Love Affair

I just had the most marvelous meeting with my lover. I came around the corner and there she was, so breathtakingly beautiful that— well, there’s no other way to say it— my heart stood still. The most gentle of “Hi’s” escaped my lips and I just stood there transfixed, lost in a lover’s embrace. We have had a long-standing exquisite affair, but today, I fell in love all over again. Her name? San Francisco.

Truth be told, things had grown stale between us. I was tired of her grey, overcast moods, the way she doesn’t pick up after herself on her streets like Salzburg (one of my other girlfriends), her clogged freeway arteries that hardened her heart and other tired habits. And I’m sure she was tired of me complaining about them.

But I have to take some responsibility. Too much time together and too little time together can both be relationship-killers and these past six months, I’ve hardly been around. And when I have been, it was for weeks on end of her foggy thinking when the calendar dictated some clarity. Of course, there were some high points, when her boys brought home the World Series trophies and her favorite uncle renewed his lease on his big White House. But in terms of a soul connection, the threads between us were frayed.

These last few days have changed all that. Brilliant, sunlit, sparkling days that show her effervescent nature in its fully glory. Dressed up so fine in her holiday clothes and stepping out to party with such zest and flair. I’ve been out again exploring all the nooks and crannies of her most lovely body, admiring her from afar and from close-up and she has never looked so good or felt so fine.

Move over, Tony Bennet. I’m in love all over again.

The Best Report Card

I love all the ages I teach and all the styles of music I teach, but we all have our favorite children in the family and teaching jazz to 8^th graders is mine. Besides the fantastic music and the delicious blend of freedom and structure, jazz is intimately connected with our national identity, our history, our future. As Gershwin so succinctly put it: “Jazz is the result of the energy stored up in America.”

Much of what I aspire to in teaching the jazz class is the same as in all my classes, but with that extra twist of history and culture and sense of belonging to a vibrant community just outside the school gates and down the road of our history. Amongst my hopes:

• To reveal this great art form through giving children first-hand experiences in playing.

• To play to each child’s strengths while also inviting them to try out new things.

• To move them beyond the known horizon through improvisation.

• To stand them on the shoulders of those who came before, as in teaching part of a Wynton Kelly solo from which they continue on their own.

• To choose great tunes, things like Miles’ Freddie Freeloader and Count Basie’s Shiny Stockings.

• To connect the music with its history, culture and great artists.

• To widen understanding of how jazz developed and its basic theory.

• To bring the group together through collective music-making— music as a means to create community.

• To give memorable classes that will be missed.

Yesterday, I cleaned out a desk drawer and came upon a card from an 8^th grader student from the class of 2007. It was an end-of-the-year note of appreciation. I love that it's handwritten, I love the colorful drawings and artistic composition and I love that the student noticed and valued just about everything from that list above. It’s one of the best report cards I’ve ever gotten and I keep it to cheer me up on a rainy day when all the doubts about what we’re doing and why and whether we’ve done anything worthwhile creep in.

And since my default setting is inspired education for all, it got me thinking beyond my own personal pleasure and imagining what it would be like if we all gave our students a report card like this. Handwritten with colorful drawings of key moments we shared with the student during the year and heartfelt appreciation for what that student gave to us. And the end of each child’s schooling, they could make a giant collage of all the beautiful cards they got each year. I think I’ll suggest it at the next staff meeting. Meanwhile, here’s the model:

In His Own Sweet Way

I was six years old when I began organ lessons and eight when I added the piano. By the time I reached 8^th grade, the last year of my formal lessons, I was playing Bach on the organ, Beethoven on the piano and listening to Tschaikovsky on the record player. The Beatles had appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show the year before and were the soundtrack to my first make-out parties. (Susan Herman, where are you now?) I had played some songs from a Jerome Kern collection and had watched my share of TV variety shows with live big bands, Disney cartoons and old movies with jazz soundtracks, but up to that point in my musical life, jazz was a foreign country where I had never traveled.

All of that changed when I happened on a record album that caught my ear and opened the door to a world that was destined to be one of my home addresses. In an attempt to keep my restless teenage Beatles-opened self continuing with piano lessons, my teacher got me a book of the pieces from the album and put them on my practice list. Those tunes proved to be my passport across the border and the group leader my first guide. The album was called Time Out and the group was The Dave Brubeck Quartet. Yesterday, one day short of his 92^nd birthday, Dave Brubeck left us, took some time out from this earthly life and passed to the other side.

You can read the details of his remarkable life in the obituaries—growing up on a cattle ranch near Concord, studying at University of Pacific (which now hosts The Brubeck Institute) and later at Mills College, forming his famous quartet in 1951 (the year I was born), an integrated group with black bassist Eugene Wright, bringing jazz to the college circuit, getting featured on the cover of Time Magazine in 1954, apologizing to Duke Ellington that he got on Time before Duke because of pernicious racism, releasing the first million-selling jazz album, Time Out, in 1959,  expanding jazz’s reach with the use of odd time signatures and continuing to compose, perform and teach up until the last months of his life.

By all accounts, he was a devoted family man, raising six sons, most of whom became performing musicians in their own right, a devout Catholic, a dedicated musician and a sweet man. He was grateful to the black culture and musicians who inspired him and outspoken about racism. Along with Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Dizzy Gillespie and others, he was one of America’s jazz ambassadors, bringing this beautiful music to countries far and wide and being inspired in turn, like Duke, to write new compositions from the influence of other culture’s music. (Blue Rondo a la Turk is perhaps one of the most famous of those inspired rhythms, combining a Turkish 9/8 meter with a Mozartian rondo form and an American blues middle section).

As mentioned at the beginning, Dave Brubeck opened the door to jazz for me. But I must confess that once I passed through and met Count Basie and Art Tatum and Charlie Parker and Bill Evans and John Coltrane and Miles Davis and on and on, I didn’t listen much more to Dave. But in 2001, I noticed he was performing at the SF Jazz Festival. Serendipitously, I had decided to try Take Five with my 8^th grade students that year and grabbed the opportunity to take the kids to see him at Masonic Auditorium. He was 81 at the time and played a fabulous concert. I had always thought of him as the Alan Watts of jazz, making it palatable and accessible to an uneducated white audience. (For those who don’t know him, Alan Watts did the same for Zen Buddhism). But now I saw that he deserved his place among the best— an innovative, expressive and formidable piano player who kept growing his whole life. His voice was unique and to paraphrase one of his great tunes, he did everything “in his own sweet way.”

After the concert, we waited near the backstage door to see if he would come out to greet us. Fifteen minutes later, when the audience had cleared out, he came back to stage and invited us up. I told him that I was in 8^th grade when he first opened my world and now here I was with my 8^th grade students. He was so appreciative, warm and generous to them—and to me— and his agent later wrote a note saying that Dave had enjoyed the school CD I had given to him.

I’ll close with a reflection from one of those 8^th graders, made more poignant by Mr. Brubeck’s recent passing. I know he leaves us born on the wings of all the love and inspiration he generated in millions worldwide and I imagine him treasuring these words as much as any of the numerous awards he received.

“It’s hard to describe the feeling I felt when I walked downstairs in the morning, and learned that we had 25 tickets to the Dave Brubeck concert. I could immediately picture Mr. Brubeck and his quartet playing Take Five and everyone cheering.

When Dave started to play his first tune, accompanied by the amazing bass player and drummer, and then the saxophone and flute, I was impressed by how beautifully the instruments complemented each other. The concert was great—I was in awe when Dave Brubeck played.

When I am old and have lived for many, many years, I will remember the night when Dave Brubeck’s quartet and my 8^th grade class met. In thirteen years of living, I have never been so lucky as to meet one so famous as Mr. Brubeck. The night of November 2^nd will be in my mind until my soul calls it quits.”   —Nick Makanna

Best of the Blogs

It has been a marvelous Fall, rich with travel, workshops, music and all the things that get me up in the morning with a bounce to my step. But one missing piece has been the thread of an ongoing project to stitch the days together, For me, that means writing another book. The way the schedule worked out, two weeks away, one week back, one week away, two weeks back, made that impossible. I generally need six weeks of chaining myself to the desk to get the next book birthed. And with at least six more waiting in line for the turn, I found myself impatient.

This last weekend, with nothing on the calendar and a raging storm outside, I thought I would finally get down to my favorite procrastinated project— cleaning and organizing my work space. But instead, I picked up a thread I thought about back in September and began re-reading and re-organizing my blogs with the thought of publishing. Get the words off of the ephemeral floating screen onto the solid white page of the book. Organize certain themes around a central theme of Education (not travel—that for a future collection)—Arts Education, Kids, The Craft of Teaching, How We Learn, Culture and Community, Politics and Policies. With over 400 to choose from, be picky and of course, edit and even re-write.

Such decisions are always a courageous step into the dark forest of the unknown and like with all such moments in our lives, best if someone’s there to hold our hand or encourage us to start walking. And so dear Reader, if any of you are inclined to encourage and discourage me (note the word of “courage” in both!), to share any personal favorite blogs, to either give me a word for the title to replace the accurate but ugly “blog” (Confessions of a Traveling Music Teacher: The Education Blogs) or suggest a new title altogether, I would be forever grateful. The easiest would just to use the Comment option (though several folks complain that this doesn’t work for them). Other options include Facebook, Skype,  e-mail (goodkindg@aol.com), phone or floral delivery with message. And of course, if I hear from exactly no one, I’ll probably forge ahead anyway.

Meanwhile, thank you, dear Reader, for taking your valuable time to read as much of these as you have. Coming up to the two-year anniversary of my first posting, these little essays have been a cherished and faithful companion, made all the richer knowing that you are at the other end.

Exile and Redemption

What are the stories that move me? What common threads run through each book or film or real life story that makes me feel a different person at the end than I was at the beginning? What is the thing that stirs my blood and feeds my hope and helps me feel that there indeed is a purpose and meaning, if not to all of life, at least to a few?

I think it begins with a feeling of exile— from one’s parents, friends, lovers, culture, homeland, self. Then comes the adventure, the arduous journey with its missed directions, false paths, moving forward and then sinking back, dodging the arrows of misfortune or engaging the demons on one’s shoulders or opening the doors to the seen and unseen helpers. And finally, the moment or moments of redemption. The reconciliation with the estranged parent or child, the coming to peace with one’s self, the return to the homeland, be it psychological, mythological or literal. Sometimes the moments are like grand symphonic cadences, with trumpets blaring and tympani pounding. Other times, like a quiet consonant chord after much dissonance, a small gesture well timed or brief moment of genuine understanding. The weight of a lifetime lifted, the dark curtains momentarily parted, the crazed laughter of unbearable sorrow transforming into the joyful laughter of acceptance.

On Thanksgiving Day, I had an urge to see the movie Pieces of April again with my daughter’s family. Alas, it was not available on their Netflicks and we settled for Outside Providence, in deference to the place where she and her husband met and where her step-son lives. But today, we found it at the local public library and there it all was, my archetypal plot filmed with such humor, artistry, memorable characters and yes, a beautiful moment of hard-earned redemption. Along with classics like Black Orpheus, The Seven Samurai, It Happened One Night, Some Like It Hot, The Lady Vanishes, The Misfits and yes, why not? It’s a Wonderful Life, the film rose to my top 15 list. If you have never seen  Pieces of April or not seen it for a while, treat yourself. Don’t wait until next Thanksgiving.

Meanwhile, the book I just finished, Little Bee, is yet another such tale. Much darker times ten, but exquisitely written and masterfully rendered by author Chris Cleave. And the exile, transformation, redemption theme runs throughout my other favored books as well. Just about all of Dickens, Wilkie Collins, John Steinbeck and also in the living authors like Ann Patchett, Barbara Kingsolver, Michael Malone and beyond.

Of course, all this began in my childhood with the happy endings of the fairy tales and was also the pattern in musical works from Mozart’s Requiem to John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme. But alongside these classical archetypal patterns, new sensibilities emerged in literature and film that mirrored “real life.” Endings where no redemption can be found, where the homecoming never happens, where things go from bad to worse and stay there. And growing into the reality checks of aging, I indeed found it rare for the bitter man to suddenly turn to grace at the end, for a lifetime of abusive invective to suddenly—or gradually— change to sweet praise. In my experience, those who cause harm intentionally or unintentionally, who betrayed cruelly or ignorantly, rarely apologized or asked for forgiveness. Actually in my case, never. (But I’m not bitter and forgive them all. Well, sometimes.)

But none of that makes these stories one inch less inspiring or beautiful. And though rare, grace does happen. Sunshine lights up corners kept dark for years, a well-placed hug dissolves decades of anger, the ship comes to port with welcoming people on the dock.

May it happen for you.

Outrageous Ambition

I’ve never hunted in my life. Never stalked or shot an animal. But I am a hunter of words, of inspired phrases that capture the essence of what I need at any given moment. My weapon of choice is a Niji pen, my sack to carry home my prey a piece of paper, any size. I stalk through the world in a forest of words waiting for the ones I’m hungry for to appear. When I bring them down, I take them home, skin them, dress them and cook them to bring to the table of an article or blog and the feast begins.

And so yesterday I attended a Forum on Music Education sponsored by Cal Arts at Zellerbach. The impetus was the presence of the Simon Bolivar Orchestra and the remarkable work of José Antonio Abreu, the man in Venezuala who began teaching music to 11 kids in a garage and 37 years later, has touched some 400,000 children, most of who were “youth at risk.” Now known as El Sistema and spreading rapidly worldwide, his work has been applauded from all corners of education, art and social work. More on this in the next few postings.

Regretfully, I missed Abreu’s appearance at the Forum the day before, but during the combination of presentations and break-out discussions yesterday, my Niji was scribbling away furiously, as if I had surprised a herd of edible animals at the waterhole. In describing some nine qualities that characterized El Sistema and that could be translated into other ways of working and thinking, one little phrase caught my ear:

Outrageous Ambition.

Abreu’s outrageous ambition was to create social change through music, a sweeping vision that he has largely realized. Though of course, progress in one outrageous ambition simply means opening the door to the next. You never wholly arrive and that’s what keeps it outrageous. If you dream small enough to accomplish every corner of your hopes, then you have sold yourself short. I think of Rilke’s lines:

“When we win, it’s with small things and the winning itself makes us small.”

Or Blake:

“I pity the man whose passions are so small that he can control them.”

I began my teaching life with a similar outrageous ambition— music teaching to transform culture, schools, children’s lives and teacher’s lives. Where Abreu traveled a mile, I nudged forward an inch, but no matter— it’s all the same game. I loved hearing these two words together to affirm my own hopes and dreams. Both words are ambivalent and that makes them yet more enticing.

“Outrageous” as defined by Merriam-Webster online can mean:

1)    Exceeding the limits of what is usual

2)    Not conventional or matter-of-fact: fantastic

That well describes my involvement withThe San Francisco School and Orff Schulwerk, both growing in the turbulent ‘60’s out of discontent with “business-as-usual,” both requiring thought and dreaming beyond the conventional or casual matter-of-fact, both aiming for fantastic, as in, “How was the concert?” “Fantastic!”

But “outrageous” is a two-edged sword, its alternate definitions as follows:

1)    having no regard for morality, going beyond all standards of what is right.

2)    Violent or unrestrained in temperament or behavior

Like the outrage I feel when people blindly block my outrageous ambitions with small-minded, self-protecting, agenda-pushing, top-down decisions. But that’s not the side of the word that Abreu had in mind— or me either.

Then “ambition.” In Latin, the ambit was the border or circumference of the known. Thus, ambition is to walk the full measure of the circumference and even peer over the wall. It carries its shadow side— an ambitious person hungry for power doesn’t often earn our admiration. But when we speak of an ambitious project, we admire its high goals and the courage of its visionaries to take risks. Ambition is equally the fuel for both selfish greed and power and selfless service to social justice. Donald Trump and Martin Luther King both carried a hefty measure of ambition, but for markedly different ends.

Outrageous ambition has the power to open doors few people even notice, never mind consider opening. And what has driven me mad in the current climate of litigation is the way administrators immediately chain an outrageous ambition to an insurance broker or lawyer, shooting it down before it has even flapped its wings, tethering it to a short leash that kills its spirit. Let it fly!! Don’t limit it with your own fears, your “that will never work” cynicism, the “yes, but…” arguments. It will soon find out its own limits.

In fact, story after story yesterday of remarkable achievements all affirmed that the larger the dream, the deeper the commitment of the dreamer. After the initial rush of the vision came the details of the funding, all of which could have brought it crashing down. But with patience, perseverance and an unswerving faith in the rightness of the dream, remarkable things finally happened.

So my friends, dream and re-dream you own outrageous ambitions and don’t apologize.

Dream big, start small and keep your eye on the prize.

Doug's Survival Manual

Talent is forged in solitude, character in the tumult of the world. —Goethe

Time for a confession. I love the courtroom drama. I love the war with words. I love lining up arguments like a regiment of soldiers. Just after the moment of feeling betrayed, wronged, astonished, outraged, some part of me is shouting “Yippee! Let’s get to work! Here’s your chance to re-define what you stand for, re-articulate your values, test out how much you care about them and see how much heat you can stand in the kitchen of conflict.”

I was born into adulthood in the tumult of the late ‘60’s, but it was a birth midwifed in a room with soft lighting and caring people. I expected the world to be ultimately a loving and good-hearted place and approached people and situations as if. And minus a couple of dicey hitchhiking stories, the world mostly bore out my expectations as time after time I experienced the kindness of strangers and the goodness of friends. Then I set to work in my little corner of Utopia at the San Francisco School, with a side-community of huggy Orff folks. Of course, Greek tragedy and Shakespearean drama was always lurking below the surface, but mostly it was a delightful romp in La-la Land.

But somewhere around six or seven years ago, Tumult found my hiding place and came at me with a vengeance. It creeped under the gates of my school, slipped in the door of the national Orff meetings, met me around the corner of all the institutions I encountered in furthering my work. And this Mr. Naïve was constantly taken by surprise time and again. Each new outrage knocked me to the ground and sat heavy on my shoulders.

And yet I always managed to get up. And now I’m more prepared. Not that it all hurts any less, but I’m just a trifle less shocked. I’m back in the tumult now (with a lot of company) with my national Orff organization and I’m trying to weather this storm so I don’t get too battered. So I made myself a little primer to remind me how to get through it all. As follows:

• Speak out—then duck.

• It’s not what’s right, but who has might. But speak the truth anyway.

• Betrayal is as everyday as bread. And no-carb diets don’t work.

• Expect less of the world, but keep fighting.

• Don’t be a silent worker on the assembly line of manufactured consent.

• Don’t pin your hopes on someone changing. They won’t.

• Don’t be silent because they want you to, but for your own health, shut-up occasionally

   and go play the piano.

Like now.