We're on the Calendar, So That Means It's Happening

March 18, 8pm at the outstanding little club Barbès in Brookyn
376 9th St. (corner of 6th Ave.)
347-422-0248

Here's how the gig is described:

"Funked-up ragtime. This is the music Scott Joplin would have written, had he lived (to the age of 143). Dean Olsher, bass clarinet and accordion; Brian Drye, trombone; Kurt Hoffman, tenor sax and clarinet; Meg Reichardt, guitar and vocal, and Suzannah Scott-Moncrieff, viola."

It's the debut of a band that is still without a name. This is by far the hardest part. Possibilities: The Easy Winners; also, Euphonic Sounds.

Recommendations accepted with gratitude.

Where Have I Been?

Thanks for asking.

I've been laying low while bringing various projects to fruition. And now some of them are ready, so here I am to tell you about them.

Let's go in chronological order.

• Tonight at 9pm I'll break out the old upright bass to accompany singer Katie Dixon and the Broken Arrowz at Red Hook Bait & Tackle for a set of her original songs, which are surprising and satisfying in all the right ways. As she puts it, "It will be country and it will be fun." (Oh, and check out her poster, which she had made at Hatch Show Prints in Nashville. They've been in business since 1879 and have made the posters for the Grand Ole Opry since its earliest days.)

• Next up is Heartbreak: A Competition. Maria Finn, author of the new book Tango Me Home has issued an open invitation to write about your tale of heartbreak in one to two hundred words. She's also accepting videotapes one to two minutes in length. The winning entry will be made into a tango song by Marian Berry. Why am I telling you all of this? Because I am one of the judges.
• One more thing. There's been a project percolating for several years now and it is ready to be poured. I've been writing my own arrangements of classic ragtime, unpacking all of the musical styles that ragtime became in the 20th century: swing, bebop, rock, funk. This is the music Scott Joplin might have written, had he lived (to the age of 143). Still haven't decided 100% on a name for the band. Cakewalk seems promising; what do you think of that? What I can tell you is that our debut gig has been booked for March 18 at 8pm, at Barbès, which is the jewel in the crown of the Brooklyn music scene. Stay tuned for updates (and feel free to nominate ideas for a band name).

A Huge Loss

This is the time of year when the andante from Haydn's trumpet concerto starts playing in my head. Haydn did not write the piece for Christmas, but this association was forged for me during the years I spent as a weekend announcer at WSBS in Great Barrington, Mass. Year after year, as the holidays approached, the station ran an ad for a holiday special at the historic 1780 Egremont Inn - which was destroyed in a fire overnight.

A Musical Walking Tour of Astoria, Queens

with local historian Ian Schoenherr.












Lifestyle Orchestras












Maple Leaf, Flag













Go the Steinway factory and keep walking.

Pandora: Still Unleashing All the Evils of the World

Rob Walker teases out much of what's wrong with Pandora in the New York Times Magazine < http://bit.ly/hdUhV > (including, as I discovered a few months ago, the astonishing absence of Fela Kuti).

What struck me from the beginning, when Pandora made its debut in 2005, was that they picked the wrong metaphor. Music Genome Project makes a promise on which it can't deliver. At least not yet.

The genome is what shows us how much humans are more or less the same as Fleischmann's yeast, even though you'd never know it by looking at us.

By extension, cracking the music genome would explain why some people are drawn both to Beethoven and to Norah Jones. It would reveal the ways in which apparently different musical phenotypes disguise surprising similarities under the surface.

If you tell Pandora you like Bill Evans, you don't find yourself eventually listening to Javanese gamelan. Instead, you are treated to yet more white jazz guys from the 1950s and 60s: Dave Brubeck, Gerry Mulligan. Here, the surface similarities disguise a fundamental difference in approach. The Brubeck and Mulligan tracks served up by Pandora are usually active and uptempo - and they punch a hole in the quiet introspection I seek in Bill Evans.

The new media landscape offers much to love, but Pandora represents a step backward. Those of us who grew up listening to FM radio looked to the DJs to expose us to things we never knew existed. The Internet makes it too easy to block out things you think you don't like. There: I discovered a genomic link between Pandora and Fox News.

I keep looking online for a new generation of curators willing to shape the public's taste because they have confidence in their own. Where are those people?

Stand Up Against Genetically Modified Music

The chance to post from 30,000 feet reminds me how much I like this song < http://bit.ly/HFoKS > by the M Shanghai String Band. (Thanks, in-flight Wifi!)

The really exciting part happens at 1:28. But if you go straight to that moment without listening to everything that comes before, the effect will be lost.

What comes after the exciting moment is slightly problematic. The violin solo here could have been played more in tune. You never hear this kind of thing anymore, because technology makes it so easy to fix.

Too easy, I'd say.

Nowadays it's commonplace for classical recordings to contain an average of one edit per second, to cleanse any imperfections. That this recording was allowed into the world at all is almost an act of civil disobedience.

This Is Hilarious

It is, however, not intended as a joke.

(I wonder what happens if you listen to Mozart while solving a Kafka-themed crossword.)

Click here: < http://bit.ly/7Lsgo >

From the Archives

Dispiriting news about the health of behind-the-scenes music genius Jim Dickinson brings to mind this walk through Greenwich Village with him (click here).

They Outlasted the Odds

I haven't yet checked to see how many tabloid writers allowed themselves to indulge in the expected headline - about knowing how it's over because the fat lady has sung, about the final curtain falling.

The Amato Opera has ended its spectacular run on the Bowery, and I was among the many reporters who told Tony Amato's story over the years. To this day, I often find myself, in a meditative moment, remembering these words of his, which seem especially apt at this moment.

Click here.

This Is, by Contrast, Unequivocally Good News

Back when European countries had their own currencies, I would take home any notes with composers on them. As mementos goes, these were a lot more expensive than postcards, but infinitely more valuable. The mere appearance of Debussy and Bartok on paper money was evidence enough that France and Hungary must be outstanding nations. Today comes news that suggests maybe we're in their league.

Pop Quiz

An accordionist (me) is invited to play music for a wine tasting. The store is called Blue Angel. The party is happening the day before Valentine's Day ($12 admission, music starts around 8:30). Based on just the information above, what will the encore be? Prize for winning answer: the satisfaction of knowing you and I are on the same wavelength.

The 60-Second Man Wishes You a Merry Christmas

Listen here.

Recorded on Bleecker St., Friday, December 19, 2008 at 8:13pm.

Ready for My Close-Up

I just learned this is circulating. I spend Monday evenings living my second childhood in the Bronx.

Now I REALLY Don't Know How to Fill Out Those Forms

I'm referring to the forms that ask you to list your ethnicity. I usually put "Other," just to push us one nanometer closer to a post-racial society. And now I read in The Rest Is Noise, by Alex Ross, a confusing description of the music scene in New York during the 1920s and 30s, when "Jewish, African-American, and even Caucasian composers were working shoulder to shoulder, trading ideas, borrowing themes, plundering the past, and feeding off the present." Did I miss something?

The Return of the 60-Second Man

Today, Episode 3: "Subway Mozart!"
Heard at 10:41pm, February 29, 2008
on the downtown #1 train approaching 42nd St.

Compare and Contrast

The intro as submitted (title of piece, "Middle of the Road"):

"Until science comes up with a definitive theory for why humans are drawn to music, writer Dean Olsher is sticking with his: because it induces time travel."

And as it appeared this evening on All Things Considered (along with the piece itself):

Listen.

Mid-Life Crisis for the Budget Traveler

Even if I could afford a vintage Jaguar convertible, I probably wouldn't buy one. Instead, I've decided to learn all the musical instruments that, for years, have beckoned from afar.

As it happens, they all involve reeds, something that eluded me during my misspent teen years with a trumpet. I simply couldn't get a sound out of them.

But something happened during my time at Yaddo last December. While walking down Broadway in Saratoga Springs I noticed a sign in a second-floor window for Cole's Woodwind Shop. I walked up the stairs and told the owner about my longtime desire to play the bass clarinet. And then I told him about my lack of disposable funds. And then he told me that it was my lucky day. He happened to have a Conn instrument, made out of wood, that dates from the 1940s and that he would sell for a very reasonable price because the instrument's lowest note is E natural, rather than the customary E-flat or even C. I gave it a try and, miraculously, was able to produce a sound. Heaven had spoken. It's the most pleasure I've gotten from $400.

Of course this means that I am now in the market for a baritone sax, so that I can fulfill that other lifelong dream of playing in a salsa band. My lessons resume at the Harbor Conservatory in a couple of weeks.

Add two more overly heavy instruments to the list, which also includes the accordion and upright bass. More than one person has suggested I switch to the flute. Its shrillness makes me check to see if my ears are bleeding. Somehow I am drawn, almost constitutionally, to the low ranges. The bass clarinet, in particular, produces a sound very much like the speaking voice I wish I had. I almost do have it already, if only I could drop a few more pitches. Getting there would require me to take up smoking, and this is not that kind of mid-life crisis. Instead, I've decided that schlepping around all these heavy things fulfills my ever-growing need to take on weight-bearing exercises.

Pop Quiz

This is a chorale from one of J.S. Bach's greatest hits, the St. Matthew Passion (his musical telling of the Easter story):

Listen.

Question: who turned it into a popular song?

Bonus question: what's ironic about the title?

Winner gets the satisfaction of knowing something.

Google if you must, but where's the satisfaction in that?

Back in the Saddle Again

I'll be playing bass with bluegrass artist extraordinaire Katie Dixon. Come on out!

Saturday, March 10 at 7:30pm
Upstairs in Googie's Lounge at the Living Room
154 Ludlow St., between Stanton and Rivington
Just two blocks east of the Avenue of the Immigrants!

It's Still Rock and Roll to Me

At which point do we stop worrying about the demise of classical music and just pronounce it dead once and for all?

The Mozart Defect

I'm one of those rare Americans who listen to classical music on the radio. Except for times like these, when it's just not safe. I've stopped listening, for the time being, because of the ever-present danger of hearing Mozart.

Don't get the wrong idea. I love Mozart. It's the birthdays I hate. And with his 250th upon us, there is no avoiding him.

I can't think of a better example of how marginal classical music has become to our culture. The best reason radio programmers can think of to play a piece is because someone happened to be born on that date. I'll never forget the show that celebrated the 114th anniversary of the birth of the R. Nathaniel Dett.

Are you kidding me?

Sure, there's no comparison between this obscure American composer and—well, one of the greatest musical geniuses ever in the whole history of ever. But that's just a small part of the problem. Okay, so it's Mozart's birthday, and it's a big, round number. So. What? Does that make him more relevant than he was in 2005? Does that merit an entire year of so much forced overfeeding that I can't stop thinking about those poor geese and their livers on the way to becoming foie gras?

Okay, so if not for his birthday, then what makes Mozart relevant? Here's a hint: the answer is not that he'll make your kids smarter. Yes, the Mozart Effect has entered the language and people make money selling CDs for parents to play in cribs—and what's lost in the profits is that there is no Mozart Effect. It's been debunked. By the very scientist whose research was misused in the first place.

Music can make you joyous, pensive, bawl your eyes out or dance around the room. But smarter? Come on.

It's really heartbreaking when arts advocates make the case that government should pay for culture because of some pragmatic reason—like giving kids a competitive advantage in school. This is well-meaning, but ultimately cynical. And desperate. I know better than anyone that it's not fashionable to talk about art for art's sake anymore. And yet still I hope for the day when someone stands before Congress and asks it to support performances of Mozart's music simply because it makes us better human beings. And that's reason enough. Wouldn't that be fantastic? For someone to have the courage to demand that we redefine our idea of what makes something relevant.

So happy birthday to Mozart. If you do decide to listen to his music, please do so because it moves your spirit. Try not to overdo it. As for me, I'll turn the radio back on a year from now. When it's safe again.

Quote of the Day

"I do not feel that 'talking about music is like dancing about architecture;' actually, I have always detested that quote, which I consider to be patently untrue. Moreover, I think dancing about architecture would be a very interesting thing to do."

—Jeremy Denk, Think Denk

Okay, Now This is Really Freaking Me Out

The rules are as follows: start iTunes on the most recent piece of music that has earwormed its way into your head and then let it continue in shuffle mode until bedtime. Tonight it was Fauré’s Pavane. As I hit the Return button, power of suggestion being what it is, I thought how nice it would be to then hear Ravel’s Pavane for a Dead Princess. Being someone who follows rules (especially rules of my own making), I decided instead to let randomness rule.

Guess which piece came up next.

I mean, my computer has enough music on it to keep playing for 14.6 days without repeating a single piece.

I think iTunes can hear me.

Amen

“The show’s theme song is the insufferably smug sixties folk ditty ‘Little Boxes,’ by the protest singer Malvina Reynolds, an indictment of suburban conformity that you need to hear only once in your life, for historical purposes.”

—Nancy Franklin, writing about “Weeds” in The New Yorker.

Sigh

A post on the New York Times online crossword forum protests a particular clue (Musician whose unusual first name means “ocean child”) from Saturday’s puzzle “because it is arguably incorrect.” I should have paid closer attention to the “:)” that followed. Always giving the benefit of the doubt, I naturally assumed this was someone who was especially knowledgeable about Japanese names and who wanted to argue that “Yoko” was in fact quite common. I was set straight when someone else posted: “I don't know how she does it either, but she makes a living by uttering sounds that people pay to hear.”

La Divina Commedia, with Peacock Obbligato

Who can say no to the chance to escape the city (high heat and humidity forecast the whole week) and spend a few days at the Marlboro Music Festival in Vermont, where the presence of Rudolf Serkin, Pablo Casals and the members of the Budapest String Quartet is still felt in the practice rooms?

How anyone can practice amid the noise is beyond me. Apparently at some point in Marlboro College’s history, someone—I’m told his name was Kermit—brought with him a population of peacocks. They have stayed. Earlier today I was seduced by the sound of a violinist practicing the last movement of Beethoven’s Opus 132, which is perhaps my favorite piece of music ever in the whole history of ever. I was filling in the other three parts in my mind, transported to that melancholy yet defiant place in the soul that only Beethoven understands, when suddenly—ACK!

How presumptuous it was of me to sneak into one of those practice rooms to remind myself of Solace, by Scott Joplin, the only piece of music I have ever committed to memory. That happened when I was in college. And so here I was, sitting at a Steinway on a small campus roughly the same size and with the same woody feel as the one I attended. It was as if a wormhole had sucked me through time and space to the Steinway in Blodgett House at Simon’s Rock. It was 1984, the year after I graduated and also, as it happens, smack dab in the middle of the road of my life so far.

At that moment 21 years ago, I had already realized I would not have a career as a concert pianist, for reasons I’m reminded of today. That part in the B section I always struggled with? I still do. Why? Because I still gloss over it, decades later, so I can enjoy the luscious parts toward the end that come more easily. Hearing that violinist in the next room, who repeats the same two measures over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again, I am forced to confront what true discipline is.

When I was 21 I also realized I would not be marrying the woman to whom I was engaged. Calling her a woman makes me laugh as much as the thought that we were contemplating marriage while we were still both children. I’m sure she’s as thankful as I am that we didn’t go through with it. There she was at the far end of the room while I played, and she was crying. It had nothing to do with the quality of my performance; I was neither good enough nor bad enough to move anyone to tears. It was Scott Joplin who made her cry, because Solace provides anything but. It will dislodge any repressed pain and force it from your body, through your tear ducts if necessary. This piece had been with us for years, reminding us now of the good times and making it clear once and for all that they would not be coming back.

A Moment of Mourning or Rejoicing, Depending on Your Point of View

There is one less accordionist in the world.

I will mark the occasion by wearing black.

Gawker From Another Planet

In the alternative universe where I’m president, stalkerazzi sites make room for sightings of minimalism pioneer La Monte Young, looking befuddled by the range of possibilities in the produce section of the Union Square Whole Foods.

I Don't Care What Anthony Lane Says

"The fear of loss is a path to the Dark Side."
—Yoda
That is some deep stuff.

Now that I've finally gotten around to seeing Episode III, I understand what Anthony Tommasini was getting at in his love letter to composer John Williams. Yes, it is a better score than the ones he turned in before. But why oh why is the man unable to keep from, to put it charitably, "borrowing" from the greatest hits of the 20th century (in this case, from Carmina Burana and Barber's Adagio for Strings)?

Earworm of the Day

The radio and the telephone
And the movies that we know
May just be passing fancies—
And in time may go.

—Ira Gershwin, "Love Is Here to Stay"

One More for the Road

"The only work that really brings enjoyment
Is the kind that is for girl and boy meant."

—Ira Gershwin, "Nice Work If You Can Get It."