It was a delight yesterday to hear with the kids the Penn State senior flute quartet play with this piece, which had a lick I think they borrowed from Debussy. They did just that: play, passing the fetching melody back and forth, making for an exquisitely planned but apparently ludic soundscape. It made me think of God.
I woke up this morning with Raffi’s “All I Really Need” in my head. According to Mr. Cavoukian, here’s the list:
- a song in my heart
- food in my belly
- love in my family
- the rain to fall
- the sun to shine
- some clean water for drinking
- clean air for breathing
Many fewer people than do, myself included, have reason to complain or doubt whether God is good.
My suspicion is that God put the song in my head overnight. A nice little gift.
With Resurrection Letters Vol. 2, all Andrew Peterson needs to be the second (and improved) musical coming of Rich Mullins is a hammered dulcimer.
Finding Christian music I like is harder than finding non-Christian music I like because the lyrics matter more: You not only have to find music you like, you also have to find a theological bent you agree with. And you’re working with a smaller subset of the populations, so the pickings are slimmer.
The family couldn’t get enough “Hayloft” as covered by Nickel Creek today. (Well, that and Éa liked Dave Edmunds’ “I Hear You Knocking.”) This made me uncomfortable.
“When informed that someone has achieved an American synthesis of Led Zeppelin and Yes, all I can do is hold my ears and say gosh.”
— Robert Christgau, of Boston (1976), in a capsule review makes me laugh out loud
They remastered Aqualung in 2011, and somehow I missed it. Now, if only Ian Anderson had been less crotchety about God and religion.
For the second consecutive year, I’ve been referred to Chris Kiver by an outstanding member of the State College Choral Society to audition for the Orpheus Singers: Colleen emailed me today about it.
Other than the remarkable depth to which my telling her as an aside that I wasn’t going to sing with the Choral Society this season felt like a confession, the thing I found most remarkable about my emotional response to this message was how much it stirred up again my desires to be a specialist. To pick something, just one thing, and concentrate all my energies into mastering it. Choral singing, solo singing, pop singing, hootenannies, improving neighborhood walkability, improving neighborhood bikeability, building relationships in my neighborhood, front-end web development, sales, tweeting, music appreciation—the list of possibilities feels endless. However, nothing pulls my affections like singing, perhaps because it’s the one with which I have the longest history, the one for which I feel most guilty not having pursued.
But unless my soul changes, I need to consider the following: I want to do those other things. If I plunge into singing to the depth I feel like I want to, I will not be able to tweet, organize Houserville Social Club, engage civically, work on my house, listen through the classical repertoire, or any of the other activities I so enjoy. I would only be able to stand utter commitment to becoming a singer for so long before I’d bail in favor of my life as an enthusiastic generalist.
With “40 (How Long),” U2 beat IHOPKC to harp & bowl by fifteen years.
I bought Carla some flowers today. Consider it an improvement on the one cut rose per year we’ve been married.
Singings lessons didn’t feel as good this week as they did last week. But I’m taking it in stride: As with Carla and local governance, I still have so much to learn about singing.
A cheer for the red team, whom we beat, 12–8, sung to the tune of “Rudolph, the Red-nosed Reindeer”:
O, how the black team loves you,
And we’ll shout it out with glee:
Good game, Red Bull frisbee,
You’ll go down in history!
Mommy, I love music more than chocolate chips, more than cookies, and more than princesses and beautiful ponies.
— Éa on hearing Vanhal’s Double Bass Concerto in E flat major on WPSU in the car with Carla
Don, a fellow tenor at the Choral Society, shared with me this evening that last week at his usual post-rehearsal social hour at Texas Roadhouse, Russ Shelley, the music director of the Choral Society, gushed momentarily about the beauty and power of my voice.
Obviously, that’s a heady sort of thing to hear. It inspires me to pursue more opportunities to share my voice. But at first, at least, this inspiration feels akin to the addictive high that I imagine you get from using recreational drugs. That’s dangerous.
It’s good to sing for my own enjoyment (or Yours, God), and it’s good to sing to delight someone else. But it’s unhealthy to sing to elicit praise.
Father, as I get deeper into singing performance in State College, please protect me from the intoxicating effects of people’s praise.
Scott: Éa, would you mind if I put on some tunes?
Éa: Yeah.
Scott [to clarify]: Should I put on some tunes?
Éa: Yeah.
Scott: Any objections anyone?
Éa: Tunes! But don’t put on any objections!
Having just listened to “Shepherd” by Anaïs Mitchell, I wonder: When did we come to the conclusion that sad endings are more artistic?
I finished listening through the Medieval portion of (one version of) the classical repertoire this afternoon. Main takeaway (drumroll, please): Eight hundred years ago is a long time ago.
For what it’s worth, though, students of Italian will probably enjoy Johannes Ciconia, and students of German will almost certainly enjoy the music of warrior-poet Oswald von Wolkenstein.
Here’s a link to a Spotify playlist of my favorite tracks: Faves: Medieval.
“Well, I think he can get a pretty intense look on his face when he’s playing something like this, but I don’t think he ever looks like a pirate getting an enema.”
— Scott describing Carla’s imitation of Itzhak Perlman playing the finale of Erich Korngold’s Violin Concerto in D. (Go ahead. Picture it.)
Sullivan (sheet music in hand): Mama, can you read this?
Carla: No, honey, it’s music. It’s not words.
Sullivan: Oh, well, can you sing it?
Carla: No, it’s piano music.
Sullivan: Well, WE have pirnano!
Carla: But I don’t know how to play the piano.
Sullivan: I know how to play the pirnano: You just press the keys! That’s how you do it!
[while listening to “Three Little Birds” by Bob Marley]
Sullivan: What are “every little things”?
Carla: Just everything. Everything’s gonna be alright.
Sullivan: God. ‘Cos he makes badness into…into…love-ness. He’s a nice guy.
as recorded by Carla:
Scott put on one of our favorite classical pieces, The Lark Ascending, this evening. I introduced Éa to it by telling her, “This is The Lark Ascending by, um…Van Williams I think?”
Then, without a hesitation, I asked Sully, who was diligently working on a puzzle on the floor, “Sully, who wrote this piece? It’s The Lark Ascending by ____…”?
He took a moment, still concentrating on his oversized puzzle, and then replied in his classic matter-of-fact manner, “Hmmm…Boathoven.”
He was wrong, but it was cute as heck… 🎵
Sorry! I got into my whistling.
— Scott, as we swerve off and back onto the road