Drunken Musical Stupor

It has been almost exactly one month since my last post. I believed I promised a more regular presence on this site a while back. It seems that promises mean nothing. Which is true; they are nothing but words.

I am writing partially because I have things to say, but also out of spite because my dear friend insists that when I have drink, I get moody and pensieve (which I do), and that I should just go home and sit in front of the computer. So there. What did I prove? What do I have to prove? Do I have to prove anything?

I digress. Earlier last month, I wrote a post proclaiming my acceptance into JSoM. Fabulous. More recently, I received an email outlining the details of a scholarship they awarded me, which was a nice but unexpected surprise. I will not list the amount here, but I will suffice to say that it was substantial. And it had a title: “Young Premier Artist.” Lovely.

What does this mean for me? For starters, my perception of my own music performance has changed, but just slightly. I have not done anything out of the ordinary thus far, but the way I approach my horn is a little different. I never really thought I was anything special as a trombonist; I figured I was just making my rounds and doing what I loved. Now, I am playing with the realization that I have vastly underestimated myself. I thought before that maybe it was a fluke that I was accepted; now, I can really believe it.

It is a strange feeling, being recognized for something that seems to come so naturally and feels so good to do. I still have a very, very long way to go in regard to technicality and range (and a slew of other aspects of playing), but I know now that I can compete with those whom I had once admired from a distance. Another example of music bridging metaphorical gaps.

Btw, thank you, IU.

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I’m an Idiot

I almost asked him to lunch today. He held the door for me; I held his eyes for just a bit longer than it took to say “Thank you.” Then I was on my way, attempting to kick myself but unable to muster the strength. Because with strength comes courage, and in that moment I had neither.

Is fear what results as a lack of courage? or is courage the product of fear overcome? Which defines the other? Might one call them inversely proportional, as a hyperbola in the coordinate plane? Perhaps there really is no way to concretely define them, suffice to say that they exist, and, in their purest forms, they dictate our actions. Our thoughts are processed through the filter that encompasses the two, fear and courage, and our actions are the resulting image that is formed on the undeveloped film of our life. Then, after developing that film,–and only then–can we say with any degree of certainty whether we were utterly fearful or truly courageous. Hindsight is 20/20.

/briefly edited musings following a masterclass on fearlessness by Jeff Nelsen

Seriously? A photography metaphor? What garbage.

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On Sheep and the Definitely Indefinite Definition

Written for ENG-W170, taught by Kate Goldstein. The writing-intensive course is based around the theme of civil rights. I’m rather pleased with this essay, as it earned me a 98 .

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In December 1962, The Progressive, a prominent liberal magazine, published James Baldwin’s essay “My Dungeon Shook,” though he wrote it as a letter to his nephew. It also served as the introduction to his book Fire Next Time. In his letter, Baldwin discusses the implicit and explicit meanings of words to highlight the ambiguity of definitions during the civil rights movement.

Baldwin accuses white people of imprisoning blacks with words. Generally, definitions are used to facilitate understanding, but in this context, they are often used to place strict boundaries around the entity being defined. As an example, the stigma surrounding the very word ‘black’ was such that Baldwin expresses to young James–and his African American readership– his opinion that it “spelled out…that you were a worthless human being” (21). This was because white society propagated the negative historical connotations that were associated with being ‘black,’ like slavery and segregation. Also, in a religious context, the relation of the colors white and black to purity and evil respectively manifested itself in the American psyche as people drew parallels between the words themselves and the individuals who were so labeled. Thus, the history of oppression as well as their fear of evil incited white people to distance themselves from blacks, and they accomplished this not only through their actions, but also through the implications of their words.

Baldwin specifically addresses the terms ‘acceptance’ and ‘integration,’ both civil rights jargon used by the white population to suggest social compromise with the African Americans. Generally, these expressions were (and still are) commonly associated with the majority reconciling with the minority, but Baldwin redefines them in his own terms–from the minority perspective. However, he also advises his nephew to “take no one’s word for anything, including mine,” counsel that seems outwardly contradictory (22). The tone of the letter becomes one of individuality and thinking for oneself. While definitions are often concrete, they vary within different contexts, and not everyone will share exactly the same perspective. Baldwin comments on the tendency of society to adopt a common definition, with the correlation falling along social divides (in this case, race), and it is this definition that one sees the opposition expressing in their words and actions against those in civil rights movement. In those circumstances, the majority advertised the popular opinion in lieu of individual voices that were suppressed, and eventually lost altogether.

However individualized the thoughts of the white population were, many shared the same sentiment of aversion to African Americans. Because of this and because of the rigid implications of the word ‘black’ (i.e., subordination), the idea of the imminent change that could occur because of the civil rights movement terrified them. Whites had been dominant for so long that they could not fathom the thought of being equal with those whom they had oppressed. They would not accept the forcible alteration of the definitions behind which they had hid for centuries. Although they are liable to change over time, definitions have some permanence and do retain their original meaning. Baldwin’s illustration of the black man as an “immovable pillar” in white society demonstrates the kind of fear the white population held concerning revolution (23). Their staunch definition of black people did not allow for any movement up the social ladder, and much like a supporting beam of a building, if they were to move, society would conceivably come crashing down on itself. In outlining their fear, Baldwin also employs the metaphor of African Americans as a “fixed star” in the skies of white men (23). The metaphor of the star demonstrates how whites have distanced themselves from black people, both physically (exemplified in segregated schools, restaurants, water fountains) and mentally (regarding blacks as sub-human). Again, one sees the literal and metaphorical distance that whites have gone great lengths to place between themselves and the black population, in this case to deal with their fear and to maintain the status quo.

Baldwin’s message to his nephew is one of encouragement, but at the same time, he is asking society to think hard about the words that they use. Many white Americans followed the herd and simply absorbed the words they heard in media and on the street. Using them, people put no thought into what they might be implying and thereby unintentionally spreading. While the explicit definitions did not change much, the implicit meanings morphed into something ugly and suffocating, a process that could only be reversed through understanding and acceptance–real acceptance.

Baldwin, James. The Fire Next Time. New York, Dial Press. 1963.

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Accepted

I have just received my letter of acceptance from the Indiana University Jacobs School of Music. I have had a smile across my face for the past two hours, and it just won’t quit. I love it. I love this feeling of–dare I say it?–redemption. It is first and foremost relief, because the stress of waiting for a response has been diffused. It is also confirmation, confirming that I am worthy to be here, that I want to be here, and that I am good enough at what I do to potentially make something out of it. I have a newfound sense of optimism, and I take comfort in the dispelled notions and resulting abscence of failure. No longer do I need to torture myself with hypothetical questions and stupid, self-deprecating reveries. I can fully take pride in what I do, now that I have finally been accepted.

Thank you, IU.

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Insomniac/I Promise This Is Only a Onetime Thing

Here’s the skinny: I just auditioned for Straight No Chaser, the mens a capella group here at IU. (If the name is Greek to you, please jfgi. They are…well publicized, so to speak.) I told myself that I wouldn’t need to write a note when I got home, but I needed some form of release, something to which I could vent my adrenaline. True, I could use this positive energy to compose my analytical essay that’s due next week, but where’s the productivity in that?
It was pointed out to me quite bluntly at dinner yesterday that I think too much. I immediately thought about the stipulations of thinking, then proceeded to gnaw off my hand at the prospect of me going through life in thought and never actually doing anything. For Pete’s sake, my final words in the yearbook were “Pui ne risque rien, w’a rien.” (Which is totally fucked up, if you know your français. What should have been printed in the thousand or so annuals that were distributed to the majority of the school is “Qui ne risque rien, n’a rien.” Nothing ventured, nothing gained.) In any case, this prompted me to take some sort of action. So I vied for a spot in the aforementioned group.
My chances of actually getting in are slim to none, and I would be shocked to receive a call back email. Lack of any vocal training aside, the time commitment alone would be murder, what with All-Campus Band, Marching Hundred next semester, and practicing trombone (which I should really be doing right now); I simply would not have the time to be a part of their group. Add to that the fact that there were sixteen other applicants this evening–and there’s another round of auditions tomorrow night as well–, some (if not most) of which are vocal performance majors.

Herein lies my problem. I could go on, being more negative and even further self-deprecating, listing reasons why this as a whole would be a highly unsuccessful process. But I’m going to try something new and toot my own horn here, as it were. Please bear with me, and hold your applause until all the names have been read.

I spent most of my youth listening to great vocalists, among them Ol’ Blue Eyes; John, Paul, George (and sometimes Ringo); Vic Damone; and more recently, Bobby Darin, Jamie Cullum, Ella Fitzgerald, and Michael Bublé. I picked up a great deal of musicality from their songs, and I learned what a great jazz voice sounds like. Much of the singing I do reflects that; I, like many others, imitate and try to emulate that sound (or whatever sound they are trying to achieve).
I have a pretty solid ear for intonation, and while my out-of-context note recognition is spotty at best, I have damn good relative pitch. I can sing certain notes on the fly (concert Bb, A and D, for example), and I am learning slowly what it’s like to hear notes and identify them as one would colors.
I might hypothesize and say that I can attribute both my musicality and my pitch recognition to the fact that I am a fairly good trombonist. The trombone had its beginnings in sacred music in the churches, as accompaniment to the choir. It was chosen as such specifically because of its similarity to the human voice–both in range and in tone color. It comes as no surprise, then, that it is often recommended to “sing” through the horn. If you have any qualms with this, listen to some Dorsey and call me in the morning.
What I am most proud of, however, is my ability to sing falsetto. I’m not entirely sure what my chest range is by the standard definition, but I’d venture to say I’m a baritone-tenor (if that’s even a classification). Tonight, when they tested my head range, I think (as in, I’m really not sure, or maybe I have no idea at all) I may have sung over two octaves above middle C. Maybe a D. I don’t know. I’ll have to verify that later, but suffice to say that it was in the freakin’ stratosphere.
/ego

All right. I think I’ll just leave it at that. I can’t really come up with any sort of relevant or sensible conclusion. What I really need right now is a steaming mug of tea and some inspiration to write this fucking analysis paper. I hate required gen-ed courses.

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The Trials of Being a Junk Musician (and a Flaming Romantic)

From a 03 November 2008 Facebook post.

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The weather today was sublime, to say the least. We’re in the midst of an Indian summer (a term I’ve just recently been taught), and the temperature was in the balmy upper sixties all day. It was shorts-and-t-shirt weather, and I took full advantage of it. After a fantastic concert at the MAC, I had a leisurely stroll back to Forest, where I delighted in the scarlet and butter yellow leaves that were clinging desperately to the almost naked branches and swirling in eddies at my feet. The light breeze would sometimes tug at my sleeves and I would get a brief – but not unpleasant – chill at the beauty of being caught up in this moment’s serenity.
I had to wonder whether someone who had lived here all their life could appreciate this: the completely organic wonderment of autumn. This, I thought, must be what it’s like for a toddler playing in the shorebreak at Hapuna for the first time. Bubbly at the sensation of sand between their toes and the cool water playing at their ankles. Shrieking in delight when a small wave knocks them over. Here, when the weather gets cold, I am that toddler. I might stand in one spot for several minutes trying to figure out at what angle my breath will best catch the sunlight. I’ll stop dead in the middle of a path surrounded by disgruntled pedestrians just to gaze at the trees. I can’t even begin to imagine how I’m going to be when the first real snow falls. Waking up to a marshmallow world would be unbelievable, and it’s going to happen.
But for the people who have spent their entire lives hating the cold and the snow, I wish I could share some of this sentiment. They are the ones that want to go to Hawai’i in the worst way, and I pity them. “Paradise” has become so commercialized that it’s almost not worth it anymore. The sun and the beach and drinking out of coconuts with toothpick umbrellas; it’s great for the economy, yes. But oh, autumn. It’s so inherently beautiful without even trying. Mother Nature is giving us a show right here, and we don’t have to spend a dime.

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Punxsutawney Phil-harmonic

…and because I haven’t posted anything new in months, here’s another from Facebook. I really should start taking advantage of WP more often.

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Instead of making a frantic note about how I skipped Psychology today so I could practice for my audition coming up on Saturday that, incidentally, will determine the rest of my life, or telling you about how many times I’ve slipped on icy walkways and staircases and broken both hips and a tibia, or even recounting the fun I’ve had over the weekend rearranging my entire life in boxes and bags, I’ll write about a pun from today’s music theory drill.

In music, there are phenomena called periods and sentences. They are both structures commonly found in all sorts of compositions, from Mozart’s to Mendelssohn’s. Both are comprised of a series of phrases (two with periods, three with sentences), or shorter musical ideas. The main difference between them lies in how they are perceived by the ear: periods seem balanced and are theoretically symmetrical, while sentences act like a rubber band (more on this later).
There are many different classifications of periods, each with a specific function either melodically or harmonically. By far, the most used type of period in western music is the parallel interrupted period. It is labeled as such for these characteristics

1. Parallel–the melody, or melodic material, is repeated twice (once in each phrase) with little or no variation.
2. Interrupted–the harmonic structure is literally interrupted. The first phrase ends on a weaker cadence (perhaps unresolved), so it begins again in the second, resolving logically and on a stronger cadence as the period finishes.

The sentence acts in much the same way–that is, to present a concise, measurable chunk of music–but its effect is much different from that of the period. To extend the rubber band analogy (hah), consider the potential and kinetic energy of stretching it back and flinging it across the room. The energy is stored, then released when it is let go. In relation to the sentence, the first half (or so) of the musical idea acts like it is stretching the rubber band, creating lots of tension; likewise, the remainder of the sentence becomes the result of letting it loose and hitting someone in the eye.

The first half of the sentence, or the presentation, consists of a short bit of music repeated twice. However, there is no cadence, no point of rest. It works its way to the continuation (which may or may not borrow some of the melodic material from the presentation) and ends up at some kind of cadence a few bars later. [Here is where the pun comes in, though it isn't necessarily funny. The instructor said something to the effect of, "You can't have a point of rest in the middle of the presentation; you would lose the effect of building it up. You'd diffuse all the tension." I heard "diffuse" and "defuse," both of which made a lot of sense, first literally, then metaphorically. I used a rubber band analogy above (albeit a bad one), but "defuse"...I mean, the musical sentence could be like a time bomb of sorts. Tension piling up as the fuse burns down, then the explosion, an outpouring of sound; then the cadence–dead silence]

All right. I know that might have been a bit tedious, or dare I say, boring. But I’m not apologizing for any of it. Call me what names you will, but this fascinated me to no end. The concept of music relating to life and humanity as a whole is mind-blowing. I don’t even know where to start, but I guess this seemed like a good place.

[Later that day...]

I’ve recently taken to working out at the gym on campus. I’m trying to keep a relatively regular schedule of Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays every week, for about an hour and a half to two hours each day. My routine consists of stretching, jogging and running, a short core workout (courtesy of Julie) and then a bit of time with free weights.
Tonight (being Tuesday) I went at a rather late hour, probably not making for the most efficient workout. However, I hadn’t gone on Sunday because I was busy moving house (one of the best decisions I’ve ever made, by the way) and I also felt like I needed to get away. When I’m there, my mind goes blissfully blank. I don’t think about anything, not classes, not homework, not the fact that the culmination of seven years of practice will come this Saturday…nothing. Right now, my mind is consumed with hypothetical thoughts of eminent failure across the board. I’m generally keeping up in classes, so I’m not falling behind. Yet. I know I have the potential to succeed (doesn’t everyone?), but more prevalent in my mind is the fact that I still have the potential to suck. I try hard to keep those thoughts at bay, but after a particularly bad practice session this close to D-Day, it becomes almost overwhelmingly difficult. Going to the SRSC has become something of a crutch, but without the negative undertones. It’s benefiting me twofold, and I think only good can come of that.

Even though I haven’t really done anything yet, this evening seems to have been very productive. I’m in a good place right now: showered, fed and watered, listening to some muttered German vocabulary words over the sounds of Christopher O’Reilly playing Radiohead. Life is…well, life is life. The snow is still falling relentlessly, but at this point, I don’t think I could chill out if I tried.

Let me know if any of my theory is incorrect. This is still relatively new to me.

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Morning After

I wrote this on Facebook after a particularly rough night earlier this semester. There’s really not much more to it.

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it is eight twenty-four on a sunday morning. i am sitting in a café on the streetcorner opposite the music school. the sun is just rising and breathing life into the now dreary, dirty snow. it is ironically beautiful. the cute barista is leaning on the counter reading a newspaper; there is one other person here: a chinese grad student doing some reading for a class that i hope i will never have to take.
a man pulls up in a cobalt bmw roadster. he is alone, in his late forties, with a prominent bald spot and an inkling of a mid-life crisis. he walks into the small kiosk in the parking lot housing an atm, leaving his door open and the engine running.
i want to steal his car. right now.
i want to speed off (careful! the roads are icy) down third street and drive as far and fast as i possibly can. i want to cross state lines-oh, god, the prospect of being labeled a runaway, a fugitive, a criminal, it fills me with something akin to lust. i want to drive north and see what’s so great about those lakes, maybe make a detour into canada, head east to new york, vermont, maine, see the atlantic, decide for myself which coast is better. i want to drive to minnesota–do they really talk like that?–, to wyoming, colorado to see the grand canyon, i might be able to make it all the way to california. maybe i could even–
mid-life crisis gets back into the car. drives off. he’s headed due north, if you’re curious. my reverie has been broken, but for a fleeting moment, i have…accomplished nothing.
my life is but an enormous rhetorical question. i may have an answer, but i’m not meant to say it. i think, and think, and think, and then-alas, too late–a steadily receding hairline speeds away. due north.
it is eight thiry-two on a sunday morning. a man in a ski cap and a pumpkin curry jacket is walking his akita puppy along the sidewalk. my coffee is dead. i’m thinking i’ll go and think about flirting with the barista now.
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Word Music.

By trade, I am not a writer; I am a musician. I live my life in music: practicing, performing, analyzing, creating. So I find it intriguing that the medium in which I am more comfortable expressing myself is the written word. I enjoy writing and music equally, but I find more comfort in the fact that I can explain myself as thoroughly (or vaguely) as I want through my words. With music, it’s always a guessing game; I am aware of what emotions I am feeling and I can hope my music will reflect them, but what I play won’t mean the same to everyone. It is not fair to say that one is better than the other, but I wish there could be some way to combine the two.

Needless to say, there are things on my mind that I wish I could articulate. They are currently running rampant in the folds of my brain, and it is so frustrating to be unable to explain anything.

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The Human Race to the Finish Line.

I was just asked to be interviewed by someone from my floor for a project in a Communication in the Classroom course. I was informed beforehand that the interview would cover some cultural questions, which was fine by me because I’m obviously quite different. I’ve actually never been on this side of an interview, so I had hoped that this was going to be a cool experience, what with being recorded and my responses being used for the greater good. I should have known better. It was definitely over before it even started.

I sat us down in my room, and asked him a few preparatory questions, basically just to orient myself. It seemed very sketchy at first, especially because his first question was something along the lines of “How do people treat you differently?” Immediately, I was put slightly on edge, because I knew that the majority of these questions were not going to deal with culture. I answered as honestly as I could, starting with the obvious, that my physical attributes might give people preconceived notions of how I might act. I remember mentioning my slightly darker skin and my eyes, which, when people poke fun at them, I usually laugh because yes, it is somewhat funny. It is never with the intent to insult.

I had barely gotten into answering the question when my interviewer graciously butted in and said, “But your ancestors are from Asia! They all got there on little boats and stuff…”

At this point, I was definitely questioning the validity of this interview, and whether it was just a ploy to get on my nerves. I decided to humor him a bit more, but when he continued chuckling at his wit (or lack thereof), I started to get a little annoyed, both at his god-awful interviewing skills, and at the fact that he found this so entertaining. I asked him if he was going to take this seriously, and he said yes. And then he went on repeating his claims that Asians got to Asia on little boats.
So I kicked him out.

He then had the audacity to ask if I was offended. Sure, maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t. I was definitely surprised at his ignorance, as he was very forthright in asking to do this interview. I was also surprised and very disappointed that I had finally met someone who obviously did not keep an open mind and was genuinely racist, and that I had to share a living space with him. Two points: let us recall that this interview was for Communication in the Classroom. He honestly thinks that because he lives and will teach (god forbid) in the Midwest, that he will not encounter racial issues, and that he should not be bothered with them. Also, he plans to major in mathematics education, and thus will never need to address the issue of race in the classroom. Of course, because there is absolutely no diversity anywhere in the contiguous United States. We are all of one color, and apparently it’s a pallid, mottled eggshell.

I never really expected to ever encounter anything of this caliber, and I suppose this only draws attention to my blatant naïveté. This is still America, the land of the free, and home of many, many diverse perspectives and upbringingings. I feel so fortunate to live here, yet I also feel cursed to be forced to deal with ignorant fucks like that obese sonofabitch from down the hall.

I’m chalking this one up to experience. Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, and I will pluck out your eyes with my chopsticks and use them for fish food, asshole.

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