Mile Upon Mile, Minute Upon Minute

I'm an early riser. Actually, I'm an early waker. I normally wake around 5:30 or 6:00 (at first light) and then lie in bed with my iPhone or iPad until the Jazzman wakes around 7:30. Once he rouses, we sit and discuss the day until he has to get up to go to work. It's a precious and valued part of each day for me.

For the past 5 years, most Mondays have included a 7:00 p.m. rehearsal in Cleveland. I would leave home no later than 5:00 to allow for unknown traffic problems along the way, gassing up, if required, and then enough time to park the car, use the restroom, greet a few friends, and get settled in my assigned seat before warm-up. After rehearsal, I would rush to the car and start driving, arriving home at 11:15. (Concert weeks added multiple drives to Severance Hall, an extra 5 miles and half hour.) This same scenario occurred in sun, clear moonlight, clouds, rain, snow, sleet, 40mph winds, no traffic, heavy traffic, and accidents that stopped me in my tracks for an hour. Many nights I would be so tired that I would slap myself rhythmically - face, legs, top of head - to avoid falling asleep. A few times I stopped at the lone rest area along the turnpike to try to sleep for a few minutes, but I was always afraid of something bad happening to me, so would give up after five minutes and keep driving.

Every Monday morning when I looked at the clock and saw anything less than 6:30, I would wonder what my drive home would be like. Would I be able to stay awake for the drive? I would lie here for a few minutes wondering if I could possibly go back to sleep. (Nope!) Then I'd give up and go about my morning quiet time.

If I was sick - as happened yesterday - I didn't have to worry that if I wasn't better by time to leave, the next Monday night I'd have to endure an Individual Testing Session with the director - one of the most vilified aspects of membership in the chorus.

Yesterday morning I woke up. Period. I woke up. I didn't need to worry about the time. I didn't need to worry about whether I was rested enough to drive the 65 miles there and 65 miles back in safety. I didn't need to look at the weather forecast. I didn't need to think about my car's age or the cost of gas and toll or the condition of the turnpike. I just woke up.

---

As much as I hated resigning from the Cleveland Orchestra Chorus, doing so created a stress-relief incident that is probably the greatest I've never experienced. The photo above is Cleveland's Severance Hall, snapped quickly while I waited at the traffic light on one of my final drives to University Circle for a rehearsal.

The Why and Wherefore of Adoption

I'm engaging in nostalgia this week as I wander around Interlochen Arts Camp and observe young artists developing and honing their skills and their passions.

And, of course, as I write that I have to look up the definition of "nostalgia":

a wistful desire to return in thought or in fact to a former time in one's life, to one's home or homeland, or to one's family and friends; a sentimental yearning for the happiness of a former place or time:

My nostalgia is not for what was but for what might have been. It's not for the happiness of a former time, but rather from actions that might have allowed happiness in a former time.

I fantasize about having been adopted by a family who was cultured and musical. I have often said that I was lucky to have been adopted by a family that recognized my talents early in life. But they didn't know how to best nurture those talents. (And I also acknowledge that there is more to nurturing talents than just lessons and training. There's emotional nurturing, also.)

Sometimes, in pondering "life" and "how did I get here", one thinks about those notions of having a life after a life. I'm not saying I believe in the concept of reincarnation. I truly don't know what I believe. But I hear the stories of there being legions of spirits flying around who need to come back to earth to complete their mission. Or something like that. And I wonder why I was chosen for this particular family. If I was, indeed, chosen. For this family.

And as I ponder "why didn't I have a different family," I have to stop and say—almost aloud in my head—It's Not All About You!!

Maybe the fates or the universe or God or whatever chose not that family for me, but me for that family. Or for that man, that wonderful, nurturing daddy, who had a marriage he felt trapped in. He loved me to his core, and he nurtured me as no one else did. He gave me a sense of being loved, wanted, and valuable. Where my mother taught me that I was dumb, ugly and incompetent, he taught me that—at least in his eyes—I was cherished and precious.

And what did I give him? I have no idea. He was not a man to share his feelings. But I'm sure having me mirror his feelings right back to him was significant in his life.

So what if I didn't get a sound footing that put me in a career path the end of which would bring me retrospective joy. I made it through. I accomplished not giving up. I have good kids and grandkids that I'm able to encourage and nurture and—hopefully—guide.

And I was loved, without equal, by Daddy. The most important man in my life.

Maybe he was the why I was adopted by this family.

And that's good enough.

Photos: At top, an Interlochen practice room where a high school string bass player works on his repertoire. Bottom, panorama of Green Lake with oncoming storm whipping up the waves.

Sound the Call to Dear Old Interlochen

There are few places in the world that bring tears to my eyes just by walking on their hallowed ground. One of these is Gloucester, Massachusetts, where 300+ years of my ancestors walked and fished and built homes for their fellowmen. Another is Arlington National Cemetery, where we commemorate so many Americans who gave their lives for this country. The one I'm experiencing this week is Interlochen Center for the Arts in Interlochen, Michigan.

As I walk around this hallowed campus, I listen to music emanating from every building. The music fills my soul. [I acknowledge that other art forms are similarly nurtured here, but my life is music–that is my focus when I'm here.]

My younger son came here for the first time in 1989, having just turned 14. He had challenges at home after his father's and my divorce eight years earlier. He was tied at the heart to me, but we were constrained to ten weeks together each summer plus a few holidays. His father's way of life wasn't what he would choose, and his greatest advocate lived 1,400 miles away. I sacrificed a significant portion of one of my summers with him to give him the Interlochen experience.

Having spent a year or two as a percussionist in his junior high school band, he sent in his audition tape and applied for Intermediate Band. At that time in his life, when asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, he would reply–with a swagger–I'm gonna be a drummer in a rock band.

Shortly after his application was processed, he received a telephone call asking if he would consider being in the Intermediate Concert Orchestra and Intermediate Symphony Orchestra rather than the band (two ensembles instead of one). He graciously agreed.

He had been exposed to classical music at home before reaching Interlochen, but there was no love affair. Once he began daily rehearsals of classical music and began studying the scores, the love affair was fast and deep.

And now, 25 years later, after my son spent three years at Interlochen as a camper, several years as camp staff, and three years of high school at Interlochen Arts Academy, I am back at this magical place. I walk. I listen. I watch. I sit by the lake and feel the breezes and ponder the emotions roiling within me.

My son is now a computer professional. He studies search engine optimization with the same fervor he used to study Tchaikovsky. But he has not lost one gram of his love for Tchaikovsky, or Prokofiev, or Brahms, or any of their composer brothers.

And he has not lost his love for Interlochen.

Nor have I lost my love and gratitude for all that Interlochen gave him and, through him, me.

And so we pile ourselves, along with his two pre-teen children, in his car and trek to northern Michigan. We walk around, watch, and listen. And I cross my fingers that a bit of Interlochen love will rub off on my grandchildren.

Here's hoping I'll be back here next year, observing their classes and performances.

Note: Since this post was written in 2014, his two children have spent three summers at Interlochen Arts Camp; my son married his Academy sweetheart; and now they spend their summers together in Interlochen, where he works remotely at his web application development job and she works as a choreographer. And I've spent two summers as a collaborative pianist, one year in musical theatre, one year in dance. Life is good.

Where in the World ...

If you and I are Facebook friends, you know I'm just back from a Big Adventure. If not, then let me tell you that explains why I haven't posted anything here in a while.

I've just been chided encouraged by a dear friend to get back to this blog, so here's a quick update.

The Cleveland Orchestra Chorus was invited to go on tour with the Cleveland Orchestra. We prepared the Beethoven Mass in C Major for six performances: two in Cleveland's Severance Hall (Oct. 31 and Nov. 2), followed by one each in Avery Fisher Hall in Lincoln Center (NYC, Nov. 4), Alte Oper in Frankfurt, Germany (Nov. 10), Salle Pleyel in Paris, France (Nov. 11), and Philharmonie Luxembourg (Nov. 14). The photo above was taken at the Philharmonie. I'm in the back row of the chorus and am the rightmost woman.

Everywhere we went, the audiences loved us. I felt tremendously honored to be in the company of all these talented musicians. Both the rehearsals and perforamnces were very hard work, and completely rewarding to have accomplished these goals.

I stayed an extra two days in Brussels, Belgium, returning to Ohio on Sunday, November 17.

I'm slowly recovering from the jet lag. The Jazzman is currently working a job where his weekend is Sunday and Monday. Yesterday I just hung with him, going to lunch and running errands. Last night I fell asleep too early and consequently woke too early this morning, but had an 8:00 a.m. nap, and am now at the computer, offloading photos from my Nikon, my iPad, and my iPhone.

A travelogue blog post is being written and will appear shortly at this address.

And I promise to be more committed to this blog.

Thanks for visiting.

One Ouch After Another

After visiting my orthopedic surgeon again on January 9, I'm in the brace for three more weeks. During this period, I am to take the brace off three times a day, apply a warm compress to my wrist for a short time, and then attempt to stretch the wrist backwards and forwards. There is but one word for this activity: Ouch!

There is one more newly allowed activity for this time period: Showering! Yesterday I took my first full-body shower in six weeks. It had to be short, rather than long and lingering, as the incision is not yet completely healed. And how strange my arm felt! I attempt every movement with great trepidation. How much pain will be self-inflicted by picking up that washcloth, trimming those toenails, grabbing the end of that towel to dry my back?

But despite the pain–or threat thereof–there is a sense of freedom to having my forearm unsheathed after six weeks of confinement. I allow myself to fantasize that I will be able to do everything exactly as I did before the fall.

And then reality returns. It's going to be a long and painful road back to the operatic accompaniments I was playing all last year. My next gigs are scheduled for the week of March 11. When I am exercising my wrist and feel the pain, I think it will take much longer than one month for me to be able to play again, to be able to earn income again.

And so I repeat my mantra: "It could have been worse."

<Humorous Anecdote On>
I attended the first Cleveland Orchestra Chorus rehearsal of the new year last Monday night. Our director saw me enter the building and came over to greet me. "How did you break your wrist," he asked. "I heard you fell off the piano bench."

That, My Friends, would have been worse!
<Humorous Anecdote Off>

Day by Boring Day

A month ago today I fell. My first thought as I landed on the Stambaugh Auditorium backstage floor was that, hopefully, my wrist/arm/hand was just bruised and I would get myself off the floor and walk to the stage to start the Barber of Seville overture for our 45-minute presentation for the local elementary, middle, and high school children. I had spent the previous two months mastering this very difficult piano transcription. As I lay crumpled on the floor, more than 400 kids were finding their seats.

When I tried to lift my arm off the floor, I looked in horror as my left hand just dangled from the wrist. I knew instantly that I was in big trouble.

My earlier post about the accident gives all the details of that first day.

My fall occurred on Friday, Nov. 30. On Wednesday, Dec. 5 (my older son's birthday), I was Dr. J. J. Stefancin's first appointment of the day.

The nurse showed me the x-ray sent over by Northside Hospital ER. (See photo above) She pointed to the right side of the radius, where the break occurred, and I could see the bulge of pulverized bone. She told me Dr. Stefancin would have to manually compress the bone back into place before casting my wrist. She assured me he would deaden my wrist before applying this pressure. Then I explained to her that I had started playing piano at age 3½ and wanted to be able to continue when the cast was off. She quickly excused herself and I waited for the doctor to appear. (I learned later that she had gone to alert the doctor to my musical abilities. He would quickly determine that compression and casting would not be my answer!)

In a few minutes the nurse returned with the doctor and the intern. Dr. Stefancin looked long and hard at the x-ray, asked me a few questions, then said I would need surgery. He used his pen as a straight line to illustrate what the wrist joint should look like as compared to what my fall had caused mine to look like. Because of how the bone had disintegrated at the break point, a plate would have to be attached to the bone to give me normal function again. His staff quickly got on the phone and scheduled me into the Surgical Hospital at Southwoods. The scheduler snuck one more appointment into Friday afternoon and I was set to go.

I would get a plate similar to the picture to the right. The four screws at the top secure it at the wrist, then several screws down the shank attach it to the radius. Now all that was left for me to do was to attempt to stay calm until Friday, two days away.

The Jazzman arranged to have the day off to take me to the hospital and keep me from freaking out. To say I was impressed with this facility and every member of the staff with whom I interacted is a gross understatement.

The intake nurse, a compassionate man named David, was excellent at calming me. He shared stories with me about his teenaged son who plays trumpet, piano and guitar. Before inserting the IV needle into the back of my right hand, he asked my permission, telling me about the patient he once had who was a massage therapist and begged for the needle to go anywhere but in her hands. The anesthesiologist, Dr. Gemma, came in and, learning I sing with the Cleveland Orchestra Chorus, promised not to put the breathing tube down past my vocal chords. Further, given the risks of nerve damage in an "arm block" or "nerve block" and my desire to have the same abilities I had before my fall, he agreed that general anesthesia was the best solution. Dr. Stefancin came in briefly to reassure me that he had my best interests at heart. And in a few minutes I was being wheeled into surgery. The last thing I saw before sliding into my drug-induced sleep was our dear friend Diane, who is a surgical nurse at Southwoods and had arranged to be assigned to my case. Seeing her face gave me utter peace of mind.

A couple of hours later I was awakened from a very involved dream to see that I was the only patient remaining in recovery. I was freezing and shaking. The nurse brought me a magical blanket into which hot air was circulating—I want one of those! To get over the shakes, the nurses kept reminding me to take deep breaths from the oxygen tube in my nose. And an hour later we were leaving the hospital.

Lots of Vicodin accompanied my next several days. Ten days later, on Dec. 19, I went to Dr. Stefancin's office and saw this lovely and colorful arm.

And now I just wait. I'm in a brace. I alternate between pain, annoyance, and fear. Everyone who has been through a similar injury tells me that—after the pain and toil of physical therapy—I'll be playing my daddy's favorite "Alley Cat" again. And all our friends call and text and email and contact me on Facebook to let me know of their concern.

And my mantra is, "It could have been so much worse!"

All in all, I'm pretty lucky.

Crash! Boom! Ouch! Damn!!!

In a story of "Timing is everything," Friday was a very bad day.

NOTE: This post is typed entirely with my right hand. You can see where this is going, can't you?

One of my jobs is accompanist (collaborative keyboard artist) for Opera Western Reserve's (OWR) Young Artists Program. Along with two-to-four opera singers who are either finishing college or just beginning their musical careers, I go into local elementary, middle, and high schools to present a "Fun With Opera" educational program.

<PROLOGUE>

We give a little history of the genre and teach the kids various elements—voice parts and ranges, languages used, what all goes into staging an opera (singers, orchestra, conductor, set designer, costume designer and seamstresses, lighting designer, etc.). We try to make it as interactive as possible. Each of the artists sings two aria snippets, and the students choose their favorite.

At the end of the program, the artists perform a brief "opera" they've "composed" with the students' input. (We're at a bus stop. Who are we and why are we here? How do we feel about being here?) The suggestions from the kids are frequently hilarious. And sometimes sobering. For example, you're a mom going to school to pick up your sick kid. Or you're out of work and you're on your way to a job interview. Or you're on your way to work in a doctor's office and you hate your job. I hear months from teachers that the kids love our visits and fondly remember these improvised operas.

The other function of the Young Artists Program is to stage an abbreviated version of the opera that will be presented by OWR. We begin several months before the scheduled performance date. I sit down with the production director, David Vosburgh, who determines which arias and recitatives are required to tell the story, and what is merely fluff or repetition the can be omitted. The score is condensed to about 40 minutes. A director is named, roles are assigned, and singers begin learning and memorizing their music. (It's important to note that many of these singers also have different roles in the main stage performance&emdash;double the work! The school performance takes place at 10:00 a.m. on the same day that the full performance will occur at 7:30 p.m.

<THE STORY>

Over two months ago, I received the music for this performance. Simultaneously, I was learning the accompaniment and rehearsing for a cabaret evening of obscure Broadway tunes to be performed by a Cleveland Orchestra Chorus (COC) colleague of mine, and learning the alto part of all the COC Christmas music. The past two months have been absolutely overwhelming for me, and when my alarm rang at 6:00 on Friday morning, I turned it off with a distinct sense of relief. In six hours I would be done with "The Barber of Seville" and—after a celebratory lunch—could just focus on holiday music.

The cast met backstage at Stambaugh Auditorium at 7:45. We quickly ran the finale, then at 8:15 began a full run-thru, noting the points where we'd have to pay special attention during performance. At 9:25 we were told there were hundreds of kids outside who wanted to be let in. We cleared the stage and reassembled backstage to finish talking through any trouble spots, check hair and makeup, and prepare to go on and wow the kids.

I had only been backstage in this hall once before, so had to ask one of the girls directions to the Ladies Room. I walked in, answered Nature's call, washed my hands, and opened the door to step out into the hallway. I didn't remember that I had successfully negotiated a very tall step to get into the restroom, so stepped out as if the hall floor was at the same level as the restroom. I quickly realized there was a problem.

I started doing the "Please Help Me, I'm Fallin'" two-step. I thought I had recovered my balance, but then felt myself falling toward the wall and put out my left hand to catch myself. The next thing I knew I was on the floor. My first thought was a hope my left hand/arm was only bruised so I could play the show. Then I reached over with my right hand and lifted my left arm, only to watch my hand droop. Trouble. I was in real trouble!

I called out to the cast who had no idea what had happened. Somehow they helped me get to my feet. They radioed someone in front of house to come help me. Someone retrieved my phone. Fortunately for me, my daughter-in-law was home a half-mile away and, at my phone call, hopped in the van to get me and take me to Northside hospital a mile away.

Northside ER personnel were wonderful to me, getting me into a room quickly and getting me pain meds. (I had no idea a broken bone could hurt. OMG, the pain!) They even put me right back into the same room where I was on Tuesday for my bronchitis diagnosis. How thoughtful.

Two hours later I was diagnosed and splinted and had instructions for seeing a doctor on Monday. The PA, who had also treated me on Tuesday,

What I *Did* Like!

After writing yesterday's blog post, I realized it could be perceived as negative. At various times throughout my life, I've been accused of speaking negatively when I thought I was just laying out the facts. So, to let you know that Saturday night was a positive—not negative—experience, here's my take on what I loved.

Matt introduced me to a lot of new repertoire, and some new takes on old repertoire. Now, you already know (from various accounts of weekends PianoLady and I have shared in NYC attending Broadway shows) that I'm a big Broadway fan, and particularly musical theatre. So to learn new tunes—what a treat!

Several years ago PianoLady and I saw "The Light in the Piazza," with music and lyrics by Adam Guettel. Falling in love with the music, I started googling and learned that Adam Guettel is an alum of Interlochen Center for the Arts (as is my younger son) and that his grandfather was Richard Rodgers. When Matt handed me the music for "How Glory Goes" and said it was from the musical "Floyd Collins," I didn't realize that Adam Guettel was the composer and lyricist. Unlike some of the music I've been learning lately where the harmonies are complex but make no sense, the voicing Guettel used on Glory is so well thought out, so musical ... I fell more in love with the work each time I sat to rehearse. As Matt performed it, I felt he loved the piece as much as I did.

Another new tune to me was "Tell My Father" from the 1999 musical "The Civil War." The composer is Frank Wildhorn. I was familiar with neither the musical nor the piece. Matt performed it with a slightly country music feel, very balladic, and I loved it.

Another Wildhorn tune that was new to me was "This is the Moment," from "Jekyll and Hyde." This tune, this arrangement, allowed me to deviate from the printed music and just be myself on the keys. Matt chose a truly beautiful piece with which to end his evening of music.

And finishing on the theme of "What I Loved" is "Everybody Says Don't" from "Anyone Can Whistle," composed by Stephen Sondheim. I've known the tune for a long time, but Matt made it even more appealing to me by pairing it with "Don't Rain on My Parade," which is from my all-time favorite movie ever—"Funny Girl."

As a preteen and teen, I would come home from school and sit in the afternoons working picture puzzles on the coffee table in the living room, playing recordings from musical theatre that my daddy had gotten for me. I wore out the groove in so many records. Oklahoma, Funny Girl, the Reader's Digest collection of Gilbert & Sullivan. I sang at the top of my lungs. I finally saw the movie "Funny Girl" when I was in college. Love.love.love that music.

Matt's brilliant melding of those two songs delighted me. When we rehearsed and performed the two, I couldn't stop smiling. What a blast!!

So, you see, despite dropping some notes on the floor, I pushed plenty of notes into the piano keyboard. And I had a truly wonderful time.

I'm not all negative!!

Black Dots

Last night I accompanied a COC friend, Matt Rizer, in a performance of mostly obscure Broadway tunes. We had been preparing for about two months to give this recital.

Some of the pieces he chose were just a joy to play—they seemed to roll off my fingers through the keys to present utter beauty. Some were far more challenging, either in just not resonating within me, or in having just too many black dots on the page.

My favorite type of accompaniment is for a singer who grabs a tune and flies with it, secure in herself and knowing that—wherever she goes and whatever she does with the tune—I'm right there underneath her, making her flights of fantasy possible. (I've had great experiences that fit this definition with my dear friends LaVerne Davis Lawrence in Tucson and Judy Sokol, an ex-Washingtonian now living in Sarasota.)

Last night's repertoire, in contrast, had a number of song versions that, due to their complex arrangements, were designed to be played note for note.

Think for a moment about the nature of accompanying. The pianist is focusing on the notes printed on the pages, but also on moving those notes to the keys without error; on never overpowering the soloist (or performers); on splitting sight between the keys, the music, and the soloist; on dealing with lighting (is there enough light to see, are there lights flickering that disrupt my vision); on tempo and volume and being on the right page; and on staying focused despite a hundred variables in the environment.

Two pieces were problematic for me last night. The first was "Putting It Together," from "Sunday in the Park With George," which opened the second half. The lyrics involve the million facets of bringing a piece of art—whether song or sculpture—from idea to fruition, to being seen or heard by the public. It's a "patter" song: lots of words, lots of repetition. There is not much variation from verse to verse, i.e., it's easy for either the singer or the accompanist to get lost. And it moves lickety-split. The speed of light. No room for error.

We rehearsed and rehearsed this piece. [At Matt's brilliant suggestion,] I copied and cut-and-pasted the music so there would be no page back-turns for repeats. It was just 20-or-so pages, one after the other. We had agreed that if either of us got lost, we'd just pick it up and keep going.

And I got lost. Even with a page-turner who had his eyes glued to the music to keep me on track, I got lost. And we just stopped. Matt looked over at me and I just laughed out loud at the impossibility of it all. In front of the audience, I just laughed. Really, what else could I do? He turned back to his "teleprompter," grabbed a lyric, and took off again. Then on the last page, we somehow got separated again. A phrase that was to be duplicated in the voice and the accompaniment somehow got played by me and then sung a Capella by him. Oops. But we started and finished together. Does that count?

[When I laughed (really, how unprofessional can one pianist be?!), all I could think of was the fact that Matt was recording the performance and I had just seriously messed up the recording.]

The second problem child was "You'll Never Walk Alone." Matt had chosen the Streisand version, which includes a number of key changes throughout. Umm, some of these new keys have no reference point to the previous key. I've been playing this song in various versions since I was about 10 years old. I would have loved to have just taken off and done my own underlayment, but with this awkward arrangement (which on the recording has a number of back-up singers and an entire orchestra) I needed to stick to the ink on the page. I flubbed a few notes on each of the key changes, but Matt kept his pitch, kept going, and we finished together. Bravo to him!

Now here's the question for the ages: Let's say I played 10,000 notes perfectly, 1,000 notes acceptably, and 100 notes poorly or not at all. Why, for days afterward, will I only remember the 100 notes?!

Matt had already chosen most of his repertoire before asking me to accompany him (without ever having heard me play, I might add — without knowing I have a gift for accompaniment). Now that he knows what I can do, maybe next time he'll be able to choose tunes he loves rather than arrangements he loves, and enable us to just create something wonderful between us.

[I am not saying there was not a whole lotta wonderful going on last night. There absolutely was. But I felt somewhat constrained by all that ink. I would rather have followed the neurons than the dots.]

The grace of last night was that the room was filled with friends. We were on the floor of a lovely church hall, rather than on a stage. I could laugh out loud when I messed up, partially because over half of the audience members were also musicians and had dropped their own black dots from the music to the floor at various times.

We set a goal. We worked our vocal chords and our fingers and our brains. We achieved our goal—quite beautifully, if I may say so myself.

We started together. We ended together.

And my musical life goes on. In five hours, I've got to be back on stage again, performing a whole 'nother set of black dots for five talented young opera singers.

Here's hoping I won't (very unprofessionally) laugh out loud. Or need to.

The Joy of Making Music

I posted this on Facebook today, and want to share it with those of you who read my words here but are not on Facebook.

I'm exhausted from the stress of concert week, but I'm incredibly lucky.

If you wonder what 120 of my musical colleagues and I do in the evenings during Cleveland Orchestra concert weeks, we drive many miles and many minutes every night of the week to Severance Hall in Cleveland's University Circle, warm up our voices, then process and sit on stage behind the Cleveland Orchestra while we wait patiently for our turn to make music. For me it's 140 miles and over 3 hours total, just for the commute. We are at the hall from 2-4 hours, depending on the concert. There are those who drive further and longer than I. We receive no salary nor reimbursement for our expenses. The IRS lets us deduct 14 cents per mile for our auto expense. We spend over $200 a week for gas. It's a lot of money and a lot of time away from our families. Why do we do it? For the incredible experience of making music with the Cleveland Orchestra and with each other. We are truly lucky.

Proving Oneself

The normal musician chooses a place for his or her career, puts down roots, makes contacts, and gets jobs. After the first job, if she is good, the future jobs just follow along like baby geese.

The abnormal musician (waving hand in air) follows the men in her life around the country. Each time she gets to a new location, she starts all over again to establish her credibility as a first-rate accompanist and lounge pianist. She must go out to suitable venues, find pianists whose work she identifies with, introduce herself and offer to sub for them when they want a night off, and be willing to drop everything at a moment's notice when the regular pianist is sick. She's got to be willing to work two and three jobs at a time, meet some sleezy characters, and—hopefully—have fun bringing enjoyment to people sitting in bars or theatres.

In Orlando it began with someone in the entertainment division at Walt Disney World calling my university music department and asking for the name of the best pianist they had. They were given my name, and for seven years I served as Staff Accompanist.

First Husband and I moved to Sarasota and I served as church pianist, meeting several people who knew people in the entertainment community. I played for local musical theatre productions and for voice lessons at the community college. Then we moved to Ft. Worth and I started playing for ballet classes at TCU. When my husband and I divorced, I started playing at Tavern of the Fierce Sparrow at the Hilton on Mockingbird in Dallas, and experienced being handed a room key for the first time!

Second Husband (followed by 2nd divorce and Third Husband and ...) happened along and I moved to the D.C. suburbs. Over the next 16 years I played in hotel lounges and at private parties. When Nordstrom came to town, I introduced myself to the piano manager at the Pentagon City store and began nine enjoyable years of "making beautiful music to shop by."

With the move to Tucson following my husband's death and my meeting the next Significant Other, I started all over again. I started volunteering to play for an Alzheimer's Support Group at St. Phillip's in the Hills. Slowly I met more and more people. I began working in administration for the symphony and met people there who had contacts. Talking to a woman who was reading sheet music in my Starbucks led to my accompanying the CYT organization and meeting some wonderful and talented people. From that I had the honor of working with the megatalented Robert Encila on a showcase at St. Francis in the Foothills. And then I moved again.

With this move, I've had the hardest time re-establishing myself. I met people through Easy Street Productions when I helped my son with some projects there. I introduced myself to a well-known and well-connected pianist, who threw some gigs my way. My name was given to the production director of Opera Western Reserve and I began accompanying their Young Artists program. And then somehow a man in the chorus heard me say something about being an accompanist and asked—without ever hearing me play—if I'd accompany him on an upcoming cabaret night. What a leap of faith!

We had our first rehearsal Saturday afternoon for a show that will take place on November 3 at First Baptist Church on Fairmount in Cleveland.

I feel like I need to keep thanking him for taking a chance on me. How good it feels to be collaborating again and making lovely music with skilled and talented musicians!

Here's to never having to re-establish myself again!

(The photo? Nordstrom Pentagon City, Christmas season, 1990 or 1991. Each year Nordstrom would have a holiday preview night, with glitz and glamor. Great fun. Beautiful holiday music to shop by!)

Who Do You Think You Are?

A friend from my IBM Tucson years posted a great piano-as-garden-art picture on my Facebook page today, and my mind started whirling around how people see me.

I see myself as a musician—and primarily a pianist—and have since childhood. But nowadays that's not necessarily what comes across first.

One of my COChorus colleagues somehow figured out I'm an accompanist and has asked me to accompany a performance he's doing in November. This! This is what I excel at!!

I also have a "permanent" gig with the Opera Western Reserve (OWR) Young Artists program. (But really, what is permanent these days? Look at the unemployment numbers. Look at funding cuts in the arts. This gig has lasted about six months so far and I feel lucky!) Several times a month I do what I do very well with delightful and very talented 20-something opera singers.

But each time a person moves to a new city or area, it takes a long time to get established. My son's friends occasionally heard me play at parties at his home. I introduced myself to a friend of his who had a few overflow accompaniment gigs he shared with me. Word started very slowly spreading around town. The artistic director of OWR called my son and said, "I keep hearing your mother's name." (Actually, he said, "I keep hearing your mother-in-law's name," but Tyler quickly disabused him of that notion!) And slowly, slowly over the past four-and-a-half years, I've built things up to one permanent gig.

Anybody can say he or she is anything. Nobody knows you're a dog on the Internet. I can say I'm a [really good] pianist—or a CIA-level chef or a brain surgeon or a rocket scientist—but until you see evidence of that identity, you'd best remain skeptical!

So a little proof comes out here and there, and a few more people in my new city see me as I see myself. And a little more income arrives to supplement my sadly lacking "real" income as a Web/technical/legal writer and editor.

Okay, it's not enough income to get the trim on the house repainted or the driveway widened before snow comes or the attic insulated to hold down the gas bills.

But it's income I will have enjoyed producing.

Aren't I lucky?!

(And a quiet salute to all those friends who think of me primarily as a pianist — thanks!)

We love good reviews!

"Under [Muñoz's] skilled watch, Stravinsky's "Symphony of Psalms" left an indelible impression, as the Cleveland Orchestra Chorus struck the ideal blend of sensuousness and ritual. At full throttle, the power of the singers was daunting, while elsewhere, their stately pace and transparent vocalism invited listeners to ponder the text and bask in dissonance.

Here's the review.

Photo credit: Audience member and chorus friend Guytano Parks

How It's Done

Ever since the 2011-2012 Cleveland Orchestra schedule came out, I've been looking forward to singing under the baton of Maestro Pierre Boulez. He is a legendary conductor, and he's been places and known people who are also legendary in the world of classical music.

This week the Cleveland Orchestra and Chorus are performing the Stravinsky Symphony of Psalms. I first heard bits of this work when I studied with Nadia Boulanger in the summer in 1971 at Écoles d'Art Américaines in Fontainebleau, France.

The summer I spent in Fontainebleau marked the 50th anniversary of the school. Almost every famous musician who had ever studied or taught there returned for that summer. Each night some musical luminary was invited to dinner with Mlle. Boulanger, and there were always students included on the guest list.

Igor Stravinsky was a close friend and colleague of Mademoiselle (as we called her). She loved his music, and he had chosen her to teach his younger son, Soulima, in 1929. Igor was scheduled to spend at least a few days in residence for this star-studded summer. Alas, his death in April of 1971 changed those plans. But Soulima was there. As I recall, in one of the many concerts we attended that summer, Soulima played the piano and conducted some of his father's work.

The night I was included on the guest list for Mademoiselle's dinner, Soulima and his wife were in attendance. I was a 21-year-old sheltered child from the South, who just happened to be a very good pianist and musician. I had not been trained by teachers who worked to increase my knowledge of the big picture of music. I really had no idea of the greatness with which I was surrounded.

So, knowing Boulez was coming to town brought all of that—the music, the musical stars, the vision-changing experience of learning how little I knew—full circle. So many of the luminaries from that summer are gone now. There are many young musicians who have never heard of Nadia Boulanger. I treasure the memory of that summer. And I would be able to sing, led by someone who knew them all!

But Maestro Boulez is almost 87, and having some vision problems. Last week he was to conduct the men of the Chorus in three Schubert songs, and the orchestra in the Mahler Symphony No. 7. Early in the week, his opthalmologist advised him not to conduct. The Cleveland Orchestra administrative staff quickly rearranged the program, substituting the Mahler #5 for #7, and bringing in the highly respected conductor, David Robertson, from St. Louis. Director of Choruses, Robert Porco—our beloved Bob—conducted the Schubert.

But the plan for this week was unknown. Would Boulez's eye problems be under control enough that he could conduct?

No. It was not to be.

Again, the administrative staff worked wonders, bringing back former Cleveland Orchestra Assistant Conductor Tito Muñoz. Take a minute and read his bio. He's 28 years old! And he's so cute. As a mother and grandmother, I just want to go up and pinch his cheeks and tousle his hair. He has achieved what I dreamed my own son would achieve. Good for him!!

And he's incredibly insightful and intuitive, as a conductor stepping onto the podium in front of a chorus he's never conducted before. (He told us that in his three years as Assistant Conductor with the Cleveland Orchestra, he never had the pleasure of conducting the chorus.)

The Stravinsky is tough. There are dissonances where each choral voice struggles to find and maintain its pitch. There are unusual meters and unusual syncopations and unusual harmonizations. It's Stravinsky. It's brilliant!

When we first met with Maestro Muñoz for our Conductor's Piano Rehearsal on Monday night, we got to one of the fast-tricky parts in the third movement. Bob Porco had prepared us for this passage by conducting it in 4. We knew exactly where all those off-beats would fall. Muñoz dove into it with a 2-pattern, and we all just about fell off the risers. When you're used to looking for "two" and "four", and suddenly you're looking for "the and of one" or an even smaller subdivision of beats, it's a big stumble waiting to happen.

As I practiced yesterday, I was discouraged, thinking about how last night's first orchestra rehearsal might go. I normally love every moment I'm on that stage, but I wasn't looking forward to this.

The rehearsal progressed. We got to the third movement. We got to the fast-tricky part. All eyes were on Maestro Muñoz. AND HE BEAT IN FOUR!!!!! We nailed it. We observed every rest and hit every entrance perfectly.

That, Dear Friends, is what a good conductor does. He enables the musicians to do their best. He listens and observes and intuits the actions on his part that are necessary to a stellar performance.

If you're in Cleveland on Thursday night, Friday night, or Saturday night, come to Severance Hall and observe a brilliant young conductor that will—hopefully—have another 50 or 60 years of showing the world how good conductors operate.

If you're not in Cleveland, tune your browser to WCLV.com at 8:00 p.m. EST. It will be a feast for your ears.

CLEVELAND ORCHESTRA
8:00 PM
Severance Hall
The Cleveland Orchestra
Pierre-Laurent Aimard, piano
Tito Muñoz, conductor

SCHOENBERG - Three Piano Pieces
MOZART - Piano Concerto No. 18
STRAVINSKY - Symphonies
of Wind Instruments
STRAVINSKY - Symphony of Psalms

Interesting reading: A Most Unsuccessful Project: Nadia Boulanger, Igor Stravinsky, and the Symphony in C, 1939–45

It's the Most Wonderful Time . . .

Or, it's Christmas again. As a musician, I spend my Decembers providing holiday joy and magic and concertgoers.

Last weekend I did two concerts with a local bass-baritone who has progressed very nicely in the world of opera. He's my younger son's age and is a delightful guy. We have great fun putting together a concert filled with holiday music, poems, readings, jokes and sing-a-longs. He's very secure in himself, and that enables me to just close my eyes and have a ball at the piano.

On Sunday the Cleveland set of concerts begins. From December 4 through December 23, I will sing in two rehearsals and nine concerts. And I will enjoy every minute of it. But I will also admit to being tired.

And, when it's all over, the Jazzman and I might just find someplace to spend a few days where it's warm and—hopefully—sunny.

Probably the best Christmas present I'll get is the recent knowledge that my older son has a girlfriend. He's such a unique and eccentric human being, and has been all his life. And now there's someone with whom he shares loving feelings. I'm happy and relieved. Everyone deserves to be as happy as I am!

And a Fa la la to you.

Songs Well Sung

On October 6 and 9, the Cleveland Orchestra and Chorus performed the Mozart Mass in C minor. Singing with this chorus is one of the great gifts Life has given me.

I thought I'd share with you some reviews we received.

 

The Cleveland Plain Dealer - Zachary Lewis

ClevelandClassical.com - Daniel Hathaway (I especially like Hathaway's "as solid as granite" simile.)

The Classical Music Connection: Concertonet.com

Superconductor: The blog of Paul Pelkonen

I hope I can hold up to the long and late weekly drives to Cleveland for a long time to come.

Gloria!

Taking a moment out of a very busy day to share with you the review of last night's Cleveland Orchestra and Chorus performance of Mozart's Mass in C minor.

We in the chorus thought it was an incredible performance. I am honored to be a part of this organization!

Melancholia - or not!

If "melancholy" means long-lasting sadness, what is the word for long-lasting happiness? Contentment? Bliss?

Whatever that word is, it describes my mood today. I was noticing the date was July 1, and wondering where on earth June went. Then I realized that since May 29, my mother's life has turned upside down in a most disastrous manner, and I've traveled to North Carolina three times.

But now I get a little respite. Tomorrow morning we'll be off to the lake cottage for a relaxation-filled week with our circle of friends. The DearGrandChildren will accompany us for the first two days, and their parents will join us on the 4th. Lots of eating; lots of golf (for the friends - knitting and reading for me!); lots of sun; lots of smiles and laughter.

Today I'm trying to finish up all my work for the coming week so I don't have to spend much time in the Madison Public Library accessing their wifi. I'm listening to an old favorite Sergio Mendes album - "Ye-Le-Me". The song "Look Who's Mine" came on. Whenever I hear it, it takes my breath away.

So as I'm winding things up, I'll share those lyrics with you:

Sleepy sun, it's time to rise and shine
Just take a look who's mine
See who's in love with me
Gentle wind, his smile will make your day
He'll take your breath away
And he's in love with me

Weeping willow, you can dry your tears now
When he passes by you wouldn't want to cry
You won't believe your eyes
What a sweet surprise

Oh, just look who's mine
Can you believe who's mine
That he's in love with me
He's in love with me

Listen sun,
I know you're leaving soon
Be sure to warn the moon
He's got a treat in store
In my arms are all my wildest dreams
And crazy as it seems
He's here in love with me

Oh look who's mine
Can you believe who's mine
Look who's mine
I can't believe he's mine
Look who's mine
Can you believe he's mine
Look who's mine
I can't believe he's mine

Hope you have a great week. You might read new posts here during the week, but don't count on it!

---

And if you want to hear the song, here's the Amazon link: "Look Who's Mine".

Spring at Last!

Honestly? This has been the longest, coldest, wettest winter/pseudo-spring of my entire life. For a Southern Belle, this kind of protracted wet cold is simply no fun.

But finally we have some warmth and spring blossoms. We had horrific pollen and sneezing for about three weeks, but that seems to be gone to, and not a moment too soon.

This is COC hell week again - although not as arduous as most hell weeks. We had rehearsal the past two nights—had to be there at 6:30 p.m., but were off the stage and out the door before 8:45. Our first performance of the set will be tonight, then Saturday night will be our final performance of the season.

So as I race out the door to drive, yet again, to Cleveland, here are some of my spring flowers. The bottom row shows the iris outside my kitchen window on Sunday and again on Wednesday. WHat a show!!

What One Thing Do You Do Best?

All day yesterday I was thinking about and composing the content of my "The Best" post.

In the late afternoon (after delivering my tax documents to the accountant's office—Yea!!!), I went to the university music school to accompany my friend's voice lesson.

This is a paying gig that I'm oh-so-thrilled to have snagged, as I believe—er, hope—it can lead to more of the same.

As I sat there, in front of a professor who taught voice to my son fifteen years ago, I knew in my heart, in my bones, in my core, that I'm very, very good at this.

I am a good accompanist. I listen. I pay attention. I intuit what the singer is going to do next.

I have confidence in my ability as an accompanist—greater confidence that in most anything else I do.

Does that make it my "calling"?

I don't have much of an opinion of either "calling" or "soul mate".

But being an accompanist is what I do very well.

And that feels very good!