Sara’s Second Act

Today I bring you a story of music, courage and love.

Earlier this week, I came across a link to this story; I’d heard of Sara before, but not lately. Check out the video at the link, by the way — five minutes well-spent!

When classical pianist Sara Davis Buechner had her New York City concert debut 25 years ago, she received rave reviews. Thus began a brilliant career of recordings and performances by the 24-year-old Juilliard graduate.

At that time, Buechner still went by the given name ‘David’. But in 1998, Buechner came out as a transgender woman, having felt from a very young age that she was meant to be a girl.

She paid a steep price for coming out. Suddenly her manager could no longer secure bookings, and her concert schedule dwindled from 50 performances a year to just a handful, though she continued to make recordings. She was able to find work teaching piano lessons, but at a drastic reduction in income.

In 2002, an old classmate from Juilliard happened to hear her play, and felt so strongly that she deserved wider exposure, she offered to work as her manager, with a view to persisting in promoting her where previous management had failed to do so.

That persistence has paid off. Today, Buechner has a heavy concert schedule once again, along with a teaching post at University of British Columbia in Vancouver. On November 11, Buechner played a recital in New York City to mark the 25th anniversary of her initial debut.

And thanks to the marriage laws in Canada, where she lives, she also has a wife — a woman she met and dated before she transitioned.

Pass the kleenex please — I’m a sucker for a happy ending!

Visit Sara Davis Buechner’s website for more on her revitalized career!

I’m posting this today, by the way, because it happens to be International Transgender Day of Remembrance. The stories you’ll find at the link didn’t end happily, I’m sorry to say. My hope is that remembering them will inspire us to create a world where violence and bigotry are curiosities of ancient history.

Hug someone you love today — that’s the first step.

Musical Brain Surgery!

One of several things I do for money (working for a living is so inconvenient!) is transcribing audio from business meetings, conferences, interviews, etc. It’s a telecommuting job with very quick turnaround times, and that suits me pretty well; I get to work in my Cheeto-stained pajamas, but I still have that looming external deadline that I need for motivation.

I tend to keep the local classical music station playing in the background while I work, because when you’re listening to corporate-speak for hours on end, you definitely need the counterweight of some untarnished beauty to keep your soul from shriveling.

For a couple of days last week, one of the station’s hosts went on Chopin Ballade kick. I mentioned in my previous post how hearing two of them in a row sent me stumbling down memory lane.

The next day, that pesky host just had to go and play the Ballade no. 1 in G minor.

There I was, minding my own business, typing away as fast as I could while some slick suit bloviated in my ear, when outside my headphones I heard a sound that grabbed me the way I imagine a child’s cry seizes the attention of a parent. Whatever I was currently doing seemed insignificant; that sound was not just the most important thing – it was the only thing that existed in the world in that moment.

Naturally, I was annoyed. I didn’t have time to go to Music Nerdvana! I had a deadline of ASAP!

But I couldn’t help it; as had happened the previous day, a wave of emotions and memories welled up in me in response to that music. I’m no Oliver Sacks, but I know from experience that when you’ve listen to a piece of music over and over, when you associate it with certain events or situations – sometimes even if you hear it only once but it impacts you deeply – that music gets stamped onto your DNA, and when you hear it again, it’s as if some crazed brain surgeon stuck an electrode into your brain in just the right place so as to bring up everything you associate with that music.

Who needs hallucinogenic drugs, man?

I don’t want to go off on a tangent right now (I know what you’re thinking: “Why change now?” Shut up! ), but I suppose I should write up some of my Ballade-associated stories, by way of explanation. They involve such things as frizzy hair, teenage angst and Gunne Sax dresses — I know the world is breathless to read all about it!

In the meantime… It’s your turn, music nerds: what music stops you in your tracks?

Musically Verklempt

Musical magic sneaks up on me when I least expect it!

I can be rather jaded and cynical when it comes to music; it’s an occupational hazard, and a common side effect of too many years of music grad school. Depending on how ornery a mood I’m in, a mere second or two of a kind of music I don’t care for can get my eyes rolling back in my head. I can diss that tune in 3 notes, Tom.

So I’m always relieved to be reminded that my cynicism is actually just a thin veneer, and it takes but little to reveal the soft, gooey center underneath. Click Mr Readmore for a few examples.

Looking rather elegant in our concert garb!

Requiem Mass for All Souls Day (With a Side of Jelly)

Victoria Requiem: Introit

Last night, McDoc and I attended the Solemn Requiem Mass for All Souls Day at our local Anglo-Catholic joint, which we visit whenever we need a dose of good, old-fashioned smells ‘n’ bells.

This church is renowned all over town for its excellent music, and that reputation was ably upheld as the choir performed the Missa pro Defunctis cum sex vocibus (Mass for the Dead for six voices), by Tomás Luis de Victoria (1548-1611).

Whenever I attend services like last night’s, I think to myself, “I can understand why some Protestant sects throughout history have objected to the use of elaborate music in worship services.” That may not sound like a compliment, but I intend it as such, honest!

Click Mr. Readmore for the story of the jelly!

Basso Molto Profundo

I’m a big fan of ambient knowledge.

In the course of my various pursuits, both musical and non-, I occasionally find it necessary to re-look-up terms and concepts that I learned a long time ago — things I’m sure I know, but which are momentarily beyond my mental grasp, due, I believe, to a combination of The Law of Accelerating Returns as it applies to what I need to know, and the socio-ecogenic ADHD with which I am afflicted.

(And if the sentence above weren’t a description of my real life, I would enter it in The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest!)

Case in point: while writing my previous post, I needed to refresh my memory of how to refer to specific musical pitches using a letter name and a number, such that it’s clear exactly which octave you’re talking about. For example, middle C on the piano is labeled ‘C4′, not to be confused with ‘C3′, which is an octave lower. It’s called scientific pitch notation, evidently — I’d never heard the official name of the system before. But it’s more concise and precise than saying, “the G an octave-and-a-half below middle C,” when you can just say, “G2,” and know that you’ll be understood (by other music nerds, at least ).

The Wikipedia article linked above also contained the following juicy little tidbit:

Scientific pitch notation is a logarithmic frequency scale. Although pitch notation is intended to describe audible sounds, it can also be used to specify the frequency of non-audible phenomena. For example, when the Chandra X-ray Observatory observed pressure fronts propagating away from a black hole, the frequency of the waves was reported in the press as the B♭ 57 octaves below middle C, or B♭−53, corresponding to one oscillation every 10 million years.”

Whoa, talk about your nerdy examples! That’s some far-out cosmic instrument, btw — I thought I had spent some long hours in the practice room, but 10 million years?!?

Now, I know that you can’t believe everything you read on Wikipedia, so I searched around for other sources for that wacky little factoid. I found one that has a title I envy immensely: I Know Why the Black Hole Sings.

Turns out, the universe is one vast Mighty Wurlitzer! Awesome!

If You Can’t Be With the Piano You Love… Love the Piano You’re With!

Pianists are so misunderstood! :’(

As an itinerant accompanist and sometime starving-pianist-without-my-own-instrument, I’ve played a lot of different pianos. A few have been very nice; most have had various issues while still being adequate; and some can only be charitably described as piano-shaped objects.

My piano encounters last weekend in Pittsburgh fell into that middle category. Now that I think about it, the “various issues” descriptor encompasses a hilariously broad range of surprises and challenges I’ve gotten to deal with over the years. And now I have two more to add to my scrapbook!

Piano lock, shown on a white piano so you can actually see it, but -- white pianos, ew!

The first obstacle your heroine was tasked to overcome was the dreaded Piano Lock. I mentioned in my previous post that I successfully deployed my charm and wily persuasion on the hotel staff so that I could gain access to a rehearsal piano. (Actually, the hotel staff were very nice and helpful with all aspects of our conference. They even let us turn the lobby into a full-on DFH hootenanny, into the wee hours of both Friday and Saturday nights!)

The sight of a locked piano always makes my heart sink. Oh, I completely get why they’re necessary, mind you. Overenthusiastic children, drunken louts, greasy fingers, overfull drinks — I understand the dangers. But pianos are made to be played, dammit! It’s such a shame to see them sitting there like large, expensive, useless furniture so much of the time.

I think it should be possible to get certified as a Bona Fide Pianist® by some international piano organization, and the certification should entitle one to a universal master piano lock key. I would vow to use it wisely — honest!

Our nice shiny rehearsal piano

Anyway, the rehearsal piano was a grand, and it looked pretty nice. It was okay, but there was one key that stuck and only played if you pounded it like the devil. And it just happened to be the G an octave-and-a-half below middle C (G2 in scientific pitch notation), which was very inconvenient since all but one of the songs we were rehearsing were in the key of G! Figures! >:(

There was even more fun in store for me on Sunday morning, though. Click Mr. Readmore to see the secret toy surprise!

Miss Music Nerd Turns Orange!

Literally!

I’ve just returned from Netroots Nation, the annual progressive bloggers’ conference. And I don’t know if I need to adjust the settings on my camera, or what, because in most of the pictures I took, people’s skin has a distinctly red or orange cast. One thing I’m sure of, though, is that my lighting designer, hairstylist and make-up artist are all FIRED!

The conference T-shirt I’m wearing here actually looks nice in person — I don’t usually wear orange, but this is an okay shade. Well, you’ll just have to take my word for it.

As you know, my profession is music, not politics, but I attend this event each year for two main reasons:

• To hang out in person with my online friends
• To participate in the music-making for an Interfaith Worship Service, which we hold every year — even though most of the attendees are still sleeping it off after the wild partying of the 3 previous evenings. (Not that we refrain from participating in that, as I chronicled last year!)

As a side benefit, I get to attend panel discussions on the hot topics of the day, and hear speeches by some big names in politics. This year’s headliners included Bill Clinton, Howard Dean and Valerie Jarrett.

I don’t usually brave the crowds to get a handshake or photo with the various VIP’s in attendance, but I did go to Dr. Dean’s book signing, because I thought a signed book would make a nice present for McDoc. It was fun to chat with him a bit; I asked him what advice he’d give McDoc about getting through residency with his sanity intact. His answer in a nutshell: “Don’t hang out with other doctors during your off hours!” (And no, he didn’t scream, not even once. He’s quite personable and, as they say ’round here, wicked smaht. I’d love to have him as a dinner party guest.)

Back story to the picture above: I was able to sweet-talk the hotel staff into unlocking this piano so that I could rehearse for the interfaith service with the Prophecy Street Singers, as I’ve dubbed us. (Photo credit for the non-orange-y pics: snorfbat, who also plays a mean banjo!) The service itself took place in a conference room with a rented keyboard; more about that little adventure later — stay tuned!

Stop! Faith, Hope and Gold Lamé

I admit it — I fell for it. How ’bout you?

Yes, I believed that this was an amusing stunt pulled off by a bona fide flash mob, rather that a slick, rehearsed Hollywood production created to promote a reality TV show.

I believed because I wanted — nay, needed — to believe. I needed to believe that a group of people of diverse ages, races and sizes could band together and, armed with nothing but the sheer, unadulterated joy of their synchronized dance moves, tweak the collective nose of the L.A.-hipster-overpriced-skinny-jeans-buying beautiful people. Being able to believe that gave me hope — even if just for a moment — that everything was going to be alright.

But I got hip while reading the comments here. My grief was immense, but mercifully short-lived.

Life goes on. After all, it’s always hammertime somewhere in the world — or somewhere in a galaxy far, far away:

Organists of the World: Demand Your Rights!

Earlier this week, while on a visit to our country estate (a.k.a. my sister-in-law’s house northeast of Cincinnati), McDoc and I stumbled upon an amazing sight!

Sure, it looks like just an ordinary parking space, but look closer:

That’s right, yo! If you’ve ever been in a church parking lot (and who doesn’t hang out in them?), you may have noticed something along these lines. Oh, sure — that’s easy. But if you took a survey of churchgoers, asking them whether they’d rather skip the sermon or the music — well, I think you’d get a good idea of who the real VIP is in this context.

BTW, when we stopped to take this picture, a car was just pulling into it. “Are you the organist?” I asked the driver, fully prepared to make a citizen’s arrest if he had said no. He identified himself as the choir director, so I had to let him off the hook. He kindly backed up so I could have my photo opp, then he told us the back story. It seems a previous organist liked to do her grocery shopping in between the early and late services, and having a reserved space meant she could slip into the church just in time even after the rush of congregants had arrived. Very efficient, I’d say!

Thanks to the choir director of Lebanon United Methodist Church for being so friendly!

Random Number Memory Generator

McDoc wants to take piano lessons.

He asked me the other night what I thought the general prognosis was for adult piano students – how well do they generally do?

In my experience, the challenge for adult students is to tolerate the discomfort of not immediately being able to play as well as they want to. Typically, they know what the music is supposed to sound like, and they have particular pieces they love and really want to be able to play, but there’s a gap between what they hear in their mind’s ear and what they can do – at least at the beginning. Of course, the same is true of kids to some extent, but I think kids are more accustomed to, and comfortable with, being in learning mode. Adults have a strong expectation of competence from themselves, and can get frustrated easily when it’s lacking.

Having said that, though, I think the prognosis for adult students is very good, IF they’re willing to work at it. You know the saying, “Anything that’s worth doing is worth doing well?” Well, that’s fine when you’re already at the top of the mountain, but I don’t think it’s very encouraging when you’re staring up from the base. I actually prefer to say, “Anything that’s worth doing is worth doing badly,” meaning that it’s okay to be imperfect – the only way to improve, the only way to work out the kinks, is to see where they are.

I also said that how well an adult student does depends on what their goals are starting out. McDoc said, “Yeah, I know you can’t expect to play all 106 Beethoven sonatas right away.” Indeed!

“I think you’re thinking of Haydn,” I said — Haydn having written 106 symphonies.

Beethoven wrote only 32 piano sonatas – though it might as well be 106, considering how difficult they are.

That thought activated my brain’s random memory generator – what, you think that’s weird? C’mon, everybody has one!

At a summer “piano camp” I attended when I was 18, the students were required to memorize the statistics of all 32 Beethoven piano sonatas: opus number, key, and title, if any. Maybe the number of movements, too – I don’t remember exactly (if not, I think that would’ve been a good idea). It was a good mental exercise, I think, though I must confess I haven’t retained more than a vague sense of it in the intervening years. At the time, there were as many anguished cries of “why do we need to know this?” as you might have expected to hear in a math class.

I was at the top of the eligible age range for this particular program, so I was surrounded by hordes of little prodigies, dang them. I had a couple of advantages, though: for one, I had just finished my first year of college (I was something of an overgrown prodigy myself), and had taken the full load of music major courses, so I was excused from the music theory class when the instructor discovered on the first day that I could have taught it myself. (In fact, if he had been smart, he would have paid me a cut rate to take his place while he went out for long lunches!) Also, since I was legally an adult, I was allowed to wander off unchaperoned from the college campus where the camp was held. I didn’t have a car, but I had a map and motivation beyond all logic, so I put a water bottle in my backpack and trekked through the streets of Orange County, California in the summer heat in search of a drug store. An 18-year-old woman who’s determined to buy makeup is a force to be reckoned with.