality and charm on business and civic leaders — “our budgets were committed months ago,” they demurred — and even on the U.S. State Department, the closest he came to a bull’s eye. They were going to charter a military plane for us — quite a feat during those Cold War days.

In the end Dad didn’t quite pull it off, but it gave him lots of stories to tell. Now Dad is gone, so I tell the stories for him.

(Photo: Walt Disney Pictures. Don’t get me for copyright infringement; this is for my dad!)

Musical Dreams

Musical Dreams

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I guess the notes were flowing a little better during my practice session last night (a guarantee that they won’t flow well today!). Whatever the reason, I found myself wondering this morning if there is a community orchestra in the area.

And lo and behold … there is! Not only that, but they have summer “reading sessions” where they invite members of the community to come and play with them. I will be in town for every one.

And so …

I’m remembering what a big part music used to play in my life, how it’s taken a back seat to schooling, working, child rearing and how … it may not have to anymore.

First, I have to get through the Verdi and the Stravinsky. And then, we’ll see …

Practice, Practice, Practice

Practice, Practice, Practice

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My daughters may disagree with me, but I don’t recall bugging them too much about practicing when they were studying cello, clarinet and voice. I think I know why. I don’t like practicing either, never have.

Now is no different. I wish I could say that practicing the string bass is stirring my soul and enriching my life. But truth to tell, I sandwich in the minutes around everything else, often in the evening when I’m exhausted. Sometimes I don’t know whether I’m holding the bass or the bass is holding me.

This is good news, though. It confirms, for one, that I made the right career choice. I can immerse myself in writing or editing and the hours fly by. The minutes I spend practicing the bass do not.

But all the minutes will be worth it when I’m part of an orchestra again, contributing my own (I hope in-tune) notes to that swelling symphonic sound.

Play it Again, Anne

Play it Again, Anne

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A few months ago a high school friend called to tell me that the Central Kentucky Youth Symphony Orchestra was celebrating its 70th anniversary with a reunion concert May 20 and all alumni were invited to play. I knew in an instant that I would do everything I could to be there. The CKYSO made adolescence bearable. It introduced me to a group of people whose idea of a good time was listening to Wagner’s Liebestod on a Saturday night.

The only problem: I haven’t played a the string bass since I was in high school. I had to find one (actually two, because I’ll be flying to Kentucky for the concert), then … I had to start practicing.

I accomplished one of those missions before I went to Asia and the other 10 days ago when I found a bass to rent here and somehow got it home in a small sedan. Since then I’ve been practicing whenever I can, trying to get the notes in my fingers again.

To relearn an instrument after decades away from it is a humbling experience. I forgot how much effort it takes to stretch my left hand into position and still hold up the instrument. To give you an idea just how remedial a bass student I am: I had to Google the string intervals. (The string bass is unique among stringed instruments; it’s tuned in fourths — E, A, D and G — instead of fifths.)

But after more than a week at it, the positions and scales are coming back and I’m learning how much to tighten the bow (not as much as I was the first few days — the poor thing was starting to pop some hairs).

Now I just have to learn the bass parts for Stravinsky’s Firebird and Verdi’s Aida. To be continued …

Musical Measure

Musical Measure

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The other day I walked exactly as long as it took to listen to Brahms’ “Variations on a Theme by Haydn.” Then I turned around, walked back and listened to the same piece again. Eighteen minutes down and 18 minutes back. Adding a couple minutes on each end for the turn-around and the cool-down made it a 40-minute walk, three to four miles.

It was simple. It was pure. It was exquisite. At least the musical part.

Usually my walks are prescribed by geography — to the end of the neighborhood and back — or by time — 15 minutes out and 15 minutes back. Measuring the walk by music was deliciously different: organic and thematic.

I don’t always have the freedom for a musical measure, but it’s something to aspire to.

Throwback Thursday

Throwback Thursday

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My Throwback Thursday came a day early, when a high school friend called to tell me about the 70th anniversary reunion of the Central Kentucky Youth Orchestra. Many years ago (not 70, though!) I played string bass in that august ensemble. I was not very good. My audition piece was “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” — and still I only squeaked in.

I was in over my head from the start — Brahms 1st has some fantastically difficult runs — but I was hooked. To be even a small, insignificant, plunking-lower-string part of this swelling sound didn’t just make my day (the day was Saturday, the time 8 a.m. to noon). It made my year (s), both junior and senior. I had found my crowd: the music people.

For two years there was rosin dust and calloused fingers. There were rehearsals and parties and the dreaded tag day, when I stood on the corner of Short and Lime and asked passersby for money. There was the time we were invited to the Soviet Union for the International Music Educators Conference. Does my mind fail me here, or would we have played Kablevsky for Kablevsky?  I think that is true.

That one didn’t work out, but there were concerts at U.K. and Transylvania, on the road in Williamsburg and Atlanta, the night when guys from the trumpet section got their hands on the French taxi horns used in “An American in Paris” and woke up half the hotel.

All these memories bubbling out because of a phone call. The parts of life we think are over never really are.

Cathedral Chorale

Cathedral Chorale

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To hear ancient music in an ancient structure amplifies its power. I’m talking about Saturday’s concert of the Cathedral Choral Society, which was held in National Cathedral. Though the church itself isn’t ancient, it was built to feel that way.

National Cathedral was erected in the 20th century, not the 12th. But the building transports you, from the first step over the transom into the crowded vestibule. This impression continues when you look up at the arched ceiling and see the sun slanting in the rose window.

And then the music starts —  “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” “Lo, How a Rose E’re Blooming” and “In the Bleak Midwinter” — and the experience is complete.

Happy Birthday, Beethoven!

Happy Birthday, Beethoven!

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Beethoven is not part of my daily musical diet. His symphonies are rich fare, and my tastes tend toward lighter chamber works these days. Which means that yesterday’s radio bounty was music to my ears. (Because my radio station celebrated Beethoven’s birthday yesterday — no doubt due to the Saturday afternoon opera and other weekend programming restrictions — I can write about his sublime music today with the benefit of recent inundation!)

I didn’t listen to a whole symphony (I’ll do that today), but the snatch of his Ninth Symphony I heard was powerful enough to keep me sitting in the car until the last triumphant notes.

Many would consider the Fifth and the Ninth symphonies — heck, maybe all Beethoven symphonies — old warhorses. But when you listen with fresh ears you realize why they became warhorses in the first place.