Open the Windows

“Inside these bars on the xylophone is a secret song. See if you can find it.” So began my class with the 5-year olds and off they went to the corners of the room for their sonic adventure. Leading with their hands, voice or mind, their urge to express something and the mind’s constant groping for coherent pattern, form and structure led them to find their “secret song.” Step two was to play it enough to remember it and then step three, bring their instrument to the circle and share it. “I like coffee, I like tea, I like Max to play with me” and off he goes. The other children listen intently and respond with a big smile and thumbs up. And off we go to the next—“I like coffee…”

I repeated the class with the 2^nd grade, only this time in groups of three. In addition to finding their own song, they had both the stimulus and the limitation of having it fit with their partners. What fascinated me was that as soon as they got to their instruments, they started playing snippets of the pieces they just played in the Spring Concert. Or more interesting yet, parts of pieces that other classes had played that they had heard. So I had to remind them that the exercise was not to play what they already know, but what they don’t yet know. They had to resist the gravitational pull of going immediately to playing something familiar and search for the notes not yet played. With much coaxing, they managed to do it with pretty good results (though I did detect the bass line to “Smoke on the Water” in one of the group pieces!).

That tendency to go to the xylophone or piano or recorder and play everything we have learned is natural and necessary, the way the brain locks in the learning and paves the synapses. It gives us the comfort of the familiar and the pride of our practiced path. It is the floor and walls and ceiling and furniture of the houses we construct. If we choose something difficult that uses lots of us—say, a Beethoven sonata or Charlie Parker memorized solo or a Chinese gu-zheng composition, it has the possibility of refreshing us each time we play it. I mention the latter because I was struck with the way the five young gu-zheng (a Chinese zither) players I worked with in the World Music Festival, played a difficult piece with virtuosic techniques and great subtlety and nuance exactly the same way time and time again, like slipping into an expensive dress. That disciplined practice of precision with a beautiful piece of music is always admirable and mostly refreshing.

Why “mostly?” Because even the most inspired composed piece played by a skilled musician runs the danger of becoming rote, of shutting down any further thinking, listening or feeling. The house is decorated to perfection, every flower in its vase, piece of silverware in its place, painting hung straight on the wall, but without opening a window or door, the air can get stale and the bird song outside go unheard.

And so enter jazz and other musical styles that invite improvisation. They demand a rehearsed mastery of the tune, but also invite further exploration. The tune, worthy as it is, is not the end, but the starting point of the thinking brain’s, the listening ear’s, the open heart’s, continued investigation. Once the house is in order, you open the window and let in other ideas or converse with the other musicians gathered on the deck or smell the sweet jasmine bush in the yard. That’s the kind of musician we’re seeking to cultivate in this Orff practice, whether they be five years old, seven, or fifty-seven. And the kind of human being as well—perpetually listening, thinking, feeling, responding, searching for the next secret song.

(PS For those who live locally, see this process in action with my debut Pentatonics Family Jazz Concert at my school this Saturday. 300 Gaven St., 2 to 4. Not to be missed!)

Part-time Human

A school parent recently shared her surprise that the teachers spoke so highly of her child, praising her for her happy demeanor, focused work and generous participation in all activities. “Sometimes I wonder who they’re talking about! When she comes home, she’s a complete wreck!” I replied, “Probably from all the pressure of having to be good for six hours straight!” Other parents seem surprised when we report their child’s outrageous behavior at school and tell us, “He’s a perfect angel at home!”

It occurrs to me that the job of being a 24/7 functioning, sociable and fulfilled human being is not for most of us. Maybe we should lower the bar and just work part-time at it, with a given time each day where we are given permission to be cranky, angry, inappropriate, miserable, selfish, indulgent and just plain bad. Ideally, in a padded room.

I see some of my three-year olds struggling with impulse control. With a combination of loving encouragement and strict consequences, they slowly realize that maybe they shouldn’t keep running around screaming while the others kids are frozen into shapes or aimlessly wander around the room banging on the drums while we’re in a circle singing a quiet song. They start to get the hang of the group sensibility and how to be a contributing member of our little community. But it often happens that they keep it together for twenty minutes of class and then fall apart in the last ten. The pressure is just too much.

Maybe a worthy goal is to keep shifting the ratio— from six-hour human, six-hour monster to 11-hour human, from 50% pretty good to 95%. Build into our day 10 minutes to walk away from it all and go scream, weep, curse and then return to civilization ready to re-engage in the monumental task of being a good citizen who plays well with others, shares our toys and leaves our desks nice and tidy.

So the next time someone questions why we’re falling short, simply remind them: “Hey, I’m a part-time human. Right now I’m off duty.”

Seeing Red

Was I born in the wrong generation? Just saw the play Red about the artist Mark Rothko. By today’s standards, the guy was a narcissistic, egotistic, self-absorbed, macho, arrogant bastard who talked at his assistant, bullied him, dismissed his ideas, shouted at him, threw paint at him and never once asked him about his personal life in their two years together.  He was a complete jerk—and I loved him! Well, not wholly, I mean, I wouldn’t want to work with him or call him up to go to the movies, but the ideas spoken and the passion with which they were delivered were invigorating. When the assistant finally stepped up and shouted back (instead of going to anger management classes together or reading the No-Bully guidelines), delivering verbal punches straight to the gut and head, Rothko said, “This is the first time you exist for me.”

That confrontation between the two was one of the most refreshing conversations I’ve heard in a long time. At no time did either claim to be “transparent,” “interested in moving forward,” “hearing where the other was coming from,” or careful to “only use I-statements.” I walked out of the play feeling more alive than usual, with my own passion and ferocity risen and affirmed. That red-hot clarity of thought that is constantly damped down by a culture of niceness and my own little boy desire to please others finally could hold its head high and say “Yeah!”

Lately at my school we’re beginning some meetings with a set of “norms.” We recite them like the Pledge of Allegiance or the Lord’s Prayer, with about as much conviction as I remember feeling when I said those routine words in my elementary school. Things like:

• Assume good intentions.

• Monitor your tone of voice.

• Don’t make it personal or take it personally.

• Step up. Step down. Equal time for everyone.

I’m trying to imagine the great moments in religion, mythology, history, literature following the norms.

• Jesus on the cross, “My God, why have you forsaken me?!!”

“Son, I’d appreciate it if you’d monitor your tone of voice.”

• God to Abraham. “I’m going to ask you to kill your son, but don’t take it personally.”

• Jesus to Judas, Casear to Brutus, women at the witch burnings: “Don’t worry.I know you have only the best intentions.”

• Fellow civil rights workers to Martin Luther King at the March on Washington.. “Ahem. Martin, your five minutes is up. Let someone else talk now.”

• Marlon Brando in Streetcar Named Desire;  "stella."

And so on.

Well, we do need some social codes of etiquette and nicety and school staff meetings are hardly moments of great drama—or are they? The poet David Whyte was asked why bother to bring poetry into the mundane and humdrum corporate world and he said, “Are you kidding? Your typical corporate office is Shakespeare plus. There are mutinies gathering at the water cooler, midnight assassinations, trysts on the verandah during the office party.” And schools have the same thing, the little plotting and revenges and excommunications and betrayals, the jostling for power and alpha domination, the broken-hearted love affairs—and I’m just talking about the kids!! At our recent Spring concert, while I waxed poetic about the community-building and intricate harmonies that music brought to children, six girls were wrestling on stage with their feather boas directing their version of the patterned dance in full view of the 400 person audience, two boys were trying to play louder than each other on their xylophones, one girls slapped another in the face with her recorder case in the wings. And don’t even get me started on the teachers.

New Age crap aside, let’s stop kidding ourselves. Go into any gathering of human beings and under the surface of nicety is “Who do I need to suck up to? Who will I dominate? Who will help me on my way up? Who is trying to block me? Who wishes me dead? Who will I sleep with? “ And then there’s our struggle with life itself— earthquakes that don’t care about our personal development, diseases that randomly choose our bodies, histories of hatred and enmity that never quite go away. This requires ferocity, this requires passion. More red than light pastels. All of red, from blood to sunsets, the Devil to Santa Claus, from danger and stop signs to Chinese good fortune.

Go see Red. Of course, if you don’t like it, I completely respect your point of view and understand how it might not speak to you and I apologize in advance for taking up your valuable time.

A Spot of Sun

Yesterday I woke up to this request from my wife: “Can you go to the other room and check to see if Chester’s dead?” Quite a way to start the day! Chester is our 18-year-old arthritic cat and he had been curled up in the spare bedroom without his usual middle of the night meowing. I approached with trepidation and was relieved to see him breathing. Which was easy to see because the other day he got shaved to deal with the matted hair he could no longer untangle himself. He looked like a rat with a giant head and bushy tail, the two places the haircutters left alone. It was a shock to come home to this Dr. Seuss caricature and sobering to find out that the hair would grow back at the glacial pace of 1/4 inch per month. It’s clear that Chester may not have enough months left to grow back to himself.

This morning I found him in a spot of sun, so peacefully soaking up its warmth. A small comfort in hard times, but maybe it’s enough. As it often is for my Mom when I can take her outside to the garden. At the end of the day, just to sit silently in the blessed light of the star that sustains our planet’s life is all we need. After passing through the 12 Labors of Hercules that music teachers go through—ie, the Spring Concert—I would be wise to sit next to Chester and share the pleasure.

Despite the convenience of laptops, the one place they don’t work for me is in the sun. Can’t see the little arrow on the screen, the artificially generated light of the computer trumped by the Emperor of Light and that’s as it should be. The computer is the trusty horse of today’s Herculean Labors that keep the world of human affairs spinning, but as Chester reminds me, there is more to this life than getting stuff done. Old or young, a spot of sun on the living room floor is an invitation to remember. And so I leave you to stretch out with my cat. Meow.

Proposition 31

Another night of magic and miracles has come and gone. First through fifth graders created a sacred space in the Brava Theater as they played, sung and danced themselves—and all fortunate enough to witness it— to glory. Being kids and two-legged creatures, the magic was peppered with little squabbles, competitions, a couple of missed cues, a nervous stage fright with annoying giggles, but hey! bringing 100 kids together to accomplish what they did is indeed a miracle. A miracle built brick-by-brick by the tireless dedication and hard work of the teachers, who spend their nights thinking about where to put that F# glockenspiel bar and how to solve the problem of the shaky bass bar part.

Anybody with half a heart and one eye open who witnessed that night couldn’t help but notice that something extraordinary occurred, something worthy of our children and something necessary to all children. At the end of the program, I spoke to the audience about Proposition 13, that devastating bill the voters endorsed so enthusiastically back around 1978—“Hey, less property tax means more money for my Hawaii vacation! Sounds great!" And so down came the guillotine on the schools, with the arts programs, which had been relatively healthy in California and starting to embrace the Orff approach to music education, first on the chopping block. 34 years later, no signs of reversal. Three generations of children deprived of experiences like last night, experiences that give them just about everything a human being needs to be whole— group work, individual challenge, moments to shine their quirky and exceptional talents, confidence in front of the public, communion with their fellow classmates, immersion in sounds and motions that touch them to the core of their soul.

I ended with a plea for Propostion 31—let’s get together and besides just feel all right, do the political work to help all children feel all right. Not exactly my strength, the nitty-gritty of political lobbying, but I’ll jump up on that bandwagon in a hearbeat and trumpet down the walls of Jericho’s selfishness and ignorance. And I got three generations of kids at The San Francisco School who (if I only joined Facebook) I could gather together instantly to hit the streets running, petition in hand.

Meanwhile, being involved in this esoteric teaching approach that constantly needs explanation, I always try to educate a bit at concerts and help the audience reflect. For those who are curious about it, here are last night’s program notes.

Picasso once said, “It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child.” He admired the rich imagination of children unfettered by adherence to specific techniques. Children surprise—and often amaze us—with their paintings, with their poetry, with their spontaneous observations and provocative questions. Recent studies show that five-year olds can think of 100 things to do with a paper-clip, whereas high school students, who have had the wings of imagination clipped by too much dull schooling, might only think of five. Classified knowledge, virtuosic techniques, routine and habit and disciplined mastery all have their place in every field of study, but too much too soon unbalanced by “what else can we do with this?” is a blow to our rich childlike imagination.

In the field of music, prodigies excepted, young children in our culture are simply on their way to finally making decent music after years of practice. We endure their squeaky violins and clarinets in hopes that someday Bach and Be-bop will emerge in all their glory. But what if there was a parallel track to this kind of music study that found ways to make exciting and beautiful music at each step of a child’s development without hours of solitary practice? What if there was a way to create a musical culture that soaked children in the soothing and cleansing waters of music and dance without it having to feel like a special study? What if there was a way to grow children’s understanding and technique alongside inviting their imaginations to be set sonically and kinesthetically free? And the good news? There is! The Orff approach to music education in the hands of teachers who live it, breath it, embody it and devote themselves to its demanding practice.

And so what we hope you see here tonight is the dignity and delight of the children’s musical expression at each stage of their journey to adulthood. Fifth grade is more sophisticated and consciously knowledgeable about musical principles than first grade, but it doesn’t make them better, just different. As we grow and develop, our artistic impulses may mature and reach new depth, but ultimately the young seedling and mature plant share the same nature. Again, Picasso: “I don’t develop. I am.”

Enjoy the show—the children certainly will!

Sophie's Choice

“In 1985, as the staff discussed what the new Middle School would be like, we had a hard decision to make. Would music and art become competing electives, as they often are in Middle Schools, or would they continue to be core curriculum for everyone? If we had merely followed the convention of other schools, we would have missed an extraordinary opportunity. But true to the spirit of our school, we decided to trust our intuition, to do it our way and live the conviction that the arts are central at every stage of our development and for every child, regardless of apparent interest or so-called talent.”

So opened the program notes to our Middle School Spring Concert. Reading them over, I thought about the idea of art and music as competing subjects. Why would a culture do that to its children? It’s as if God was fashioning human beings and said, “ To stay alive you need to eat and you need to drink. Choose one.” Why would the arts, something as basic as bread and water to us, be set up against each other and offered as if it were a treat that you could take or leave? And that’s in the better schools these days. In so many places, the bread and water of the arts isn’t even on the menu—no choice.

So 27 years after making the choice we made at The San Francisco School, we had another glorious evening of music-making in our annual Spring Concert. Really an astounding evening. From the deliciously raucous Balkan band opening to the 6^th graders’ hypnotic Philippine piece and exuberant Jarocho dancing and joyful Canta Pajarito song, from 7^th graders bringing Medieval music, Vivaldi, Piazolla and Stravinsky alive in such compelling and creative arrangements, to the 8^th graders giving us a “Thrill from the Blues” and sweet jazz ballads and hot Latin jazz and showing us that it “Taint Whatch Do It’s the Way Howcha Do It,” it was two hours of basic nutrition beautifully presented and tastefully cooked. It had all the conviviality of a great meal with the conversation flowing and also conversation brought to a halt as folks savored the flavors. Delicious!

To offer competing arts in Middle School, elective arts only in high school and college, no arts in the workplace is just plain wrong. It is the sickness of our culture. When will they make the “Sophie’s Choice” movie showing that? We must love all the children of our intelligences equally, continue to raise our capacities to experience and express the world visually, musically, linguistically and kinesthetically with a lifetime of art, music, poetry, drama and dance. The choice that all the Sophies I know make, those marvelous children who enter and leave my classes so happy to get to play, sing and dance at every age,is and forever will be “all of the above.”

So all you Boards of Education, when will you wake up? I imagine St. Peter interviewing you: “Did you feed the children? Did you cook with love? Or were you so cruel as to make them choose or crueler yet, withhold food and water all together. I don’t care about the charities you gave to and all the good deeds you did. No room for you here!”

Get Thee Behind Me, Satan!

I was seated at the concert grand piano with headphones on at Fantasy Studios, poised to record a demo for a singer who had hired me. The other players were in their isolated booths while the recording engineers were checking the levels. This was new territory for me, made all the more exciting—and terrifying—knowing that I was in the very room where Santana had recorded their groundbreaking album all those years back. There was a good chance that  at one time Miles or Monk or Coltrane had been in here and while I was thinking about the splendor of all this, that old familiar voice whispered in my ear, “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?!!!! Who are you kidding?!!” I tried to turn up the other speaker on my headphone, the one with my mother’s voice and her beaming smile exclaiming “My talented son!! You’re wonderful!!” And so the conversation between the Devil of Doubt and the Angel of Motherly Love continued. As it does almost every day of my life.

I managed to breathe through it all, put my fingers on the keys and dig in. Really, what choice did I have? Another terrifying moment when we went to hear the playback and the dubious moment I remembered indeed was there, as were the okay ones and a few random inspired ones. But the other musicians didn’t outwardly glare at me and the singer kept repeating how pleased he was and why not believe him?

Truth be told, that Devil of Doubt is not pure evil and had a good point. I hadn’t paid the normal dues a jazz musician does and what makes me think I can avoid it and still be worthy to be in the studio or the stage? Answer? I can’t. And this recording was a step down the road of dues paid, live and learn. But I have paid some kind of dues as a lifelong listener of jazz and closet (well, living room) player for at least forty years. I occasionally hear something that I want to say in only the way I can say it and that counts for something too. And this was a demo CD for possible party gigs, pretty low-stakes in the long run. So why not enjoy it? And so I did.

The next day, I was interviewed as part of the Storycorps Project, a national venue for collecting people’s life stories, storing them in an archive in the Smithsonian and occasionally selecting some or excerpts for radio play or publication. I was joining 38,000 other recordings in my bid for posterity, excited to know that my great-grandchildren might potentially go to Washington some day to listen. The problem was that I had 40 minutes. At 39 minutes, I had just gotten out of college. Luckily, the next person cancelled and I got to record Part 2, this time zeroing in more on the punchline of all the stories—“It’s never too late to have a happy musical childhood.” I felt better by the end, but then the Devil popped up and told me in no uncertain terms: “You fool!! You think it was really important to tell how you used to stuff candy into your pockets from your piano teacher’s candy dish?”

And then today. My colleague James Harding got Rob Kapilow and Fred Newman to come to our school. The former is the composer of a work celebrating the 75^th anniversary of the Golden Gate Bridge, the latter also collaborating on the project and best known for his work as Sound Effects guy for Garrison Keilor’s Praire Home Companion radio show. James had the 5^th grade share their composition about the bridge based on a brilliant structure that James had offered them. Sofia directed the kids’ and adult chorus with a roof-raising-hair-on-arm-tingling rehearsal, Sofia and James’ 7^th grade students played Vivaldi and part of Orff’s Carmina Burana flawlessly for our guests, both of whom were, to use their words, “blown away” by the musicality, understanding, sophistication and listening skills of the students. Meanwhile, Doug had a bad rehearsal with 8^th that morning. So now the Devil was having a field day before my Mom’s voice even got out of bed.

“Get thee behind me, Satan” said the old wisdom and there are times when the guy needs to just shut up! But I wouldn’t throw him out altogether. He keeps me honest, keeps me working, keeps me reaching, even though it be for things perpetually beyond my grasp. But three days with that voice in my ear is enough. Let’s see how I feel after the next two nights of Spring Concerts. Mom?