On March 29th, 2005, I gave my final graduate recital in percussion performance. I hung up my mallets and focused my energies on studying composition, figuring I would never perform again in a solo recital setting.
I don’t listen very well to myself, apparently.
Please join me on March 29th, 2018, as I give my first solo recital in (exactly) 13 years. Essentially, this is a dual composition/percussion event, as I’ll be premiering a new 50-minute work written specifically for this recital, titled Meditation on Paraphrase as an Antonym of Quotation. Bookending the work will be Meadowlark by Tawnie Olson, and a small contribution to the Bernstein centennial.
Program notes for Meditation on Paraphrase as an Antonym of Quotation:
Meditation on Paraphrase as an Antonym of Quotation is the third and last of my Meditations for a solo percussionist. These pieces are not to be considered “music to which one meditates.” Instead, they are the result of long meditations on a particular subject. The first, Meditation on the Eve of John Cage’s 100th Birthday, was the result of a meditation on chance operations. The second, Meditation on Italo Calvino’s ‘The Castle of Crossed Destinies,” was the result of a meditation on different paths of a linear structure as determined by the placement of elements within a frame. During the composition of the third piece, I was occupied, at times to an unhealthy level bordering on obsessive, with two subjects: Kafka, specifically the absurd and grotesque situations and environments in which he places his characters, and distortion, specifically the first entry in Merriam-Webster’s definition of the term: “the act of twisting or altering something out of its true, natural, or original state: the act of distortion; a distortion of the facts.”
I was recently interviewed by Anthony Joseph Lanman on his 1 Track Podcast! We discussed my evening-length piece, V: oratio secreta, as well as evening-length pieces in general, different ways of approaching time in a composition, and the influence of literature on my music. I hope you like it!
Saying that the view of “the composer should be free of the expectations of the audience” is analogous to the “Why pass gun laws? Criminals will still get guns” view of gun control is not provocative; it is ignorant, petty, and cheap.
Have some respect for your audience. They can make their own interpretations and form their own opinions. Get out of their way.
Debate and criticism are healthy and inherently good activities.
The lighting of the performance space and attire of the performers has nothing to do with the quality of the performance. There have been many bad performances given by well-dressed people in well-lit spaces.
Anyone who is any good at anything trained and continues to train. They seek out instruction, take what they need from the instruction, and never stop improving their craft. No one is impressed with the fact that you never took a lesson; it’s not a badge of honor. At the same time, training and mentoring are not exclusive to the campuses of expensive private institutions and Big Ten powerhouses.
A well-made piece can be any duration. I’d rather hear a well-made piece that lasts one minute than a mediocre piece lasting ten. On the other hand, we should not fear the evening-length composition. There are many well-made pieces lasting over an hour.
Insulating yourself and your art with only the familiar is a recipe for becoming annoyingly stale and obnoxiously narcissistic. Take a hint from Christopher Hitchens and step away from your home turf every once in a while.
Two weeks ago, I received an email from my teacher, mentor, colleague, and friend Ted Rounds. The letter was addressed to many alumni of the percussion studio at Kent State University. In his straightforward and direct manner, Ted explained that he had end-stage cancer. Today, I received word that Ted had peacefully passed away last night.
The last 12 hours has brought an outpouring of beautiful tributes to Ted on social media. Many of them resonate with the same theme: a caring, thoughtful mentor who taught us the value of hard work. Yes, the hard work was taught with intensity, as anyone who survived percussion ensemble rehearsals will tell you. However, I will always remember Ted telling us that no matter what we are doing, no matter what the job was, we must do it with genuine care.
I think that will always be the word I return to when I think of Ted: care. I was a member of the percussion studio from 1999-2005, and then I was able to be around from 2006-2007 as a composer and then from 2011-2014 as a professor. While the people, literature, and practice room designs changed (except for the Lacquer, Chrome, and Thunder poster), the environment of family never left the corner of the hallway where the percussion studios are. You knew, as a member of Ted’s studio, that you always had a place to go, people to lean on, and a teacher who cared about you not only as a musician but as a person and as a friend. I think back to all of the good and bad times in my life: Ted was there, either in the distance as a friend offering help and advice, or right there as an advocate in my corner. When it came to those he cared about, the man gave a damn, and today those kind of people are few and far between. The world is a little less bright today. Chas Baker said it best in his thoughtful note about Ted: words fail. Chas is correct; what the hell do you say?
I’m sad that I have no pictures to post as a tribute. In their absence, I’d like to post a recording. It’s not of Ted performing or of a piece Ted wrote, but it’s a piece that, for me, reminds me of Ted whenever I hear it. It was the first major piece of percussion literature that I worked on with Ted: Andrew Thomas’ Merlin. It was in these lessons where I was able to learn the most about my teacher. He had a special connection with the piece, and his input about past performances went well beyond the technical considerations. Also, as a composition, the structure is very much like Ted: one part calm and contemplative, the other fiery, active, and intense. Both parts, though, are variations on the same progression. Without one there is not the other.
When I contacted Ted after receiving his correspondence from two weeks ago, I began by telling him that I had no idea what to say to him. I still don’t know what to say; again, Chas is correct. All I know is that I’m thankful. I’m thankful that I was able to work with Ted as his student, his assistant, his colleague, and his friend. Ted taught me a lot about music, but I also learned from him a certain spirit of individuality and honesty that I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.
Allow me to close with a memory: My last performance as a percussionist at Kent State was in May of 2005. The KSU Orchestra and Choirs performed all of Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana. It’s a packed house; not one empty chair. We were a mixed bag of a percussion section, ranging from a graduate student to a couple of freshman. I’ll never forget the last note, the last fermata, the final cutoff. The crowd, as a crowd usually does at the end of that piece, jumps to their feet. All but one. There, in the front row of the balcony, in a t-shirt that reads “If it’s too loud, you’re too old,” is Ted, still sitting, arms raised in victory, beaming with genuine pride.
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