'Tis the season for rehearsing (fa la la la la, la la la la)

Friends (many of whom are musical),

By now most of you are surely in "Pre-Advent" mode at your churches and in your choirs. This is not unlike the five minutes before airtime that Dan and Casey on Sports Night experience. There's an air of expectation, of excitement in the time leading up to the long anticipated event, be it airtime for a fictional sports program or the birth of The Lord our Savior Jesus Christ. Exciting. Very exciting.

For those of you who are involved in the secular Advent season, you will know it by its tell-tale signs: Shopping on the day after Thanksgiving; Santas in malls; Bill O'Reilly complaining about the war on the war on the war on Christmas.

Those of you who are musical and are involved in the music-making that pervades the season (Bach's Christmas Oratorio, the Christmas section of Handel's Messiah, countless Lessons and Carols services), you will know the season by its plethora of rehearsals and performances.

I hope they don't go like this:



BMN

Thanksgiving

When the original 121 pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock in 1620, they had already had a long journey from England on which one crew member had been killed and the mast of the Mayflower shattered by storm winds (it was repaired using parts of what was to be a house in the New World). Between their landing in December and the following March, only 74 survived attacks by indigenous peoples, disease, and famine. Another winter like their first would have spelled a quick end to the American experiment in Massachusetts.

It was thanks to a native named Tisquantum (or, "Squanto") that the newly-arrived colonists had anything at all to eat the following winter. He taught them to fertilize their crops, he showed them how to plant corn, and told them where to fish for eels and fish.

Now, I realize that the analogy doesn't map exactly onto my life some 387 years later and 200 miles down I-95, but there are some people without whom my life these last few months would have been much less rewarding, successful, and - in some cases - possible at all. They are the natives who knew how best to live at the ISM. And to them I owe a debt of gratitude, a word of thanks.

1) I am thankful for the enormity of Robert's often anonymous generosity and love for his colleagues. Don't think we don't know where the chocolates come from, mister.

2) I am thankful for Sooyeon's incredible work ethic. No one else practices her conducting, with a score and a stand, as she waits to go onstage for an altogether different performance. That's dedication to your craft.

3) I am thankful for Kevin's unique (Canadian?) perspective on life and music - I find that often he makes me consider things (Kraft Dinner? Pelleas et Melisande?) from a different angle and in more depth than I otherwise would have.

4) I am thankful for Dominick's inextinguishable love for learning, care for the wellbeing of his friends, and interest in whatever music happens to be in front of him at the moment. I often find that when I replace the helping verb "get to" with "have to" (as in 'I have to go rehearse Bach now'), I can think of Dominick and how he views the creative process and the compass of my artistic ship is righted.

5) I am also thankful for she who made the journey with me - my wife Elizabeth. I certainly wouldn't have survived in the New World of New Haven without her help building our home and making it a warm, safe place to be at peace.

And now, the list, in no particular order, of other things I remember in this season of Thanksgiving:

CraWford
JDRF
Kathy, Dave, and Candice
Bach
the Christ Church choir
Magmon
Jeff, whose brilliance I seek to absorb as often as I can!
Fred
Gourmet Heaven
Yale '09 choral conductors, Lauren, Jonathan, and Brian
Yale Repertory Chorus
ECGC
Diet Coke
my father Skip, my mother Molly, and my brother Matt
Pam, Terry, and Mark
Dunkin Donuts' blueberry muffins
Yale University Health Services
Friends who, inspite of all the moves, haven't and never will lose touch (Eugene, Elias, Adam, Dave, Dave, Marc, Heinrich, Fred [again])
NPR
Brooke and Bo
Naxos Music Library
Elizabeth's hosts in NC and VA

Surely there are more that belong here above. While I may have forgotten them at the moment, they will come to me in the spaces in between moments, at the times when sustenance of soul is of vital importance, and always provided,

Thanks to you.

BMN

Schnittke, Schola, and the Sox

If my hiatus from blogging is any indication of how busy "real life" has been, then the last month has been intense!

I continue to be inspired and challenged by my surroundings - inspired by the music of Russian-born composer Alfred Schnittke, whose "Requiem" (1977) is, like much of the music of Arvo Pärt: compositionally sophisticated and yet aurally striking in its simplicity. I’m studying that piece for my lesson this week. I hope I’m able to conjure up the appropriate details to impress my teacher...

As a side-note, you should all listen to two pieces that have had a great impact on me this week. First is James MacMillan’s Seven Last Words. Check out Polyphony’s recording of it, if you can. Their director, Stephen Layton, is coming to Yale this winter for a series of masterclasses. The second piece is Arvo Pärt’s Te Deum for men’s choir, women’s choir, mixed choir, chamber orchestra, wind harp, and prepared piano. I sang this piece last year with the Brown Chorus, and listening to the Estonian Philharmonic Chamber Choir’s performance makes me think that D major is the key of my soul at peace. There's really nothing like listening to his music very late at night. It's transcendent.

In other, somewhat dated news, Schola’s first concert went interestingly. The program was a challenge for the group:

Gibbons – Cries of London
Berio – Cries of London
Zelenka – Magnificat
Gubaidulina – Sonnengesang

Simon is all about Schola being interesting to watch. We gave it our all in the Gibbons and Zelenka; We tried not to look terrified in the Berio, and we almost remembered to turn our cellphones off in the Gubaidulina. More like Gubai-don’t-lina. If all of the singers had shown up on time for the performance, it would have been even better! :o\ We’re now working on Ardo, Ardo, a semi-staged production of Monteverdi madrigals and recitative from his various settings of Lamento d’Arianna. Think all-black outfits, minimalist modern dance, flashlights, and lots of rolled “r”s. It should be fun, if we can memorize two madrigals.

The Sox. What’s a man to say? If Thursday is the new Friday, then the Sox are definitely the new Yankees - that is, if the Patriots haven't beaten them to it. I hope you, like any parity-loving sports fan, were rooting for the Colts against the Pats this weekend. If you weren’t, here’s some information that might tip the scales:

Bill Belichik’s son plays lacrosse for the Brooks School, which is in the same athletic conference as the Middlesex School, where I taught last year. You might think that Bill wouldn’t deign to show up at his son’s games, having bigger games to think about. You’d be wrong. Not only does he show up, but he’s wearing the same raggedy sweatshirt and instead of pacing and looking smug/glum, he’s yelling at the officials. Check the dictionary; next to “lame-o” you’ll find a picture of Belichick, and the text: “One of greatest professional football coaches of all time who goes to his son’s sports competitions and yells at the officials”.

So who you gonna root for now? One of those forces of evil from Beantown? Didn’t think so. Go Colts!

BMN

The Empire Strikes Out

I love Grady Sizemore; he's probably one of my favorite players (along with Curtis Granderson and Hanley Ramirez). But in this, his moment of elation at his team's ascendence to the ALCS, I feel conflicted. In fact, I've felt conflicted this whole postseason. It's like the moment the Emporer gets thrown down the open shaft by Darth Vader, who promptly dies after unmasking (and demystifying) himself.

Once the empire is gone, there's no reason to root for Luke, Leia, and Han anymore. They needed the Empire's evilness (and it's power - I think we all remember The Empire Strikes Back) in order to seem heroic.

Now that baseball's Death Star (Joe Torre's Yankee Juggernaut) has been reduced to a pile of rubble - and fairly easily at that - by a young, inexperienced team, there's little wind left in the sails of Red Sox's fans - or any baseball fans who needed the Evil Empire to seem invincible to sustain their own underdog spirit. There's no powerful arch-enemy against whom to root. The closest thing to an unstoppable force devouring everything in its path this season has been (dare I say it?) Beantown's boys.

It's the moment we've all been waiting for: the final, permanent dethroning of Joe Torre's Yankees, and I feel like Sisyphus without my rock. It very well could be that the only thing worse than an eternity in Hades pushing a rock up a hill is an eternity in Hades without a rock to push.

Bread and Butter

At about minute 26 of the Gubaidulina - Sonnengesang CD I was ready to cash in and be done with choral music altogether. Not because the piece was bad; Sofia Gubaidulina is an accomplished and talented composer and her music becomes, after a few hearings or performances, rather amazing to listener and performer alike. But on its first hearing, this piece was, for me, a bit inaccessible. It was forty minutes of highly technical cello playing, glass harmonica, celeste, and disjunct seeming outcries from the chorus. It certainly wasn't why I got into choral music back in 8th grade with Ms. Kempf.

But this weekend had some "bread and butter" choral music experiences as well, not just the temporarily estranging ones. Friday night: performing Beethoven's 9th Symphony with the Yale Philharmonia, Camerata, and Glee Club. Sunday morning: Anthems and beautiful organ music at Christ Church. And in between, the slightly disconcerting Berio and Gubaidulina on Saturday.

The bread and butter wasn't just on my choral breakfast plate, so to speak; it extended to the final week of regular-season baseball. What could be more bread and butter than Craig Biggio, in the final game of his 20-year, one-team career, hitting a classic "Craig Biggio" double down the left field line and later scoring a run. After a season in which the Astros narrowly missed last place in baseball's weakest division - a season in which our former All-Star second baseman missed hitting .250 by a single point - a 3-0 win over the Braves and a final, classic, 3060th hit were just the kind of bread and butter I had been hoping for.

So I suppose the lesson of this weekend is that in the midst of frustration and unfamiliarity come moments of repose in which we can reconnect with our true selves - the selves that love Beethoven and Craig Biggio in his prime. These anchor moments keep us centered, I think. And at their best, they can be like John Donne's compass from A Valediction Forbidding Mourning, always connecting us to our homes, no matter how far we wander, no matter how airily thin our gold is beaten. They make our wanderings tethered and therefore safe.

And who knows - someday Gubaidulina and Berio may, with enough time and patience, be a new loaf of bread, a new stick of butter.

I may be the only one...

Ah, the sweet taste of victory!

In a competition for the activity that has the most difficulty time deciding whether it's supremely masculine or supremely dorky, Fantasy Baseball has to win gold. This fact may indeed make me the Midas of masculinity; for, in defeating The Durants in the championship round of my Yahoo! Fantasy Baseball league, I have repeated as my league's champion. Every fantasy team I touch turns, despite midseason tarnish, into an eventual winner.

As I was basking in the afterglow of my team's weekly batting average of .335 and their 88 hits for 140 total bases, I had a terrifying realization: What if, instead of pronouncing me the king of cool, these statistics crowned me duke of dorkiness. After all, I was, at the time of said realization, listening to motets by Medieval composer Guillaume de Machaut (1300-1377). The fact that I knew those dates without having to look them up confirmed the fears that were welling up inside of me. Rather than rescuing me from my nerdity, my fantasy baseball triumph ossified it!

Although, If I'm destined to be a nerd, at least I'm at the top of my dorky game. And I bet there aren't too many stat-crunching early music afficianados out there. And if there are, I could beat them not just at isorhythm, not just at predicting a slugger's season .OPS, but at BOTH.

So here's to me, the (dare I say) only Machaut-listening fantasy baseball king the world over!

-Nails

I Have Had Singing

And then the organ didn't work. As if the first Schola rehearsal of the year needed any further complications. A missing alto, a clock whose battery was dead, a missing piano, and three different tunings required of an organ we were having trouble getting to make sound. That on top of a litany of copies to be made of music, parts, texts and translations. Thank goodness this was the end of the day.

My colleagues in the department warned me about this day, but I didn't believe them fully until it slapped me around a little bit. And slap me it did. Got to the ISM at 8am to prepare to conduct my first Repertory Chorus rehearsal. Met with Simon at 10:30 to talk about things (see above) that I, as Schola manager, needed to do before that night's 7:15 rehearsal. Spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon doing as many of those things as I could before Rep Chorus auditions started at 2pm. Listened to auditioners, of which some were quite good and we took on the spot. Rehearsed with Repertory Chorus from 4-6, my first Yale conducting experience (hooray!) The chorus sounded in tune and intelligent, if not a little imbalanced. Got a bite to eat, took the shuttle to the ISM, and set up for Schola. And then the perfect storm focused its energies on me (see paragraph 1).

After resetting the room, I departed the ISM at 10:35 and got home around 11:00. I stayed up until 3am working in preparation for Schola's Wednesday rehearsal and today's lesson with Simon. Waking up at 7 hurt, but being very prepared for my lesson more than made up for it. I didn't want to go 2 for 2 in less-than-ideal interactions with Simon. The work I did last night made today easier. I'm currently in between Elm City Girls Choir rehearsal and the first Camerata rehearsal - Beethoven 9, here we come.

In short, the first week at Yale is blowing my hair back, and I feel like I'm taking a drink from a fire hose. I have a newfound respect for my colleagues who make this look both easy and fun, and manage to support us rookies all the while.

Bis spaeter...

Nails

Beisbol de Fantasia

The regular season is over; three rounds of playoffs are on the horizon; the eight team owners of my fantasy baseball league are poised over their mice in the hopes that they may add that player whose stolen base, save, or RBI may put their team over the top and onto a glorious championship.

Of course, it may just be me who obsesses to this extent over his team. After all, my poor young cousin hasn't altered his lineup for months, leaving two excellent players squandered on his bench, and leaving his team as a whole buried at the bottom of the standings.

For those most passionate fans, Fantasy Baseball often causes relationship stress. See Exhibit A, from the early Bronze Age:

Fred

"Hold on just a second Wilma, I gotta see if Vladimir Guerrero (LAA - OF) is going to DH tomorrow against Seattle."

Wilma

"Fred, you spend more time with Vladimir Guerrero than you do with your family - and I don't even know who he is!

Fred
"He's a Dominican man with a Russian first name who used to play an American sport for a Canadian team. But more importantly, he could win me RBIs this week - my time with him is very important and special!"

Wilma
"When I divorce you for neglecting me, I'm keeping the kids, Dino, and the cave - you can keep Vladimir Guerrero and his %&?@#$! multi-million dollar contract!

But this week evidence came to light that fantasy baseball actually brings people together, and not just when they slink off to their live drafts, giving their significant others some lame subterfuge.

For the first time in several weeks I got to have a lengthy phone conversation with my brother, who spends most of his waking hours at a job about which he feels the utmost passion. But he took time out of his day to call me and talk about how great a week it was watching his team compete against mine, vying for a higher seed in the postseason.

While I ended up as the lower seed, I only slightly cared. What was important was that I got to talk to my brother for an hour over the course of three nights, as two young men were brought into each others' fellowship by their mutual love of the sport, albeit a fantasy sport. Fittingly, we ended the week tied 6-6, and both winners.

-Nails

Ready, set, school.

It seems every year the "Back to School" sale at Staples starts a week earlier than it had the last. The first time I heard such an announcement on NPR was sometime - I kid you not - in late July. Hearing the commercial was mildly annoying to me, who was trying to enjoy a long summer break between the end of my job in Concord and the beginning of grad school in New Haven.

But as I write today the spectre of early September looms, which means that those "Back to School" specials, and my sense that my return to school is imminent, are suddenly appropriate.

What does "back to school" mean at Yale's Institute of Sacred Music? From the name of the place one might guess that it was some combination of entrance exams and hymn singing, but so far I've been exempted from and not exposed to those aspects of the curriculum. I did, however, attend a "Bistro" last night at the Divinity School, at which was served some of the best food I've eaten in recent memory, as well as free drinks for us ~100 ISMers. From the look of the rest of the Orientation Week's schedule, it seems like fine wining and dining are the first through seventh courses in the official back to school plan.

At last I got to hang out with all of the students in the department (minus Kevin, who was in Boston watching the Sox play the Bluejays at Fenway - an event which would have upped Kevin's "coolness quotient" considerably, were he not there with his parents who, being from Canada, were cheering wildly for the Bluejays). As a group they seem very capable and self-deprecating. As the only new student who has studied conducting before at the graduate level before (the others are just beginning their MM degrees as I begin my MMA/DMA) I will be interested to see how we all take to the instruction that's headed our way in large amounts.

In lieu of a lengthy description of the curriculum, let me instead give you some quick facts about the life of a conductor before I bid you adieu for the time being:

-Number of hours singing in ensembles per week: 16
-Number of pages in Simon Carrington's Syllabus: 370
-A Yale education: priceless

-Nails