Thursday, December 23, 2010

Permit to Drive

     Nothing says Happy Holidays like a trip to the California DMV.  Today we made such a trek, my 15-and-a-half year old daughter, Fiona, and I.  She had an appointment to take her Learners' Permit Test today at 10:20 AM.  Good thing she had that appointment, or we would still be there.  As it was, we didn't get called to Window 13 until close to 10:45.  There, a man who appeared to shave his eyebrows explained the procedure, stamped, stamped, stamped our forms, and gave Fiona her vision test.  She passed that with flying colors, I paid $31 and it was off to the Test and Photo Window.  She had her picture taken there, took her written test in isolation while I waited with the huddled masses, and then stood in the Test Correction Line.  She was a bit apprehensive, but only got 3 wrong (you can miss 8 and still pass!)  The lady at the Correction Window congratulated her, explained that she had to have 2 hours of professional drivers' training before she could drive with her Dad or me, and sent us on our way.  All of this took a little more than an hour.

     One thing that always strikes me at places like the DMV, for instance the NYC Subway, is the similar aroma that emanates from them.  Is it that people don't care what they look or smell like when going to these  places?  I do not notice the same scent at, say, Symphony concerts, where people may shower and shave before heading out the door.  Is it that people stop by the DMV before or after work, and are kind of smelly from their labor?  Who the heck knows?  But at any rate, the smell mixed nicely with the festive decorations that the employees had taken great care to put up all around.  Each window had a wreath and there were several nutcrackers bedecking filing cabinets.  There was even a Peanuts Winter Scene on one of the walls.  On one of the windows hung a huge Santa's  sleigh and eight giant reindeer. Winding garlands of tinsel completed the look, putting us in such a joyous mood that we went for a late brunch at Neil's, a local coffee shop.  There, a different odor wafted from the doors:  that of hash browns and toast.  As we got in the car and drove out of sight,  I had to say "Congratulations, Fiona!  And to all a Good Night!"

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Great Symphonic Disasters: Part 2

     Back in the late 1970's, a year or so before I played there, a near-fatal tragedy took place at a concert of the Mexico City Philharmonic.  One of the halls we played in doubled as an opera stage, and so was very steeply raked, that is slanted, to enable the illusion of perspective.  A piano concerto was to be performed and a nine foot concert grand was rolled into place.  Someone forgot to lock the wheels properly and as everyone watched, horrified, the piano rolled off the stage and into the audience with a god-awful crash.  Thanks to God and the muses of music, no one happened to be seated in the affected seats, or surely someone would have been crushed.   I am not sure what happened after that, but I assume, after the dust settled, the concert continued, if not exactly as planned.

     After a year in Mexico City, I returned to play in the San Diego Symphony.  I remember a Sunday matinee, when we started the program with Roman Carnival Overture by  Berlioz.  During the lovely English horn solo in the beginning, everything was going along swimmingly when CRASH!, a cymbal back in the percussion fell off the riser and startled the bejeebers out of everyone, most especially the English horn soloist.  But as per usual, the concert went on as if nothing had happened.

     During my final summer in San Diego, we played many, if not mostly, outdoor concerts.  They were in the pops style, with light classics in the first half, and a popular entertainer the second half.   I won't say who the pop star was, (for her safety and mine) but she had a huge voice and had gotten her start in Vaudeville and on the Broadway stage.  During the first half of this particular concert, we were playing a violin concerto.  As the soft and slow second movement got started, we could hear a muffled but rather raucous voice coming over the loudspeakers.  The words were intelligible, but definitely loud and distracting.  We kept playing, hoping against hope that it would stop.  But naturally it did not.  Finally, after the added insult of the sound of a toilet flushing, the conductor could take no more, stopped the orchestra, and walked off stage to see what was going on.  A minute or so later, he returned to a quiet stage, we began again, and finished in peace.  The pop star, we later found out, had had her contact mike on in her dressing room and she was being broadcast over the entire venue.  Always the true professional, she came out for the second half and sang and danced as if nothing had been amiss.  Let's just say her voice was so big, she didn't even really need that microphone!



Friday, December 3, 2010

Wild Kingdom

     As I sit at the computer and gaze out our back sliding door, I am struck by the number and different varieties of birds who fly in and out of the back deck.  Simply by putting up two songbird feeders and a hummingbird feeder, we have created our own small nature preserve.  Every day dozens of finches,  chickadees, towhees, wrens, and of course, sparrows vie for spots at the feeding stations.  We had never even seen goldfinches around here before and now, with their special feeder, I have counted nine perched on it at once.  Usually only one hummingbird uses its feeder; probably the same one, since  hummingbirds are so territorial.  I have seen another one attempt to use it, but then is chased away by the rightful owner.  Only in the late evening have I seen more than one on the feeder.  My sister has named this phenomenon "last call."  Hummingbirds go into an almost hibernating state during the night, since they require so much sustenance during the day when active.  Because that last bit of nightly nutrition is so important, they seem to cut each other some slack right before it gets dark.  One evening in early autumn, when it was still warm at dusk, I sat quietly on the deck.  Suddenly, four hummingbirds flew onto the feeder and shared their last drink of the day.  It was an other-worldly experience;  almost like being in a dream.  They drank quietly for quite some time, and then sated, flew off for the night.

     We have another songbird and another hummingbird feeder in the front yard.  This hummingbird feeder seems to be ruled by a different hummer.  I say that because he has a different style.   While the one in the back sits motionless while feeding, looking up from time to time, the one in front keeps flapping its wings while it sucks the nectar.  The backyard hummer doesn't seem to go out front;  rarely have I seen a skirmish.  But I have seen some pretty daring feats by our resident squirrels.

   There are two main squirrels who live together in the hole of a tree in the back yard.  One is brownish-gray and the other, an unusual, sleek black.  His name is Shadow.  His friend is Gray (after our former California Governor, Gray Davis.)  Shadow's main mission in life is to get seeds from the bird feeders.  In the past, he has been fairly successful.  Our first songbird feeder out front was made, of all things, plastic.  Often, Shadow would be seen hanging by his back toe-nails, chewing away at the top of the feeder.  It didn't take him long to hit the jackpot.  Our next feeder, after the first was demolished, had a supposedly "squirrel-proof" canopy that sat on top.  That was a minor distraction to Shadow.  He immediately climbed over it, a mere inconvenience, and  began chewing away until it, too, was destroyed. We finally ordered the super-deluxe, absolutely-squirrel-proof-or-your-money-back feeder.  Built like a tank, it was steel with smooth sides that no squirrel could conquer.  Shadow took this on as his personal challenge.  Try as he might, he could not get down to the feeder, with its built in canopy.  But that did not deter him.  Perched on the tree trunk directly opposite the feeder by about six feet, he hurled himself into space and tried to grab hold of the feeder from the side.  Unfortunately for Shadow, this was impossible and he fell to the ground.  Never one to give up, he kept at this for most of the afternoon.  By evening, he had called it quits.

     Grim determination has always held a soft spot in my heart.  My husband  and I agreed that we had to provide Shadow and Gray their own dining experience.  The next day, Rich perused squirrel feeders from the squirrel-proof bird feeder catalog.  In it was pictured a small, scale-model  green, metal Adirondack chair with a squirrel seated properly, gnawing on a corncob.  "That's it! We've got to get this one!"  I agreed and one was ordered.  We anxiously awaited its arrival. 

     When it was delivered, Rich immediately installed it in the tree in front and screwed in the corncob-like squirrel chow.   It didn't take very long before Blackie settled in for a good chew.  But to this day, neither he nor his buddy sit properly in the chair as demonstrated in the catalog.  They both sit on the arm rests.  And, I'm happy to report, there has been no more squirrel-hurling at the bird feeder.

Monday, November 29, 2010

The Really Terrible String Orchestra

     Yesterday evening, on my day off, I went to play a rehearsal.  I didn't get paid and I didn't play the bass.  The secret premise was a surprise-going away party for the SF Symphony's former Principal Bass, now retired, and his wife, also a bassist.  They are moving from the Bay Area up to Washington State.  Both of them have been playing for quite a while in a musical group in Berkeley called The Really Terrible String Orchestra (RTSO).  This is an ensemble where the musicians play string instruments that they cannot play with any sort of skill.  Both MB and his wife play violin in this group;  in fact, MB is the Concertmaster.  I came with a violin as well, thinking how hard can this be?  I started on violin as a fourth-grader, but hadn't picked one up in 40 years.  I remember where the notes are and the coordination is basically the same.  But much to my chagrin,  not only could I not find the right pair of glasses to wear, (the music is much closer than when playing bass) but because of the thick callouses on my left hand, I  was unable to feel the strings.  On top of that, my  bow hand would not cooperate.  Fortunately, I was seated in the second violin section, but let me just say, I might as well have been trying to play the Tchaikovsky Concerto.  My main problem was trying to isolate the two middle strings, A and D.  As long as my bow was on the outer two strings, E and G, I did a barely acceptable job.  But trying to play on just one of the inner strings at a time was for me,  the equivalent of climbing Mt. Everest:  it felt like I was in the Death Zone.  I certainly could have used a canister of oxygen.

     The only skills I had to fall back on were being able to minimally follow the conductor and, with great concentration,  to keep a fairly steady tempo.  But I must say, I now have the greatest respect for anyone over the age of eight and a half who is attempting to learn a string instrument.   My husband, who had brought me a violin from his music store, asked if I were going to practice.  "Heck no!" I responded.  "You're not supposed to." But in retrospect, I think that would have been a good move on my part.  There is so much to think about at once, particularly in this orchestra.  We were not playing elementary school pieces, but actual works for string orchestra by serious, if obscure, composers.  At one point, the conductor asked that we try to play a little more in the correct style of the piece.  "You mean the style of playing on the right string?" I quipped, only half in jest.

   Scott, the SF Symphony's current Principal Bass attended the rehearsal as well.  He brought his wife's cello, which presented a litany of other problems.  Yes, it is played vertically and the hands are in roughly the same positions.  But the strings are not the same and they are tuned in fifths, not fourths, as on the bass.  And though bigger than the violin, it is so much smaller than the bass.   Nevertheless, Scott seemed to get the hang of it rather quickly and was a great addition to the evening's entertainment.

     When it was time for the break, we all went upstairs to the Fellowship Hall where dozens of friends and family were secretly waiting for the right moment to jump out and yell "Surprise!!"  The two guests of honor were duly caught off guard, and much merriment and knoshing ensued.  A lovely photograph of sailboats against the Golden Gate Bridge was presented and signed by everyone.  Intermission lasted until 9:00 PM, and so there was no more time to play music.  Who knows?  I may attend another rehearsal.  But one thing is for sure:  my hat--and bow--go off to anyone trying something new.


Tuesday, November 23, 2010

A Life Not Lost

     At last Sunday's matinee concert, as we played the final burnished chords of Richard Strauss' Four Last Songs with soprano Elza van den Heever, a sustained hush lasted a good while before the audience began to applaud.  As we were taking our bow, my stand partner, Charles, pointed out an elderly woman in the fourth row in the orchestra section of the audience.  She looked like she had fallen asleep, head back and mouth open.  But as the applause increased when the soloist and conductor came back on stage for a second bow, the woman did not move.  We could see that she was white as a sheet.  When the ovation had finished and the audience members got up for intermission, the woman still did not move.  An usher was summoned who then called 911.  A short time later, the paramedics arrived and tried to revive her.  A good twenty minutes later, when it was time to start the second half, they were still working.  Finally, someone saw the woman move slightly and then the EMS personnel got her onto a stretcher.  They wheeled her out of the hall and the whole audience applauded as she rolled by, color back in her cheeks.

     Many of us had been afraid that she had passed away.  Some people commented that that is how they would like to leave this earthly life: sitting in a concert hall without a  care in the world, listening to beautiful,  poignant music.  Others thought that dying is a very personal thing and should be experienced in private, surrounded by loved ones.  Either way, I wondered about the act of applauding for the lady.  Was that a rather crass form of expressing relief?  Or perhaps it was good for her to know that everybody cared about her and was happy that she had been revived.

     Great symphonic music can elicit very strong emotions in the listener, feelings that words cannot adequately express.  But it is rare for emotion to surface during an intermission.  In this particular case, the Songs were the last that Richard Strauss wrote.  He was near the end of his life, and our elderly patron, though granted a reprieve, is nearing the end of hers.   We are hopeful she will fully recover and be able to return to the Symphony to hear more evocative and powerful music.



Saturday, November 20, 2010

Great Symphonic Disasters: Part 1

     Today at our rehearsal for Alban Berg's Lyric Suite, my stand partner Charles turned to me and said that his dad had had a terrific idea for a web page:  Great Symphonic Disasters.  That sounded  like it could lead to  a gold mine of wacky stories.  OK, I'm in.   And Mr. C., here you go!

     The first, and probably weirdest disaster that I can remember, happened at the San Francisco Symphony back in 1989.  It was All San Francisco Night, when SF neighborhoods buy groups of tickets and come to the Symphony the night after the opening Gala.  I remember it was 1989 because it was right around the time of Tiananmen Square.  We were playing the National Anthem, as we do for all the concerts during the first week.  As we got to the middle section, I saw out of the corner of my left eye, two legs kicking wildly in the air.  Our conductor, Herbert Blomstedt, must have noticed it as well, because I saw him look over his right shoulder to see what all the flailing was about.  There, hanging by his two hands from the first balcony rail, was a male audience member.  He could have fallen at any moment and been killed, and crushed the people below.  What was even stranger was that no one around him appeared to be alarmed by this, nor did anyone try to help him up.  On top of that, we just kept playing like nothing  out of the ordinary was happening.  While we finished the final chords of the anthem, the man somehow managed to crawl back up, and was gone by the time the next piece started.  What the heck was that about?  Perhaps it sounds racist, but because Tiananmen Square  had just happened and the gentleman was Asian, plus the fact that no one was helping him back to his seat, I thought that this could have been some kind of planned protest against China.  We played the rest of the first half and at intermission I asked the stage manager if he knew what had happened.  "The guy got faint when he stood for the Star Spangle Banner and fell over the railing," Jim said.   That did not sound right to those of us who had witnessed the stunt.  Why were his surrounding seat-mates paying no attention?  To this day it remains a musical mystery.

     Another disaster occurred a few years later, during the actual Gala concert.  The orchestra was well into the first piece when the stage door behind the third stand of basses opened and out stumbled a very inebriated man in a tuxedo.  He pushed his way between the two bass players and their music stand, teetered to the edge of the stage, and jumped off into the audience.  Word had it that he was a professional party crasher, but how did he get to the back stage area in the first place?  Again, the Orchestra kept on playing during this episode of guerrilla theater like there was nothing amiss.  To stop the music, it takes an act of God.

     Or a fire drill.  During yet another Gala concert, the fire alarm went off right after the first piece had started.  Flashing lights, obnoxious beeping noises, and a voice over the loud speaker announced that everyone had to evacuate immediately.  The Orchestra actually stopped playing.  We were told not to  take our instruments and leave the hall through the closest exit.  Being good orchestra musicians, we did as we were told and headed out into the chilly night.  Of course, the audience, dressed in designer gowns and tuxedos, had to leave as well.  We were all milling about together on the sidewalk, chatting and hugging ourselves for warmth.  Suddenly, Larry,  a Symphony cellist, said to me "Hey,  that's Ronnie Lotte over there!"  We marched over and Larry introduced us.  He was very excited to meet the former Forty-Niner free-safety.  Mr. Lotte was quite gracious and introduced us to his lovely wife.  We finally got the all clear, said our good byes, and returned to our previous activity of putting on a concert.  Larry, who sadly has since passed away, was an avid football fan and very glad that that fire alarm went off.

     Hmm.....I'm starting to see a pattern here.  Are our Gala week concerts being hijacked by symphony insurgents?  Is there a plot?  Stay tuned for more Musical Mysteries and Disasters!

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Alina Ming Kobialka

     This past Sunday, I did an unusual thing.  I went to hear an orchestra concert.  I was not playing but part of the audience.  It's good to do that sort of thing now and again.  It is enlightening and a good way to get a fresh feel for the business of performing music.

     The concert was Symphony Parnassus, a group of amateur musicians who love to play.  It gets its name from the street on which University of California, San Francisco Medical Center is located.  I assume many of the players are doctors, nurses, and medical students.  One of the bass players runs the business end of his wife's hand therapy clinic.  The concertmaster, Victor Romasevich, is a professional musician; he is a violinist in the SF Symphony.  The conductor, Stephen Paulson, is the Principal Bassoon in the SF Symphony.  He is a tireless, dedicated soul who  designs interesting programs and enables the Parnassus Orchestra to sound its best.

   The first half of the program included a a tone poem by Samuel Barber, Fadograph of a Yestern Scene.  It is a strangely lush and romantic work which the Orchestra carried off well.  Next came the well-known Romeo and Juliet by Tchaikovsky.  It is also very romantic and dramatic.  The strings, particularly the cellos and basses, played with a rich and singing tone.  After intermission came the treat many of us were excitedly anticipating.

     Alina Ming Kobialka was the soloist in Barber's Violin Concerto.  Miss Kobialka, age 13, was poised and confident in a one-shoulder, floor-length coral gown.  To say that she is mature beyond her years would be an understatement.  Her technique and expressiveness were first rate for a person of any age.  She is the daughter of retired SF Symphony Principal Second Violin, Daniel Kobialka and SF Symphony violinist, Chun Ming Mo.  That both her parents are wonderful violinists in their own right is an obvious legacy inherited by Miss Kobialka.  But I do not want to slight the  individual accomplishment of this talented young lady.  In the lyric and melancholy first two movements, her rich tone, flawless intonation, and graceful phrasing had a glistening sheen and luster.  During the perpetual motion of the third movement, her completely relaxed bow hand combined with her agile left, resulting in an absolutely riveting performance.  She played from memory and imparted total command of the stage.  It was breathtaking to hear her and she was a true inspiration to all.  Stay tuned because we have not heard the last from this extraordinary violinist.

     For an encore, Miss Kobialka preformed Sonata No. 3 in D minor, Ballade, by the Belgian violinist, Eugene Ysaye.  It, too, was wondrous.

     To see and hear Alina play the Barber, go to You Tube.com and type in Alina Ming Kobialka Plays Barber Violin Concerto.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Why the Bass? Part 2

   Because it's fun!  The people in the orchestra are some the most interesting, thoughtful, kind people I know.  And out of those, the bass players are among the most entertaining.  I think the very act of playing such a ridiculously large instrument requires an outstanding sense of humor.   And our roll as the plow horses of the orchestra, as one former colleague put it, demands a certain appreciation for the absurd.

     Just yesterday, we started rehearsals for Ein Heldenleben (a Hero's Life), Richard Strauss' autobiographic tone poem (talk about an ego!)  I came to my place on stage, and noticed there was no music stand.  Without missing a beat, Charles, my stand partner quipped,"Sorry, budget cuts."  We quickly summoned a stage hand who righted the situation.  Charles has a few other famous quotables:  for marking bowings (whether the bows go up or down, in unison) he is a firm believer in the "Set it and forget it" method as well as "Bow it and stow it."  He is also a proponent of, if all else fails "Keep the bow moving."  Another member of the section can always be counted on to mimic  on the bass, what the violins are playing, in the same register!

     While we are on the topic of Heldenleben, I should just say that it alone would be a very good reason to play the bass. It is one of the most powerful and spectacular pieces, as well as bass parts, in the repertoire.  The range itself of the bass part is over three octaves.  We start out on a low E-flat, (the piece is in E-flat Major, the key of heroes!), a note on the bass's extension.  What is the extension?  This is one of the most frequently asked questions we bass players get.  Audience members come up and ask this almost every concert.  On the scroll of every bass in the section is a strange looking gizmo, a mini-fingerboard attached to the curved part of the peg box.  This extra piece of wood allows the low E-string to be extended down to low-C, or on two basses, to low-B.  This enables us to play 4 or 5 extra low notes and makes for an even more dramatic sound-chasm in the depths of the orchestra.  We as bass players, love these low notes and they are very plentiful in Heldenleben.

     When we start the piece, it is like a locomotive of sound, all power and steam. It pulls away from the station at full tilt, and never stops its journey until the very end.  In the meantime, Strauss covers various parts of his life, including those nasty critics (pecky woodwinds), true love (solo violin) and even a battle scene.  He also quotes himself by including a few passages from his some of his other orchestral works:  Don Juan, Death and Transfiguration, Don Quixote, and Also sprach Zarathustra.  Ego aside, this is truly one of the great orchestral pieces.  Come and check it out this coming week at Davies Symphony Hall.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Why the Bass?

     As one friend put it, "Because it's there."  And in a way, that was one reason I got started on it;  it was lying dormant in the corner of the band room in junior high.  (See Blog Entry:  Fiddles, Little and Large)  But once I started to play the bass, I fell totally in love with the deep tone.  No matter that I rarely got to play the melody in the orchestra, I loved being the bottom of the whole orchestral sound.  To me, the basses of an orchestra give the whole wash of sound its third dimension.  Ever see the Hitchcock movie Vertigo?  Whenever Jimmy Stewart's character (who is afraid of heights) looks down from a great distance, he sees a telescoping special effect, which suddenly seems to be in three dimensions.  That is what I picture when the basses enter the scene in orchestral music.  When, for instance, the strings are playing without the basses, it sounds very lush and beautiful, of course.  But when the basses enter, an octave below the cellos, it's as if  the ground suddenly opens up and the rest of the orchestra is floating above a deep chasm.  The very best composers are to me, the best orchestrators, as well.  To skillfully use the full range of sound available, all the way from the bottom, with the basses and low brass,  up to the very top with the piccolo, triangle, and cymbals, or the full orchestral palette, is a true gift.

     Speaking of tonal colors:  I love the combination of cellos and basses, for instance  in the Recitative from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.  The recitative, played by the cellos and basses in unison, one octave apart, is a foreshadowing of the upcoming baritone singer's solo.  It does sound quite vocal, like a men's chorus singing with all its heart and soul.  The passage is very dramatic and one of my favorite places in the entire repertoire.  And to think Beethoven wrote the entire symphony after he became  completely deaf.  Makes one realize what a true genius he was!

     The bass also serves as a rhythm instrument, and that part is also fun and rewarding to play.  The pizzicato, or plucking of the bass is the most resonant of all the bowed string instruments.  It is deep and vital, like the beating of a heart.  And many times, it is used to depict just that.  It is usually the bottom of the harmonic structure of the orchestra as well;  it is the very foundation of the orchestral sound.

     I also love that the bass sound resonates so deeply within our very beings.  The better the concert hall, the easier this is to accomplish, in my mind.   One of my favorite places to play, aside from our own Davies Symphony Hall, is Symphony Hall in Boston.  There, to me, the bass response is unsurpassed by any hall, except maybe the Musikverein in Vienna, Austria.  One has just to touch the string, and a fat, juicy whoosh of sound practically explodes from the instrument.

      Back to San Francisco.  We have a very nice hall with good bass response.  It wasn't always that way.  About 17 or 18 years ago, the hall was totally redone inside to improve the acoustics.  The hall before that, made the listener feel as if the orchestra were playing behind a veil.  Nothing was clear or three-dimensional.  Thankfully, the Board took this seriously and raised the  money necessary to remedy the situation.  We now have a very fine hall that truly embellishes the sound of the entire orchestra.  Come and check it out.  You won't be disappointed!









Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Confession 1: Inside the Mind of a Musician, Part 2: Let's Get Technical

     And so the concert begins;  not with the first downbeat, but with the up beat before it.  The upbeat is very important for indicating the tempo, or speed, of the upcoming music, and also the amount of force to be used.  This is all communicated by the conductor in his upbeat.  After the upbeat, comes the downbeat, and the actual music begins!

     Aside:  I remember one conductor, Alain Lombard, the Music Director of the then Miami Philharmonic back in the '70's, who would practically run out on stage and leap up onto the podium.  He would immediately give the down beat, and if one was not ready, it was tough luck!

     Anyway, back to this concert.  What are we playing?  Let's say, since I was talking about it in the Prerlude of this blog, Beethoven's Seventh Symphony.  We play the opening chord, and release it together as we have rehearsed.  I then listen to the Principal Oboe, who has the theme, and am also counting to four while watching the Conductor for the downbeat of the next measure.  I am listening to the entire orchestra, with special attention to the Oboe, to myself, and to the rest of the Bass Section.  In a few measures, (the grouping of notes into sections, making it easier to read along) we (the strings) begin our sixteenth notes, which we must play absolutely together and with exactly the same articulation.  We do this a lot in the Orchestra.  Different sections of the entire orchestra play together at various times, although cellos can play with horns, violins with flutes, etc. for a wonderful mix of texture and color.  In a piece like the Beethoven, the tempo of the Introduction does not vary a whole lot, so the conductor doesn't need to signal much change in that regard.  But toward the end of the introduction, the notes slow down a bit without the tempo actually changing, so it seems as if there is a ritard, or slowing down.  Then the notes start to speed up as we head into the main part of the first movement, or Vivace (fast, full of life).  This is where watching the conductor is crucial, to make sure we transition from one tempo to another seamlessly and totally together.  So much of what a conductor does is telegraphing subtly, and just a bit ahead of time, what the new tempo will be.  Being able to read that information, while listening to oneself and everyone else, is just one of the skills needed to be able to play successfully in an orchestra.

     Playing chamber music, pieces written for smaller ensembles, with no conductor, is all about listening to and watching one's fellow musicians.  In an orchestral setting, however, with 60 to 100 players or more, a conductor is simply the most practical solution to the very complicated problem of deciding how fast, how loud, etc. to play.  There are a very few orchestras that play with no conductor, Orpheus Chamber Orchestra being perhaps  one of the most famous.  I have not played in such a group, but have heard that there is much discussion about tempos, dynamics, and whom to watch, when, during rehearsals.  I have heard the results on recordings, and they are spectacular.

     We, in San Francisco Symphony, have a Music Director, Michael Tilson Thomas, who conducts the majority of the time.  He makes all the final decisions as to repertoire, tempos, etc.  We also have a number of guest conductors each season, which keeps us on our toes, and allows MTT time to pursue other projects.

     By now, it must be obvious that too much is going on in the brain of a musician during a concert to really be in anything resembling a trance.  But when the adrenaline is flowing and the music is churning, there is perhaps, a zen-like feeling to performing, and there is no better place to be than in the middle of a symphony orchestra, soaking up all that delicious sound!











Sunday, November 7, 2010

Opus 2: Confession 1, Inside the Mind of a Musician

     People seem to think that when playing music, a musician is in some sort of trance.  That couldn't be further from the truth.  Granted, when I am in some kind of musical "groove", the music flows almost automatically.  But even that has different connotations.  At it's best, I suppose, playing music in an orchestra can be like a sort of meditation, in that the mind is focused on the music and nothing else.  But then again, it depends on the music.  And the state of my mind.  At any rate, when the down beat comes, I am in Hyper-Alert Mode, ready for anything!  But let's start at the beginning.

     Even before the concert begins, there is a specific ritual of events that takes place.  Instruments are being taken out out of cases, or as in my "case," out of my locker.  I have two basses: one at the hall, and one at home.  That is because I am simply too darned lazy to carry a bass back and forth.  That and because my 1930's house is a bit drafty.  Not a good environment for a 200+ year  old, wooden instrument (English, William Forster, or so I'm told--I don't have any official papers, like many of my colleagues).  Though it is, at times, a bit too hot on stage, for my taste, the climate at Davies Symphony Hall is fairly controlled.  I do take my bow home, and practice with it.   I am very fond of my bow, made in the 1920's by Victor Fetique, for those of you interested in that sort of thing, and play  nothing else.  I carry it in a leather case with a shoulder-strap.  People sometimes think it's a flute, or a pool cue.  Now THAT would be cool.  I tell them that I don't play pool, but classical music.
     "Can you make a living doing that?" they ask.  
     "It's a full-time job." 
     Most people don't know that we usually have four, two-and-a-half hour rehearsals per week.  We usually play four, sometimes five concerts a week.  Now that doesn't add up to a 40-hour work week.  But add in all the hours we spend at home, practicing alone, and you get a full-time job.  On Wednesday and Saturdays, we make two trips to the hall in one day.  And many of us volunteer our time for the numerous committees that help run things at the Symphony.  Now that we've settled that, back to the pre-concert doings.

     With the bow out of its case, I place it, length-wise, under the strings.  It's a good way to carry the bow, since I need both hands to carry the big, old fiddle.  There is a leather "apron" around the bass to protect  it  from belt-buckle scratches, and it has a pocket for my glasses, pencil, and rosin.  I walk about 50 feet to the stage door, which is on the same level as the lockers.  I do have to go up a few steps to get to my spot on the correct riser.  

     Once there, I let out and tightly fasten the end-pin.  That's the sharply-pointed, metal shaft on which the bass rests while being played.  We have black wooden boxes, on which we set our "stuff:"  rosin, glasses cases, rags, tuners, and the bass, when not in use.  At this point, I tighten the bow;  that is, I tighten the hair from the tails of special Mongolian horses, and coat it with rosin.  All string players use rosin, boiled down resin from pine trees.  But we bass players use REALLY sticky rosin because the strings we play on are the size of knitting needles!  (At this point, I just have to say how much I like that we, as orchestral musicians in the 21st century, are still doing things pretty much the same as they did in the 18th Century!)  Our bows, though about the same length  as violin bows, are much more massive, and have  much thicker shanks of hair.  One of my fellow bass players likes to tell how his teacher would point out that if violinists used bows the same ratio to their instruments as bassists, they'd be playing with bows the size of pencils!  At any rate, everything about the bass is huge.  And we bass players love it that way!

     Now that my bow is tightened and rosined ("Rosin up for Safety!" we like to say), I then get out my electronic tuner, and "pre-tune" my bass to A-441.  This way, I am in the correct ball-park (how 'bout those Giants?!!) before the formal tuning takes place.  After I am satisfied with my tuning, I take the opportunity to play a few scales and review some of the trickier passages in the music we are about to play.  It's not unlike an athlete warming up before the game; we just use smaller muscle groups, for the most part. 

     At 8:oo, the concertmaster walks on stage and tunes the orchestra: the Principal Oboe plays two A's,  one for the strings, and the second, for the winds, brass, timpani, and harp.  The conductor then walks out, takes his bow with the Orchestra, lifts his baton, and the concert begins.

     See tomorrow's blog entry for the conclusion!





Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Opus 1; Finale: Finally, a Feline!

     To tell about my first cat, we need to jump ahead a few years, to my days in Miami, Florida.  I was attending the University of Miami School of Music for my Master's Degree and studying with the illustrious Dr. Lucas Drew, a fabulous teacher and Principal Bass of the Miami Philharmonic.  "What happened to college?" you may ask.  Well, we'll go back there later.  But since I changed my blog title to include the feline set, I thought a kitty story would be in order.

     For a time, while I was in  Miami, I had a boyfriend, John, who also played bass.  Our mutual friend, Joe, another bassist, was from  a small town near Daytona, Florida.  His folks still lived there, in a rural, sort of Everglades, swampy area.  They had a nice cabin, and John and I went one week to visit.  While we were there, we found a mother cat who was living under one of the other cottages with her litter of kittens.  She was very skittish, obviously feral and afraid of humans.   So were her kittens, except for one:  a pure white, little puff-ball with one green eye and one, blue.  He would come right up the steps (he couldn't have been more than 7 or 8 weeks old) and would meow pitifully for us to come out and feed him.  I got to be very fond of him over the next few days.  We asked around, and the cats didn't belong to anybody.  I decided to take the tiny, white kitten home with us.  We named him Nimbus, the little cloud.

     We got cat food, a kitty-leash and a small box to keep him in on the ride back to Miami.  He was remarkably at ease in the Jeep that John drove (and I mean an olive-drab, noisy Army Jeep.)  When we arrived at home, we fed him, showed him the litter box, and went to bed.

      The next morning, the little cutie was mewing like crazy to be fed.  But when I called him into the kitchen, he didn't come.  Now granted, I had not had a cat before, and did not know that they didn't necessarily come when called.  But later that day, a book fell down right next to Nimbus, and he didn't so much as blink.  We started making loud noises, to see if he would respond.  I began to think that Nimbus might be deaf.

      I called a veterinarian the next day and took him in for his shots and exam.  I asked the doctor if he thought Nimbus was deaf.  He told me that sometimes, white male cats with blue eyes can be deaf.  Since Nimbus had one green eye, he didn't know for sure.  The doctor then put his fingers to his lips and let out an ear-piercing whistle.  Nimbus didn't flinch.  "Yep, he's deaf," the vet announced.

     Having a deaf cat was not all that much different from having a hearing cat, I guess.  We couldn't let him outside by himself, of course, but I would take him on walks on a leash.  We also learned that if we stomped on the floor, he could feel the vibrations and would come.  He also liked to fetch pencils that we threw across the room.  When I flew up to Rochester to visit my folks, I took him on the plane, with me, and he was very well behaved.  He also got along quite nicely with our dog. And we discovered, I'm not sure how, that Nimbus liked to be vacuumed.  The noise certainly didn't scare him and he seemed to like the sensation of having his fur pulled on by the suction.  

     When I left the Miami area for Kansas City, I really couldn't take Nimbus with me.  My sister Amy, who lived on a farm in Ohio at the time , was happy to have him.  There he lived out his days with  her other cat, the two of them sleeping side-by-side on the water heater, the warmest spot in the house.


Saturday, October 30, 2010

Intermezzo: Auntie Jean

      I need to back up in time a little to tell about my mom's younger sister, Jean.  As I related before, my mom was instrumental (pun intended) in helping me develop my musical skill.  But I should also say a few words about Auntie Jean.

      She and her husband, Uncle Dave, were public school music teachers: she played bass and he tuba.  (Guess they both loved that bass clef sound!) They went to the Eastman School of Music in Rochester, where they met.  They then moved to West Point, where Uncle Dave played in the West Point Band.  Since Jean played bass, I never thought twice about NOT playing bass due to my gender.  I even remember that we kept her bass trunk, a huge, black, scary coffin-like wooden crate (used for shipping) in our basement when I was quite young.  It was filled with old clothes,  books, and maybe even a mouse nest or two.  I ended up using one just like it when I played in the Kansas City Philharmonic.  But again I digress.  Back to Jean and Dave.

      One summer, when I was about seven or eight, I went to visit Jean and Dave for a couple weeks. I fell in love with their collie, Duff.  He would sleep in my room with me, sometimes on the bed if the grown-ups weren't looking.  I also remember going to visit Rip's Retreat, a storybook-like town set in the time of Washington Irving, the author of Rip Van Winkle.  The people dressed in colonial-style clothes, made their own soap, ran a blacksmith's shop, and blew glass.  I was especially intrigued with the candle makers.  They would pour molten wax into molds with wicks  inlaid.  The smell was intoxicating.  When the candles were dry, you could buy two of any color of the rainbow, joined together by one wick, to be cut later.

     When Dave had fulfilled his army duty at West Point, they moved to Frankfort, NY, a suburb of Utica. There they both taught music, and when I visited in the summer, I got to meet and play with some of their students.  We would have marathon Monopoly games, made all the more fun because Auntie Jean kept a big bowl of candy on the table for us to munch.  I loved the  glasses in which she served us drinks:  gem toned, aluminum cups that would "sweat" when they held cold beverages.  We used little cloth cozies to hold them so our hands wouldn't get wet.  If we didn't finish the game by bedtime, we would take up where we left off the next morning, although I don't think the candy was  quite so free-flowing then.

     By this time, Jean and Dave had the cutest little boy, about two or three, named Will.  He was fascinated with private planes, like Piper Cubs and Cessnas.   In his sweet, chirpy voice he would announce at the airport:  "Dat's a Bonanza.  Wook, a Pipa Cub!" He could identify just about any plane!  They still had Duff and later, they had a second son, John who loved football.  It was a real treat for me to visit them in the summers, and I tried to maintain the friendships I made there throughout the following school year.

      Flash forward eight or nine years.  I waited tables at a now defunct Howard Johnson's restaurant the summer after my senior year in high school.  I worked the evening shift, and when we were done, after midnight, we would make ourselves ice cream cones for the ride home.  My favorite flavor:  mocha chip.  I found out decades later that Auntie Jean's favorite flavor was ALSO Howard Johnson's  mocha chip.  She and I are both left-handed.  And we both love dogs.  When she and her family moved to LeRoy, NY, near Buffalo, she started breeding her own Cardigan Corgie dogs at her home called Trailwyn Kennels.  Though she is no longer a breeder, she is, to this day active at dog shows, doing canine-related artwork, cartoons, and jewelry.  I like to draw cartoons as well, and it really started me thinking about the mystery of genetics, and the roll of the chromosomal dice.  At any rate, we have a lot in common.  She was, and will always be, my heroine!

Friday, October 29, 2010

Foot Note: Mikimoto Knock-off Pearls of Wisdom No. 2

     As we are all aware, music in the public schools is suffering major cut-backs.  I feel very strongly that children can benefit in countless ways from studying music and playing in ensembles.  It develops the brain in ways that nothing else can.  Playing in a band, orchestra, or smaller group is not only fun and exciting, but also provides valuable lessons in social etiquette and team work, respect for the conductor and one's colleagues, and a real appreciation for music.  Of The Five, our high school folk music group, Kathie and one of the Sues became music teachers in public schools.  The other Sue went on to be a chemist at Eastman Kodak, and plays piano at a local restaurant on the weekends.  And I know that a large number of my fellow SF Symphony musicians started music in public school.  Of course, not everyone will go on to play professionally, but learning an instrument is a gift that will last a lifetime.
     My sister Amy started cello in school and now plays a bit professionally on the side.  She also teaches piano, violin, and cello privately.  She is a public school music teacher in Pasadena, California.  You might want to check out her blog:

http://matrixmusicteacher.blogspot.com/

It's funny and enlightening.  And, shows first hand the power of music with children.


Thursday, October 28, 2010

Third Movement: Fiddles--Little and Large

       I remember one day, not far into the beginning of  fourth grade, that was especially exciting.  Our class was going to The Instrumental Music Room to pick out instruments to learn to play!  We could choose any string, woodwind, brass or percussion instrument, and when we got good enough, we could play in the school orchestra. Kathie and I had already been experimenting on an old beat up violin in her basement.  I liked it because it made sense to me:   put your fingers down one by one, and the notes get higher.  Being left-handed, I held the violin backwards, not knowing the correct way.  But I knew for sure that is what I wanted to play.  Kathie  was also going to choose violin, and we were both thrilled when we opened the black cases and found beautiful,  shiny violins nestled inside.  I was a bit shocked that Mr. Hasenaur, the music teacher, made me switch to holding and fingering the violin with my left hand and bowing with the right.  He assured me it would become second nature soon enough.  And he was right.  By the Christmas concert, Kathie and I were both in the  orchestra second violin section and having a ball.  We even got applause when we returned to our classroom after the Holiday Concert Assembly.  Playing in an orchestra has always been just about my favorite thing, so I am very thankful that I ended up being able to make a living doing what I love.
                                                         
     As I mentioned earlier, both my parents loved music--my dad so much, that he installed speakers in the bathroom in order to listen to the classical radio station as he showered and got ready for work.  The station came on the air at 7 am and aptly, its theme song was the Hornpipe form Handel's Water Music.  Because the radio was on almost all the time my dad was home, and we often attended Rochester Philharmonic concerts, I got to hear how violin should, in a  perfect world, sound.  But before I could master fancy technique and a lovely tone, I had to learn to play in tune.  I have my devoted mother to thank for that.  As I would practice in the living room during the evenings, she would call out, "B flat!" or "That note is sharp!"  from the kitchen while she was doing dishes.  She would also accompany me on the piano and help me with my etudes. Without my mother's help, I truly don't know if I would have been  successful as a string player.  I finally learned to hear intonation (whether a note is in tune, not too high or too low) because of her constant help.   For that, I am forever grateful.

     Kathie and I eventually moved into the first violin section.  That was really fun because then we got to play the melody.  When we entered  junior high, we played in that orchestra, too and by then I was taking private lessons with a friend of my mother's.  But one day, the orchestra teacher, Mrs. Powell asked me if my new friend Susan, who also played violin, and I, if we would like to try playing the string (or double) bass.  We were both tall (over 5 feet, eight inches) and no one else was interested.  We needed a bass in the orchestra, so we both agreed to give it a try.  I immediately fell in love with the deep tone, and for the first time didn't have a stiff neck, like I did playing violin.  For a while, Sue and I would take turns on bass in the orchestra and then switch back to violin.  But after taking bass and violin lessons that summer at the Hochstein Music School, I decided I wanted to concentrate on bass.  I dropped violin and never looked back.

     When Sue, Kathy and I got to high school, Kathie decided to give up violin and play only piano, which she did in the orchestra.  She also got to play with some sort of contraption which was placed inside the upright piano and made it sound like a harpsichord.  This was great for playing the music of Baroque composers such as Bach and Handel.  Sue and I played bass in the Orchestra, Concert Band, and Dance Band.  We also formed a folk music group, The Five, with Kathie and our other two friends, coincidentally also named Sue and Kathy. (I wanted to call the group Two Kathies, Two Sues and a Lee, but was out-voted.)  I played guitar with the other Sue, the first Sue played bass, and we all sang.  Later I would sing and play bass and guitar in a folk-rock group with another set of friends.  Music was already my life.  I only wish I had done more in the way of studying voice.  But it's not too late, and I may take it up again one day soon.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Second Movement: Piano Lessons

     My piano lessons started a age seven.  Actually, they were my seventh birthday present!  My mother felt it was the perfect time to start.  At this age, a child can read, count and do a bit of math, all good skills to have when learning to play music.   My teacher, Miss Seitz, came to our house every Saturday morning for my lesson.  Miss Thompson, the  Head Teacher, would come by about once a month (accompanied by her three pug dogs) to make sure I was mastering what I was supposed to learn.  My good (and oldest friend--we are still in touch!) Kathie also took lessons from Miss Seitz.  In the spring, there was an annual recital, where all the students got to perform.
        
     A month or two before the recital, Miss Thompson would come by with a bunch of sheet music:  more challenging pieces that we could pick out and learn by rote.  For some reason, I was really into the minor mode, so of course my first piece, India, was in A Minor.  I still remember its plaintive tune.  (Call me crazy, but I can still hum it, and my second and third recital pieces:  Haunted House and Frolicky-Rolicky Wind.  And yes, they too were in minor keys.)
       
     At the recital, Kathie and I  were in the beginning student section, so we got to play toward the start of the program.  As I got older, I'd have to sit and wait for my turn to play, which did not help the butterflies-in-the-stomach I felt.  "Stage fright" is what we call that now, and there is medication to help adults with serious cases.  But at the time, I just sat on my hands and kept wiping off the sweat.  Finally it was my turn.  I went up to the piano, sat down and played my minute-long masterwork flawlessly, if a bit robotic.  When I finished, there was, thankfully, applause.  I curtsied properly and returned to my seat.  And there I had my first lesson in stage deportment.
        
     At the end of each recital, Miss Thompson would walk up front, stand by the piano, and proclaim, "Thank you everyone for doing such a wonderful job.  Now go out with your families and have ICE CREAM!"  I am happy to report that we did just that.  
      
     When Kathie and I were in 3rd  grade, we teamed up as a duo with at least eight other kids, two per piano, or four hands per piano.  We were all to play Mendelssohn's War March of the Priests (a bit of an oxymoron, perhaps) all together on 5 or 6 pianos at an upcoming outdoor recital.
         
      The concert was to be held at the Highland Park Bowl, a large band shell used for Opera Under the Stars and other music concerts in Rochester's lovely Highland Park.  In late spring, Highland Park is THE place to view and smell hundreds of some of the most beautiful and numerous lilacs in the country.  At the time of this particular musical extravaganza, however, it was well into summer.  Kathie and I had practiced our fingers to the bone, knew the music by heart, and were ready to go.
      
     The morning of the recital, which was to begin at 2 pm, we all had to sit in the seats assigned to us, in full sunlight.
    
     We had a run-through on stage and then returned to our seats to hear the more advanced students go through their pieces.  At 2 pm the program began and finished two and a half hours later to a very enthusiastic reception.
      
     On the way home, at least a 30 minute drive, I began to feel ill.  By the time we pulled up to the house, I was nauseous and had a fever.  "You must have sun stroke," my mother the nurse announced.  Ice cream or even sorbet was out of the question.  I ran into the house, promptly threw up, and so began learning first hand about the sacrifice one must make for one's art.

                                                                    *   *   *

     I kept taking piano lessons for another year, but gave it up not long after starting violin in 4th grade.  I am glad to this day that I started on piano, and I wish that I could play it better now.  I tell this to many parents who ask how to start their children in music.  Piano gives a child a true sense of high and low notes, sharps and flats, and pitch.  It also enables a child to learn both the treble and bass clefs, the two clefs used by most orchestral instruments.  Playing piano, lastly, develops the fundamentals:  reading music, playing by ear, counting, rhythm, scales and keys, dynamics and much more.  If you were to ask my colleagues in the San Francisco Symphony, I'll bet many of them  started on piano, and like me, wish they were better at playing piano now.  It's a great way to start music and it can carry you through the rest of your life.




Foot Note: Mikimoto Knock-off Pearl of Wisdom No. 1

     At the risk of sounding a bit preachy, I feel a certain responsibility to make this plea:  unless one is a breeder, we pet owners need to spay and neuter our dogs and cats.  Back when I was a kid, probably out of ignorance, people didn't routinely do it.  In this day and age, there is no excuse not to.  We can prevent hundreds of thousands of unwanted animals from being euthanized if we take care of our pets in this simple, but important way.  Thank you!

Grand Paws

     I was very proud to have such a magnificent dog as Schultz.  In my first grade class, our teacher Mrs. Reed held Show-and-Tell every morning.  I'm not quite sure how I convinced my mom to bring Schultz to school one day so I could show and tell about him.  He calmly walked in with my mother and two little sisters and took his place in the front of the room, sitting next to me.  I told  my classmates about his breed and the circumstances of his adoption.  Then, one by one, each student came up to take a turn petting him.  After the entire class had had a chance to meet him, my mom and sisters took him back home.  What a good mom...and what a good dog!

                                                                             *  *  *

     And what a bad dog Schultz was at staying in the yard.  Back in the 1950's, not many people neutered their male dogs, and we were no exception.  Schultz's desire to hunt, combined with his hormonal wander-lust, resulted in a very frustrating time.  Our yard was not fenced in, and in the morning, some family member would let Schultz out, with a whimsical bit of advice:  "Stay in the yard!"  That did about as much good as telling my sister's hamsters not to run in their exercise wheel.  He would go gallivanting off, happy as you please and be gone the whole day.  In our area we had creeks, female dogs in heat, open fields, and the aforementioned Farmer Fleming's pheasant coop:  all paradise for a paw-loose dog on the run.  My mother would go driving around the neighborhood, calling his name, but he usually came back on his own, miraculously unscathed.
 
     One Saturday though, we got a call from Farmer Fleming himself.  He was extremely upset that our dog had gotten into his pheasant pen and had all but killed one.  "Get your dog out of here before I call the Sheriff!"  My dad and I quickly got into the car and went over to fetch him post haste.  There was Schultz tearing around the pen, pheasants and feathers flying everywhere!  Dad grabbed the dog, put him on the leach, and scolded him soundly.  After some introspection, I would have to say that we humans were the ones who needed some training.

                                                                            *   *   *

     Growing up in a housing development in-progress in the '50's certainly had some exciting perks.  There was a huge pile of dirt across from our house, bulldozed to make way for the construction of  more new houses.  The dirt pile was at least two-stories high and was a great thing to climb around on, especially with one's own dog.  We played wild horses (inspired by the TV shows Fury and My Friend Flicka.)  This involved much discussion concerning the colors of our hides, manes, and tails (dried cornstalks stuffed into our jeans.)  We also played wild dogs, and my name was always "Renegade," a name which perfectly described my imagined untamed ways.  Sometimes my friends Kathie, Nancy and/or Susan and I would take Schultz across the big street, Latta Road, to the vast fields that were yet undeveloped.  There we would let Schultz run his head off, unencumbered by any leash.  He had a grand time pointing at and then scaring up wild pheasants.  We pretended we were hunting, and lucky for Schultz, and the pheasants, there were no guns involved.
 
     Across Latta Road there was also a beautiful creek where we loved to play.  We were enthralled by the crayfish, polliwogs, and the tiny hand-prints of raccoons.  To this day, I marvel at how much unchaperoned freedom we had as young grade school kids!

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Further "Tails" of Schultz

     When we got home that afternoon, I dutifully promised to feed, water, walk and clean up after Schultz.  His first supper consisted of Purina Dog Chow, which he inhaled in less than 10 seconds and then promptly threw up.  And then re-ate before we could stop him.  Sweet.   Thus began a life-time of education in the ways of the canine set.  
 
     At bedtime, I wanted Schultz to sleep in my room, but my mother would have nothing of the kind.
     "He's a dog.  He will sleep in the basement.  End of story."
     The next morning, I ran downstairs very early to check on Schultz.  To my horror were three piles of dog poop spread across the floor, which of course I had to clean up.  Now a word to the wise, which we  definitely were not.  A dog who has spent his whole life in kennels learns to poop on concrete.  Our basement floor was concrete.  Where would such a dog poop?  I'm sure you know the answer, but for some reason it took our family at least a year to figure that one out.  My mother finally allowed Schultz to sleep in the kitchen, in a wooden bed my dad had made for him.   From then on he slept upstairs and never pooped in the house again.
 
     I really can't say enough good things about our dog Schultz.  He was patient and gentle with us kids.  He let me dress him up in my mother's maternity blouses, rode in our red wagon, and even pulled us on our roller skates.  My dad caught us doing this one day, with the leach attached to  Schultz's collar, and promptly told us that was not allowed since it could choke him.  Dad then proceeded to make a harness out of canvas straps for Schultz and when winter rolled around, Schultz pulled us in our sled and on our ice skates at the nearby frozen pond.  When spring came again, he pulled us in the wagon and on our roller skates.

     At this point, I should probably give you a little background info.  I was born in 1951 in Minneapolis, while my dad was still in college and my mother worked as an RN at Abbott Hospital.  When my dad got a job at Eastman Kodak, we moved to Rochester, NY when I was about 2 and 1/2 years old.  We lived in apartments until I was four, when we moved into our own brand-new house in Greece, NY, a suburb of Rochester.  Our housing development in Greece, about a mile from Lake Ontario, was once a dairy/apple farm.  Farmer Fleming still had his large brick house, complete with widow's walk, on a number of acres where he continued to have dairy cows grazing.  I must, at this point say a few words about electric fences.  The cows grazed right up to the edge of our back yard.  The only thing between them and us was an electric fence.  The fence provided hours of entertainment for us kids.  We discovered that if you were wearing sneakers, you would not get a shock when you touched the fence.  But if you were wearing the ubiquitous buckle shoe (which for the uninitiated, has a leather sole), you would be zapped!  I don't know many unsuspecting friends were were drawn to this sadistic game of trickery.  But I am sure that we all learned that electric fences should be avoided at all costs, especially in Manolo Blahniks!

Monday, October 25, 2010

Opus 1: Rochester, First Movement: Schultz

     "Please, Mom.  Can't we have a dog?  Pleeeze?"  I remember uttering these words at least once or twice a day to my poor mother, who already had her hands full with three daughters under the age of eight.  I was seven, with little sister Amy, 2, and newborn Lynn Louise.  It was a big year for me:  I was in FIRST GRADE, had learned to read, and had a brand new baby sister...with whom I was quite disappointed.  (I had thought both sisters would be born to look more like one of my dolls, complete with blond ringlets and frilly dresses.  Instead, I got red-faced, hairless, wailing blobs that were nothing like what I had pictured.)  And I had started piano lessons, something of a rite of passage in my family.  Both my parents loved music, especially classical, and both played piano, solos and duets, and sang in the Rochester Philharmonic Oratorio Society.  So naturally, we kids would all take piano lessons, starting at age seven, the stage of life my mother deemed the perfect time.  At this age, she would say, you can read, count, and even do a little addition;  all very important in reading music.
 
     But as ideal a life as I might have had, I still did not feel complete.  We needed a DOG!  My Auntie Jean had a beautiful collie named Duff, whom I adored.  (Collies, popular because of the 1950's TV show Lassie, were definitely out:  too much hair, according to my mom.)  But I was also in love with German Shepherds, ever since watching another hit show, Rin Tin Tin.  At that time, one could order a German Shepherd, or any number of other breeds, from the Sears and Roebuck Catalog.  This is what I wanted to do, but was hung up on the choice of a gray and black Shepherd, or tan and black.  Besides, I didn't have the 50 plus dollars necessary.  My mother's response was, "No dogs!  I'll be the one who ends up feeding it, walking it, cleaning up after it.  No dog, no way!"
 
     Well, I'm not sure how my parents' discussion ensued, but one Saturday, were all in the car going someplace mysterious.  In my family, it was verboten to ask for things from my father.  If you did, the answer would be automatically no.  On this particular Saturday, I had no idea where we were headed, so I ventured a hesitant,  "Hey Dad.  Where are we going?"
     "We are going to Lollipop Farm."
     Lollipop Farm was Rochester's (Monroe County) Humane Society.  I'm not sure if I understood what this meant exactly.  But then my dad added, "We're going to pick out a dog."
    Be still my beating heart.  Had I heard correctly?  All I could picture were throngs of adorable puppies, each cuter than the next.  O rapture!
 
     When we arrived at Lollipop Farm, I was taken aback.  It didn't really look like a farm. And there were no lollipops! There were a few barn-like buildings, some llamas and goats milling around, and at least 30 kennels filled with barking, smelly full-grown dogs.  "Wait, where are the puppies?" I asked in a small voice.
     "We're going to get one of these grown-up dogs that needs a home," replied my dad.  "It's better to have an adult dog, because they are past the gnawing stage and you know what kind of personality they have.  Also, they are probably house-trained."
     How could I hide my disappointment?  I had dreamed of a puppy.  And here were all these loud, smelly frantic dogs.  But one did not argue with my father.
 
     We went into the kennel building, and I first saw a bouncy, collie-like dog.  My mother immediately nixed that one:  too much fur!  We continued looking into each dog run, until my father motioned for us to come over to the cage he was standing by.  Way in the back, curled up in the corner was a timid dog, whose breed was unknown to me.  My dad asked if we could go into the cage to meet "Bing."  My dad went in and stooped down to pet the sad creature.  "He's a nice dog," said the attendant.  "Got turned in because he's gun shy.  You see, he's a German Short haired Pointer.  He's a hunting dog, and he can't stand loud noises."
     "Aw, Bing,"  my dad said gently.  "Come on and let's have a look at you."
     Bing got up hesitantly and sniffed my dad's outstretched hand.  He seemed very gentle and I started to think that he might make a good pet.  Her certainly didn't bark like the other dogs.  Another plus:  he had short hair!
 
     My mother agreed, and we ended up bringing 2 year old Bing home.  On the way back, my dad suggested we think of a new name for him.  "A new name for a new life."  How about Brownie?  How about Speckles?  "Well, he's German,"  my dad said.  "He needs a German name."
     And so Bing became Schultz.

     


     "
     



Sunday, October 24, 2010

Prelude

     The applause is deafening.  One might have thought this was a rock concert.  Instead, it is the end of the Finale of Beethoven's Seventh Symphony.  Michael Tilson Thomas, the Music Director of our Orchestra, the San Francisco Symphony, has just conducted the last exciting chords in Davies Symphony Hall.  The audience goes wild.  We learn to expect this kind of ovation for a concerto with a very popular and famous soloist.  Or perhaps for a Mahler or Tchaikowsky symphony.  But to receive this level of enthusiasm for a war horse like the Seventh makes me realize again how much music means to people.  And how great music can move listeners to cheers...or tears.

     Looking out at the standing patrons, I can't help but focus on one man in particular.  He has been a concert-going regular for a number of years, but this is his first concert of the present 2010-11 Symphony Season.  In the past, he has sat in what are called the "student rush" seats:  they go on sale two hours before the concert and are on a first come, first served basis.  But now, here he is in the Lower Orchestra, Center.  How fun to see him there, standing and clapping like there is no tomorrow.  His clapping style is legendary among a few of us musicians.  We call him The Clapper.  But I digress...more about him later.
  
      As the title of this blog suggests, I play the bass,  a very strenuous instrument.  As I mop my sweaty brow, loosen my bow and wipe the rosin from my bass, I am struck by what a great privilege it is to live the life I have ended up with:  playing timeless music with such talented colleagues, traveling to the cultural centers of the world and performing in some of the finest concert halls.  I also have a loving family and live in one of the most beautiful areas of the country, in a progressive city that truly supports the arts.  How did I get so lucky?
  
     As my car-pool buddy, cellist Carolyn and I walk to the parking lot after the concert, I am still caught up in the musical moment.  Experience tells me this week's  concert music will be going through my head until next week's music takes over.  I will have to practice next week's program in preparation for the first rehearsal.  But as we cruise through the starry night on  101 South, I am also looking forward to something cold to drink, a kiss from my husband and daughter, and a cuddle with our dear coon hound, Mona.
  
     This is a life I want to share with others.  How I got the job I have;  how I met and married Rich; the story of how our daughter joined our family; and for the animal lovers out there, a little something about the wonderful dogs--and cats--I have known.