Let's Get Sirius

Well, live and learn. I got some books on CD at the library before beginning the trip, knowing that the narrow band of what radio plays is too little and its constant shouting and commercials too much. Imagine my delight when I saw a little USB port in the rental car inviting me to plug in my I-Pod!!  Imagine my frustration when it kept reading, “Error. Can’t access.”

And then one more round of delight when I accidentally pushed a button and something new came on—radio without commercials and choice far beyond the norm. I’m talking not one, but SEVEN different jazz options and then classical music of all sorts and then comedy, sports, news, even some books on tape. And of course, pop, disco, hip-hop, what have you. You all probably know all about SiriusXM, but this was new to me.

On the Sirius Website, they say things like “Imagine just about every kind of music.” Under “Tell Me What I’ll Hear,” they say, “The question is what won’t you hear on SiriusXM?” Under “How Much Does It Cost?” they say, “You can’t put a price on being able to hear exactly what you want, when you want.” This is typical Madison Avenue, with its over-the-top promise and exaggeration, but it’s also part of a pervasive thinking that bothers me. The kind of thing like “I-Pad. It does everything you could ever want or imagine.”

And I just have to take issue with that. I-Pad may help me order tomato seeds, but it won’t water them. It may give me a recipe, but it won’t cook my meal or wash my dishes or light the candles at the dinner table or assure a scintillating conversation. It might get me a date through some dating network, but it won’t mend my broken heart. It might help send out the funeral notice, but it won’t heal my grief. You get the idea. You just have to be careful about that “everything” claim. It’s both insulting to the machine by claiming too much and to the human being by claiming too little for our deepest needs and desires. 

Now in my short two days with Sirius as commercial free radio, I’m pretty impressed. The jazz selections were wide and varied and hit both the classics and some new material. The categories—Siriusly Sinatra, 60’s rock, Latin jazz, etc. —were intriguing. But when it claims to cover all kinds of music, it is throwing the gauntlet into my territory. I have no choice but to pick it up and set things straight. Pay attention— there will be a test.

For starters, I noticed that amidst the 50 or 60 choices, I never found one for American folk music. I’m not talking Peter, Paul and Mary here (though that would be sweet), but real homegrown folk music— Appalachian ballads and dance tunes, Georgia Sea Island ring plays, New England sea chanteys, Louisiana Cajun music, cowboy songs, Tex-Mex music, Native American chants, Minnesota polkas, Mississippi Delta Blues, chain-gang songs, spirituals and much, much more. Part of the car journey mythos traveling through landscape could be actually hearing the music that grew from that place, the whole rich heritage of our musical polyglot. Wouldn’t that be something? So note what’s omitted from the “everything “ claim— not just that it’s hard to find Sundanese gamelan or Afro-Columbian Currulao, but difficult to find Jean Ritchie singing her Kentucky family’s songs or Mississipi John Hurt plucking out his blues or Bessie Jones singing clapping plays with children in Georgia.

Sit up straight here, because this is important stuff. We all see (and hear) the world through our narrow band of exposure and experience and that’s okay as long as we’re aware that it ain’t the whole deal. Stop anyone on the street in America and ask them, “What types of music are there?” and I imagine (though maybe I’m being generous here), that most will say “Rock. Pop. Rap. Jazz. Classical. Country.” Pressed further, they might sub-divide into Alternative, Heavy Metal, Punk, Disco or Swing, Be-bop, Jazz-Rock, Latin or Opera, Baroque, Romantic, etc. The more musically conscious might spin off into New Age, Techno, Minimalist and that catch-all, World Music. But still, this is just the tip of the tip of a mammoth iceberg that most can barely imagine.

Take my bagpipe. Please. (Snare drum, ka-chunk!) If I say bagpipe, you say Scotland. (Except in Scotland, where a kid pressed to figure out where it’s from said “Tenerife.” Huh?) And now I have to tell you about the Uillean pipes from Ireland, the Northumbrian pipes of England, the Gaita from Galicia, the Zampogna from Italy, the Dudelsack from Germany, the Sackpipa from Sweden, the Musette from France (one of 15 different French bagpipes, each with its own name) before finally arriving at the Gaida from Bulgaria (also called gaida in Greece). And that’s not getting into the Middle East, North Africa or India—nor does it cover all the European pipes.

And if you should get into Bulgarian gaida music, you’ll have to distinguish between different size gaidas and the distinction in styles that come from each region. And within those styles, the particular dance rhythms (pravo horo, paidushka, richinitza, lesnoto, daichovo, etc.). And probably not a single one of them is represented on SiriusXM.

If you’re very musically hip, you might know that samba and bossa nova come from Brazil, but you won’t impress anyone there if you also don’t know something about Maracatu, Frevo, Ciranda, Choro, Lambada, Samba-Reggae. And by the time you finally learn something about these styles, four more new ones have probably been invented. Same with Cuba, Colombia, India, China—well, really, just about every place on the planet.

And besides musical styles, there are all the composers and musicians whose work is worthy, but underexposed. I’m thinking Johannes Ockeghem and John Dunstable, Herbie Nichols and Blossom Dearie, Federico Mompou and Gunild Keetman, Mark Growden and…well, the list is long.

Music and musical style is a moving target, a response from people to the landscape and the times they live in and often both. Cosmopolitan culture groups them under broad categories that give the illusion of uniformity, but the actual diversity is extraordinary. For SiriusXM to truly represent “all kinds of music” would probably require thousands of channels. And that’s just the recorded music. Keep in mind—and I know I’m stretching your imagination here—that most of the music played today and certainly in the past has not even been recorded. Before recording technology (just a mere century old), its notes and structures might be captured on paper (and again, a very, very small percentage of it at that), but most of it evaporated in the air or echoed in the minds, ears and hearts of the listeners and the players. And that is still true today. It’s a large, large world and there are enormous chunks of it—music, dance, art, poetry, what have you—that still has not been captured, recorded, studied, shared and made public. Just a reality check for the "everything" claim.

SiriusXM feels like a good step in a good direction and I thank them. But why stop here? Two suggestions for the Sirius programmers to take their job more seriously:

1)    Consider a yet broader band of music to reach the listening public. Offer a few things off of the beaten paths. (Starting with the 26 recordings I’ve made of the kids at The San Francisco School since 1983! Over 900 pieces arranged for the Orff Ensemble by kids from 3 to 14 years old.)

2)    Don’t feed the hubris that we know it all and have captured it all on our machines. Modify your adjectives—from “every kind of music” to “a number of kinds of music”—from “hear exactly what you want” to “hear some things you want to hear and others you didn’t even know you wanted.” You get the idea.

And this to serious Sirius listeners: Everything you enjoy listening to—from Jean Ritchie's Wondrous Love to James Brown’s Popcorn to Mozart’s Requiem to Thelonious Monk’s Round Midnight and beyond came from a particular time and a particular place and a particular culture and a particular person or group of people who were living it at the height of their senses, emotions and intelligence. They weren’t just entertaining themselves pleased that they had videos, recordings, games, at their fingertips. They were actively making and shaping the culture by actively making and shaping art.

Let’s not forget that. To make art one must live an authentic life larger than the constant distraction of instant entertainment. You gotta get your hands dirty, your heart broken, your shoulder punched, your car repossessed—and then tell about it. You gotta turn off the flickering screens and look around you, take the earphones out and listen, put down the book and talk to someone.

So stop reading this Blog, go out and do something and then write a song about it. Record it on your Flip, put it up on Youtube, advertise it on Facebook and if you’re lucky, someone will record it and include it on SiriusXM. And I’ll listen to it the next time I drive out West.

Apologies to the Jains

Summer officially began at a Thai restaurant in Davis, California, 90 minutes from the San Francisco fog, eating Pad Thai outdoors. Off comes the fleece vest, out come the shorts, Tivas replace shoes. Then the climb into the Sierras, expecting snow on the side of the road, but it was only on the distant peaks. Down the other side toward the bright lights of Reno. (A recent Prairie Home Companion radio show was in a city that consciously shut off lights at night so stars were visible. Can’t remember the term, but like “slow food,” seems like it could be a trend— Reno/Las Vegas, take note.)

In the senior equivalent of “living on the edge,” we had set off without hotel reservations and found a place at the Sunrise Motel in Sparks. I guess it is still possible to just show up and find something that isn’t a chain. We awoke to the roar of the nearby freeway and the smell of the owner’s Indian cooking, took off further down the road to Lovelock and lo and behold, breakfast at another non-chain in Lovelock, La Casita. A quaint place and a waitress impressed that I could pronounce Chilaquiles. A nearby booth was filled with three grey-haired ladies and that part of the brain that instantly classifies people—gender, age, race, weight, attractiveness (which comes first?)—thought “three old ladies.” And then another part of the brain snickered, “Hey! They’re probably your age. Or younger.”

Before breakfast was over, the waitress came out singing Happy Birthday to the folks at a nearby table (pretty good singing, patrons of La Casita restaurant!) and a candle embedded in an ice cream taco. Seemed a bit early in the morning for my taste and I should have asked more about the ice cream taco, but the matron of the small group started telling us how her niece was 15 and her nephew over there also 15 and the other fellow 22 and then got into the family history. I thought about my friend in Germany who was astounded in her visit to the Midwest by conversations like this, strangers telling you their life story after a one-minute acquaintance. At first, she was amazed—such instant revelation not a common practice in Germany— and later, critical, “It seems like Americans can appear to get very close very fast, but it never goes any deeper.”

And then off across the vast expanses of Nevada. Whenever I worry about overpopulation, a drive through Nevada is re-assuring. It really seems about the same as it was some 40 years ago when I first came through. All those little towns—Winnemucca, Ely, Battle Mountain, Elko—didn’t seem much bigger now than they were then. Though I could be wrong about that. I regretted I didn’t have my camera up front in the car, amused by some of the signs:

• Hitchhiking Prohibited: Prison Area

• Beverly Hills (this at a turn-off to nowhere)

• Bullets Leave Holes (with photos of kids)

Well, this last was not quite so amusing, perhaps a sober reminder to kids used to video games to understand the difference.

On past the mirage-like salt flats of Utah, zipping by downtown Salt Lake City and remembering Joseph Campbell’s profound analysis of the symbols of cultural shifts. The church used to be the tallest building (as it was in Europe through the Renaissance), then trumped by the State Capitol building as the political power of the State grew stronger than the church. Finally, the high-rises of business in the 20^th century signaled the corporate economic power that trumped the political power—which is where we are today. (And why Donald Trump running for President makes it more above-aboard and official as to who’s really running the show.) In Salt Lake City, you can see the whole story within a few blocks.

On we pressed into the more lush green of Utah, fueled by the crunch of corn-nuts to keep us awake and ignoring Michael Pollan’s advice to not buy gas and food at the same place. Pulled into Pocatello, but with a rodeo the next day, there was no room at the Inn—Days, Ramada, Best Western, that is. So on to Idaho Falls and the surprise of actual waterfalls and a lush park by a thriving river. Big blue skies, crisp, fresh air and ready for a morning walk to “listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees.” (Most people think that “Don’t Fence Me In” was an old cowboy song, but in fact was written by urban esthete Cole Porter.)

From here, back in our rented Hyundai to view more of the landscape from our bug-splattered windshield. And so the title. The Jains are a sect in India who take the philosophy of Ahimsa—“do no harm”—to the extreme degree of wearing masks to avoid inhaling and thus, killing, microbes. They would be horrified driving the freeways of the West. Our car is the Genghis Khan of the bug kingdom, decimating them with our windshield and front grill in genocidal proportions. Sorry about that, little creatures. My advice: stay away from freeways. 

On the Road Again

“Aloof and lighthearted, I take to the open road.

Healthy, free, the world before me.

The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose…”

And so summer begins with Whitman’s inviting lines and that fleeting sense of release from the tangles of the daily round, loosing the knots, soaking in the soothing waters of time without schedules and the call to attend to morning birds and evening stars, the landscape no longer the backdrop for one’s personal movie, but the living, animated world inviting us to partake, observe, savor and enjoy:

“Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,

Strong and content, I travel the open road.”

Of course, that “long brown path” is a paved highway with clearly marked exit signs and my choices of where to go are constrained by hotel reservations and rental car return dates— not exactly the larger freedom sung by The Incredible String Band years ago:

“Farewell sorrow, praise God the open door. I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.”

But still. I feel my blood tingling as I pack, anticipating that moment when the last bill is paid, Orff contract mailed, e-mail answered and longing for that exhilarating sense of driving way toward the wide open skies of the West. Now this travel blog will earn its name again, starting with a drive Eastward through the Grand Tetons and Mt. Rushmore en route to Michigan and the old cottage up north by the lake. At the end of June, it's back to the airports (three months away from them!) and a hop across the pond to Verona, Salzburg, Madrid. A chance to invite all those qualities of self locked up in busyness, business and the battles of the working life to come enter the room again, stretch out and sit on some front porch somewhere in quiet conversation. Of course, I will be working in Europe and happily so, but back in the Lone Ranger world of teaching without meetings, working with adults who have sought me out and if there are any tensions (which there rarely are), no need to resolve them—we’ll be saying goodbye in one or five days.

But every opening in one direction is a closing in another, every hello matched with a goodbye, every sweet joined with a bitter (that marvelous phrase they use in Brazil—saudade: bittersweet). Even as the spirit thirsts for this moment, there is an accompanying regret and sadness leaving my 90-year old mother for six weeks, my 17- year old cat and all the others I love and care for. But back to Whitman:

“I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go…

I am filled with them and I fill them in return.”

See you all at the Motel 6— that is, if they have free wireless.

The Arrows and the Olive Branch

Take out a dollar. Now put it in an envelope and send it to me. (Just kidding!) Instead, look on the flip side of George Washington. Ever noticed the pyramid and the eye? This was one of the two Great Seals proposed by Charles Thompson in 1782. Annuit Coeptis roughly translates as “He (the eye of Providence) favors our undertakings.” Novus Ordo Seclorum refers to a “New Order of the Ages” (as distinct from the New World Order of the Right-wing Spinmeisters.)

Well, isn’t that interesting. We’ve handled thousands of these bills, but probably rarely stopped to notice to ponder this. But wait, there’s more. The second of the seals is an American Eagle with 13 stars above his head, a shield of 13 stripes (both representing the colonies). Note what’s in the Eagle's talons—13 arrows in the left, an olive branch in the right. Simplistically speaking, the arrows represent war, the olive branch, peace. Now note which way the eagle is looking. Optimistically toward the olive branch, but not releasing the arrows from its grip— hence, aiming for peace, but prepared to defend itself with war if necessary. (I thank Joseph Campbell for first pointing this out.)

Shouldn’t this be common knowledge amongst schoolchildren and citizens? The Seal suggests that Institutes of Peace should outnumber preparations for war. Instead of—or perhaps, in addition to—military maneuvers training young people to kill, we need Boot Camp for peace—training in non-violent conflict resolution, verbal communication, emotional intelligence, historical analysis, artistic expression. Well, that could be called school.

But this is a matter for another Blog. I’m fresh from the last day of school, where the growing tensions between the old style of egalitarian decision-making sitting around the table and the new style of hierarchical decision-making by select groups behind closed doors reached its breaking point. The school has felt like a place that the eye of Providence favored, a New Order and Vision for the Ages to come. Lately, if feels like it's trying to be like everyplace else. So the staff got together and voted on proposals  designed to restore our sense of voice and inclusion and bridge the lands of “them” and “us” until it feels like “we” again. In the course of these discussions, out came everyone’s relationship with conflict, from “let’s not talk about it” to “let’s just all get along” to “I don’t even trust my own mother” and every point in-between.

And this brings me to the arrows and the olive branch. I’m long trained to gaze toward the olive branch and it’s a good view. But more and more I appreciate those arrows in the talon. I’m feeling that so much of the conflict I’ve had these past months has not come from issues with anger management, personality disorder or clashes of temperament (though they all have their place)— I see the problem coming from systemic procedures that block communication, shut down conversation, concentrate power in the hands of the few without sufficient checks and balances and accountability. In short, failure to follow good democratic procedure.

And to analyze this requires the sharpness of arrows, a true aim that recognizes the target, that can distinguish between the bull’s eye and the outer ring, that can understand how much tension is needed in the bow to release the arrow. It requires the eye of a good scout, the ear of someone on night-watch listening to the snapping of twigs, the nose of someone who can smell when “something is rotten in the state of Denmark.” It requires a community of people who are vigilant in defense of their own core values, who are watchful and alert to the small and big signs of danger. It asks for a guarded trust beyond the naïve faith that “we all have good intentions,” a faith based on fact, a mind that can detect the words intended to hide from those that say exactly what they mean.

Another weapon favored in this kind of metaphorical thinking is the sword. Manjusri, one of the enlightened Buddhas, is often depicted holding a flaming sword that cuts through ignorance and duality. (Note—it is the sword of discrimination that moves us from the “them/us” duality to the “we” unity.) Chinese mythology sees the sword as “penetrating insight,” in Japanese mythology, it represents courage and strength, in Arthurian legend, it is the “Sword in the Stone” that identifies the true king.

Brandishing the sword, stringing the arrows to the bow, these are sometimes necessary actions to defend territory—“This is a line you may not cross.” We all have these lines and since it is fairly certain that someone will try to cross them at some point, we would do well to be trained in sword-raising. Sometimes just showing the sword is enough to let folks know how serious you are. Sometimes bad ideas need to be escorted out the gate at sword-point. Once good faith and intelligent discrimination is restored, we can always turn those swords into ploughshares and plant those olive trees.

But as the dollar suggests, keep a few arrows or swords around. Just in case. 

Leaping Into Summer

Harrison Elementary School, Roselle, New Jersey. I’m 8, 9, 10 years old and watching the clock nudge its snail’s pace toward 3 o’clock. One final click, the liberty bell of freedom rings and I spring from my seat, run downstairs, burst out the double doors and leap off the steps straight into the arms of summer. Every year the same ritual, that glorious moment of release and promises of long days following my curiosity instead of squeezing it into textbooks and schedules. Wandering through Warinanco Park, pick-up baseball, the summer playground with its nok-hockey, tetherball and ping-pong possibilities. Sitting on the front stoop, cat on lap, greeting the passing neighbors while waiting for the fireflies to come out. Tinkering on the piano, watching Million Dollar Movie at night, reading The Wind in the Willows while listening to my scratchy recording of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto, Mole, Rat and Toad inexorably linked with certain musical motifs. Running to Uncle Louie, the ice-cream man, piling in the car to drive down the Garden State Parkway to nearby Sandy Hook Beach or far-away Asbury Park, with its magical boardwalk and games of ski-ball.

Ah, summer! Whatever evil madman thought up mandatory schooling is somewhat excused by giving us the 10-week summer vacation. Though it’s threatened by year-round schools, the sly shift to beginning in late August, the idea of following Europe’s six-week model, I am loyal to the 10-week summer. As a teacher, I know my students lose lots of momentum—the difference between the music the kids can make in September and June is measurable in light years. But still. I’ve had the long summer break just about my whole life and I love it, even as it has made many of my non-teacher friends insanely jealous. (But they have their revenge when I’m putting together Holiday Shows and Spring Concerts while they’re clocking 9 to 5 and come home without their work.)

Of course, these days, summer is not exactly long, lazy days where the main event is buttering corn and salting tomatoes. I always allow a week or so at the family Lake Michigan retreat to keep in touch with “real summer” and it’s lovely. But generally, I’m teaching Orff courses and weirdly, often in places with dubious summer weather. Last year was Brazil, where it was winter, in Salzburg it rains often and Madrid is hot, but without the beach. And then three weeks in San Francisco where the out-of-towners are at first charmed and then quickly fed-up with fog, fog and then—more fog. “What’s the point of walking the beach in blue jeans and sweatshirts?” they ask and I can only agree. But hey, it’s summer! “No more homework, no more books, no more teacher’s dirty looks!” Well, not quite true. We give homework in our Orff course, ask students to read our books and bend a nail on our xylophone and we will give you a look!

But all of this is down the line. Today will be the staff-8^th grade basketball game, farewell lunch with our school tradition of mud-pie desserts, with the special song the kids have to sing (1 mudpie, 2 mudpies, 3 mudpies, 4 mudpies, 5 mudpies, 6 mudpies, 7 mudpies, Yum! Ice cream, sauce and oreos, oreos, oreos, Ice cream, sauce and oreos, chocalate, chocolate, chocolate, Yum!: etc.).  Then the kids look down at their mudpie and sit for 30 seconds of complete stillness—one move and I snatch their mud-pie away. This is an event to behold. Next comes the closing ceremony, always with song (Side by Side, Que Será, Summertime, etc.) and closing remarks. Each teacher speaks about their class and officially rings them up to the next grade on our ceremonial Balinese gongs. Then the youngest and oldest child in the school, who rang the gongs to start the year back in September, ring them again (much more sonorous than my harsh Harrison School 3 o’clock bell). When the last vibration fades into the 190-kid silence, school is out! But no jumping off the steps yet—first the hug-line outside, where every child hugs every teacher before going off into Summer. (Nervous about making this public— the Limiters may sniff us out and send Child-Protective Services to forbid this practice).

That’s how we will end school today, as we have done so many years before. Still 8^th grade graduation tomorrow and two days of meetings before it’s really done and have I mentioned that I’m not finished with report cards yet? But I’m giving myself permission to leap off the steps into summer— something I now can only do metaphorically without hurting my ankle. But it’s just as sweet and delicious now as it was 50 years ago.

Yeeee-haaaaawww!!!!!!

Whatever It Takes

Whatever it takes. That’s the implicit motto of the SF School music department—James, Sofia and myself. No one put it on our contract, no one is clocking our hours and making sure we’re financially compensated and certainly no one is telling us to slow down and not work so hard. It just arose out of our mutual commitment and dedication to do whatever needs to be done to walk the full length of the path we chose. (Or perhaps the path chose us because it saw we were willing to do the work?) It comes from what Daniel Pink (see his new book Drive) calls “intrinsic motivation” and the pleasure of doing what we love.

But as we all know, love is sometimes far too demanding and needy and will set unreasonable expectations without apology. Was that why I was a pole-vaulter in high school? (And broke the school record, I might add!) Some part of me knew the bar was going to be too high for my own two legs to straddle and I was going to need some help. It was exhilarating to speed down the runway, plant that pole, pull and gracefully soar over the bar to land in the soft-pillowed bed of congratulations. But my legs don’t run quite so fast these days, my arms are not quite as strong as they once were and my back is dubious from loading all these instruments into the van.

I look back with longing at these earlier blogs and my travel and teaching. Each and every day, there was a human-size proportion of tasks to be completed and time to savor and enjoy. These past two months have been an Olympian-size list on the shoulders of us mere mortals in the music department—and it ain’t over yet.

Consider: In the past four weeks alone, after returning from teaching at the weekend Orff retreat, we have mounted two Spring concerts with 190 children, which means not only making sure every child has a significant part to play and is clear about the music, the instruments played, the choreography, the transitions on and off stage, but also that we are clear about each detail, remember to pack each of some 100 instruments down to the triangle beater and snare drum brush. With help from some parents and kids (but the burden on us), we load the 17-foot U-haul at school, unload at the theater, load again after the concert, unload at school, just in time for Grandparent’s Day the next day, where select groups will perform again.

The next week is turning the music room into a recording studio and trying to get the perfect take of each of some 70 pieces. Then comes the hours in the studio listening and splicing and working out the order and making the liner notes with cover art for our 26^th school double CD. After checking the final master and liner notes, it’s off to the duplication place to complete the process.

Meanwhile, we’re rehearsing with the Salzburg group on Sundays, organizing that concert, performing that concert (thanks to all that came!) along with the mandatory four-van loads, attending to the considerable details of taking 17 Middle School kids to Europe under our watch. Meanwhile, we’re also attending to the details of hosting our summer SF Orff Course, where some 200 people come from around the world to study with us. Meanwhile, we’re checking in on the Finland, Italy, Spain and Salzburg summer courses we’re teaching in. Meanwhile, we’re trying to get Sofia’s new book fully born into the world, with all the business details that involves. And meanwhile, we’re teaching our regular classes at the school, going to meetings, preparing report cards, taking the 4^th graders to sing for the seniors at the Jewish Home, coming into the pre-school potluck to sing with parents. Meanwhile, we’re ticking off and adding to the lists of all the “meanwhiles” before summer snatches us away and whispers into our ear, “Breathe.”

I’m not asking for sympathy or adoration here (well, maybe a little of both), but the next time people tell me how lucky I am to do such fun work and get to travel and teach and enjoy the satisfaction of playing and singing and dancing with all kinds of people of all ages in all places, I still will agree wholeheartedly. But like anything worthwhile, it is a luck born from hard, hard work that is demanding, relentless and at times, more weight than the human frame can carry. I wouldn’t necessarily wish it on anyone.

Now that I got that off my chest, it’s back to report cards.

June Is Bustin' Out All Over

Well, not quite. The roses are in full blossom, the bougainvillea are bursting with color. the lettuce plants grown from seed on the deck are poking their heads out. But still I wake up with that San Francisco chill in the air. And it rained today. On June 1^st. Memo to the San Francisco Weather Gods—“Rainy Season Ends in April!!”

And then there’s the dark clouds of report cards standing between me and the light of summer sunshine. But hey, we’ve officially crossed into June and that sings of graduations, weddings, peaches on their way and summer’s freedom. All those notable cycles of closing and opening, the satisfaction of completion and the promise of new beginnings. It’s an exciting time. Though right now I feel far from a day at the beach, I can catch the faint scent of it in the air.

I thought I might write about summer here, but my fingers had other plans. After writing today’s title, I paused and wondered, “Would all my readers know where today’s title came from? Would they instantly recognize that song from Carousel by Rodgers and Hammerstein? Would they know that Rodgers first teamed with Lorenz Hart? Would they know something about the relationship between jazz and musical theater? Would they have heard Sonny Rollins’ version of The Surrey With the Fringe on Top or John Coltrane’s My Favorite Things? Would they be familiar with Miles Davis and Gil Evans’ Porgy and Bess album, heard Dave Brubeck’s renditions of West Side Story tunes?”

In the midst of the many pointless things children captive in school have to spend their time learning, has anyone considered the treasured subjects no school ever teaches? For example, the history of musical theater in the United States of America. I think I could make a pretty good case that a thorough study of musical theater would reveal more about our country’s history and culture than just about any other subject—with the added perk of great music, great lyrics, great dancing, stories ranging from the silly to the sublime, the evolution of media technologies…well, really I don’t see any stopping point.

In fact, I started to tell the story in the rough draft of this Blog and saw that it would run for pages beyond pages. From the Minstrel Shows of the 1800’s to the Vaudeville of the turn of the century to the New York Broadway revues of the 20’s to the Hollywood musicals in the 30’s, 40’s, 50’s and yes, on through the 60’s until today—it really is quite a remarkable story. (By the by, the 60’s are where I would stop the bus, the decade that ended the jazz-popular song-Broadway show connection. You can find just about any jazz artist today still performing and recording Bye Bye Blackbird from 1928, but none working with the material from Jesus Christ Superstar, Les Mis or High School Musical.) Stitched into the fabric of the hundreds of songs penned and played in a half-century of musical theater is the entire bizarre, twisted and occasionally inspirational history of race relations, the blurred lines between folk, popular and classical music, the evolution of an American culture distinct from both its European and African roots.

But it’s not just about history. The music, especially in the hands of sophisticated jazz artists, holds up—no period pieces or mere dip back to nostalgia, but the constant re-working of evocative harmonies, swinging and haunting melodies and memorable poetic lyrics by each new generation of jazz artists. The distance between Fred Waring and His Pennsylvanian’s rendition of Cole Porter’s Love for Sale, Billie Holiday’s version with Oscar Peterson and Denny Zeitlin’s solo piano version is considerable, in itself a microcosm of jazz history.

I didn’t grow up as a Musicals buff, but I saw my share—The Wizard of Oz, Oklahoma, South Pacific, The Music Man, The King and I, The Sound of Music, West Side Story and more. And though I mostly played Bach on the organ and Beethoven on the piano, I did have a book of Jerome Kern songs (which I still have, complete with gold stars from my piano teacher) that I enjoyed playing. Who could have imagined that all these many years later, this repertoire of songs would become such intimate friends? When I’m not playing them for my Mom and friends at the Jewish Home, I’m back in my living room trying to figure out the next song they requested that I didn’t know. The Vocal Real Book is as close to my daily Bible reading as I can imagine and my goal to memorize some 300 songs is the horizon I gaze at from the piano bench. Not only is the music itself a daily balm for the ears, but the invitation to fill in the spaces and find the notes not written, the improvisation that is the bread-and-butter of jazz playing, makes them ever fresh and intriguing.

And then there’s the lyrics. I’ve discovered that as much as I love poetry and reading and writing, the music swallows the text hide and hair in my brain. I have to make a special effort to pay attention and learn the words—and when I do, the rewards are considerable (except for the terribly unsatisfying lines in It Never Entered My Mind with “orange juice for one,” “saying the maiden’s prayer again” and “ scratching my back myself). I really can’t get started on this without another 25 pages, but just to give one of my favorite couplets from Love Is Just Around the Corner:

“Venus de Milo, was known for all her charms.

But strictly between us, you’re cuter than Venus,

And what’s more, you’ve got arms!”

See what I mean? Not only funny and clever, but now we have to study a bit of art history to get it.

Though a thousand ways to say “I Love You” in 32 bars (and all the variants of “I did love you, I didn’t, you didn’t, we did and then we didn’t, we should have, we shouldn’t have, etc. etc. and yet again, etc.") is the subject of 95% of the songs, there are many themes of the human experience not only spoken poetically, but coupled with memorable melodies to keep us company in our joy, sorrow, amazement or despair. Right now, I’m doing my repertoire of “Happy Songs” with the kids at school and how they love it. “Side by Side, Sunnyside of the Street, Accentuate the Positive, Pick Yourself Up, High Hopes, The Best Things in Life Are Free, Put on a Happy Face, When You’re Smiling” and more. 

At our Grandparent’s Day, we sang some of these songs and I told the story of the 2^nd graders who were all frustrated by a math problem. One threw down his paper and sighed in despair, “This is impossible!!” Then one of the girls started singing, “Nothing’s impossible I have found…” and they all chimed in. Inspired by the song, they got back to work. The girl who sang was now in 5^th grade and she exclaimed to the grandparents, “I remember that!” And then her friend chimed in and said, “And we solved it, too!”

And so on June 1^st, I woke up singing “June is bustin’ out all over…” and when it rained, I could have sung Stormy Weather or Gentle Rain or Garden in the Rain or Come Rain or Come Shine or Isn’t This a Lovely Day (to get lost in a storm). I did some contra dance with the 2^nd grade today and though the style is different, I could have told them which way to turn by singing Let’s Face the Music and Dance. 

I had my last pre-school singing time for the year today (big sad face here!) and I could have sung The Song Is Ended (But the Melody Lingers On). You get the idea. A song for every occasion.

But there is one subject I’ve never heard addressed in the entire history of popular jazz standards. 

Report cards. 

So on a chilly June San Francisco evening, I better start writing mine.