Anthems, Audiences, and Ovations

We've packed and left Brooklyn, but first I took a couple final trips to Manhattan to take in the best and worst musicals I've ever seen. The revival of Hair with its 60s anthems was a wild romp of complete crazy fun, while Next To Normal was occasionally so poor I was embarrassed. Both ended to standing ovations of wild, endless applause. 

Tonight I shared a bit of applause myself, from a few tables in Antonio's Restaurant, located in a strip mall somewhere in New Jersey. I played music with a 92-yr-old, a man full of music and joy who drives to gigs, packs in his gear and plays there and other places regularly. We jammed along to his computer back up band, and he (Angelo) went table to table collecting requests (no one requested Frank Mills), pleasing every person in the restaurant. One patron hearing I was from Canada had a special request. He wanted us to play O Canada, which he simply adores hearing especially when sung at the game with the crowd joining in. It's the greatest anthem in the world, he said. Angelo found the backing tracks in his computer database and off we went, playing a groovy rendition together. 

It's been a great trip, very inspiring and a tad distracting at the same time. I'll miss the thunder but not the heat, the music but not the C train that delivered me to it, the people but not the security guards, and the pizza slices but not the ice cream truck. I give New York a standing ovation of wild, endless applause. Oh, and fireworks. 

Networks and Justice

Apparently there may be a second chance for me to play piano at Antonio's restaurant in New Jersey, on Friday night. For you die hard blog fans, I was supposed to meet the 92 yr old piano player and maybe sit in at the beginning of this adventure, but he took the night off. Imagine that, a 92 piano player granted a night off! What a weird country. 

When you want to get a general feeling for a new neighbourhood, just open your laptop and check out the wireless networks available. Here's what has been floating around our sublet: WASP, Slight Edge, serenity, wisey brown, Superbiate to the Nth degree, twas a good run KurtD, Perhaps!, Mr. Incredible, go tigers, and poopy pants. 

You can learn so much from what people call their wireless networks: this neighbourhood has a sports fans, people who think highly of themselves, peaceful people, hopeful people, at least one white Anglo-Saxon Protestant, someone named Kurt who has finished something so admirable he named his network in honour of it, and lastly, someone with bowel issues. 

I saw "Chicago" last night. What a great inspiring musical. Everything so stylized, built on a theme of crime as entertainment. (Media over justice!) A show within a show, the band was great, and right on stage. It was so nice to finally experience the source of all these pieces of music I've endured sitting through auditions in the musical theatre world. 

OK time to fight the ants. They have a well-run network and have taken over our kitchen. We awoke this morning to a startling scene - the ants have actually tried to take the kitchen and have moved it six feet to the left. This, I fear, is justice for the cold blooded murder of my first little friend who was playing on my keyboard as I composed. (Music over Murder!) A deathwish not unlike the rats I observed playing on the subway rails last night. 

Thunder and Lightning

Storms are flying past back to back tonight at 50 kmh, so I watch fork lightning and listen to continuous rumblings and sudden, frightening cracks. It's been more than two hours so far. At one point rain came so furious it somehow washed down the inside of the wall of our place, pouring over outlets where I raced to unplug things and ran for a towel. And throughout these storms, large commercial airliners continue circling Brooklyn to land at JFK. 

There are always jets overhead, even in Manhattan

In Manhattan I've come across monuments both planned and unplanned. (Even walking in Brooklyn I've found monuments at firehalls.) I was in a pub yesterday with relatives, half a block from ground zero that had a few photos of their place taken in the aftermath. If you don't see the photos, you are just in a pub. If you see the photos, you realize you are in the middle of the place where one day things went horribly awry.

Years ago we did the tour to the top of the towers - we have a photo somewhere. And yes, we saw the TV that day, everybody has those images stored in their brains. There is a TV Guide here on the bookshelf that came out just a week or two after. Now during the rumbles and cracks and random flashes I pick it up and start reading first hand reports from dozens of journalists describing their involvement in the event, helping each other, running for their lives. I know every day on the subway or in the streets I am next to people with their own stories and losses from that day, but I can't really begin to comprehend. 

High Line, Hersch, Home, Heat

Last evening I finished a good day of writing and went to Manhattan to walk the High Line, a new park in NYC  -  a refurbished raised rail line that winds its way over streets and intersections and through buildings along the west side. My walk just before sunset was crowded with New Yorkers marveling it for the first time as well. It features cooling ocean breezes, paths, custom benches and beautiful native plants and flowers that you can actually smell. I think it was quiet up there but that might have been an illusion. There were no birds, but I did see a bumble bee. It is fun to observe New Yorkers up here, who are looking down to observe other New Yorkers. Part of the park even features a small graded amphitheatre where the stage is a glass wall for observing people and traffic below. 

I descended the High Line to become one more of the observable, and wandered through the skinny streets in the West Village and found some yummy cheap food. Then I lined up at the Village Vanguard to hear the Fred Hersch Trio. Wow. I became a fan a few years ago of pianist Fred Hersch, especially his jazz arrangements of classical repertoire. It was a sell-out crowd of very appreciative fans. The trio was fantastic, and on the break I met Mr. Hersch and had a chance to speak with him for a couple of minutes about his music.

Today in Brooklyn there is a change in the rhythm: there are block parties everywhere. Many roads are blocked, traffic is slower, almost non-existent. Families are out in front of their homes. Kids take back the streets and ride their bikes, bbq's are lined up in the shade of the ancient trees, and a lone member of the NYPD leans on a rail talking to neighbours. The festivities are casual - neighbours meet, eat, share, laugh and chat with each another. 

Back in the attic, the noise from the air conditioners and fans are blocking out the various flavours of music rising up to the window. The temperature is rising, though it is evening. It is hard trying to work in this heat and noise - no breeze, no bees - I'm missing the High Line already.

Shooting and Mosaics

Yesterday was a little unusual, as a bunch of mayors and rabbis and other government workers from over in NJ and some here from Brooklyn were gathered up and taken away. The cameras were shooting press conferences and speeches, capping off a day that involved 300 FBI agents. 

In a metropolitan area so massive that eight million people ride the subway every day, you might expect there's going to be a bit of money laundering. But the roster of politicians and religious leaders involved, and the human organ buying and selling ring was a bit of a surprise. Obviously the spreading corruption has deep roots somewhere in this mosaic of many cultures. 

Brooklyn is an endless mosaic. Two blocks from here you can find a couple weightless people shooting up, walking in circles yelling at themselves, just like Victoria. Two blocks the other way and they are shooting a movie with Drew Barrymore. Two blocks another way was the scene of a different kind of shooting the other week - an undercover police operation turned very unfortunate. This happened while we were at Coney Island, where a pink gorilla was shooting free t-shirts from a gun.

I came a cross this woman in Carroll Gardens who is spreading joy and hope through her art, by mosaic-ifying her entire world. I joined others who were shooting pictures.

Architecture and Music

Currently the Guggenheim's main offering is about, well, the Guggenheim. And more. Frank Lloyd Wright's fascinating designs are on display all the way up his spiraling path with models, explanations and pictures.Yesterday I took it in and loved it. A creative life filled with bravado, socializing, doubts and tragedy, although less tragic than, say, Rattenbury's, Wright spent a lifetime thinking and rethinking, expanding ideas, throwing some out, building on traditions, throwing some out, revisiting purpose and base values in the ways we live and move.

I've met so many people that wanted to be architects. Today I met an architect here in Brooklyn, and today I also met a person who works with architects, and who recently talked his son out of becoming one. My son is considering being an architect. We are in the Pratt Institute's neighbourhood, and it is filled with pizza-eating bike-riding future architects - inevitably, green architecture. We see and hear about it all around us: new materials, new emphasis on reducing the carbon footprint, being eco-concious, new space-saving designs, multi-use spaces - it must be an exciting time to become an architect.

I flirted with the architect thing. And so did many musicians and composers I know. Maybe everyone wants to be an architect. It is creation in distinct application, so immediately gratifyingly, observable and more useful, physically, than a symphony. And the eyes are so quick to overpower ears.

A symphony is created like a building or a public space with plans, supports, open areas, textures, functions, materials, contrasts, themes that echo and mirror. There is always room for fresh design, or inspiration can be carried over from other masters and eras. On and on one could go with the relations between the two disciplines.

The wonderful advantage of architecture? It can be seen and touched. The wonderful advantage about music? It can't.

Monsters in Manhattan

Yesterday's musical creating opportunities were obliterated with laundry, shopping, cooking, and cleaning. How did Bach write with all those kids running around?

The last two nights I've popped over to Manhattan and have seen a couple of monsters. First, Stanley Jordan, one of the most amazing guitar players on the planet. He was filling in for Les Paul. I was blown away by Jordan's contributions to the set. But before Jordan was a line up of others. First, Les Paul's seasoned trio (minus Mr. Paul) played some tunes they have been playing for far too long, then Muriel Anderson sat in for a very quick song. Her finger-picking and various other styles were overflowing with musicality to spare. Oh and there was a famous comedian too. And the bass player had to sing a funny song. Then there was a polar bear jumping through a ring of fire. Okay not true, but you get the idea - I was surprised there wasn't a singing frog. By the time Jordan came up, the set was more than half over, but to hear this monster musician perform live for a few songs was still an incredible event.

Actually there was a singing frog scene associated with the other monster - The Phantom of the Opera. After hearing the music for so many years, and hearing about the falling chandelier (definitely not a high point in this production) I finally saw the real thing. Though a little tired, this production is still impressive and enjoyable - even inspiring - with great designs, stage performers and pit orchestra. And a scene where the phantom turns the soprano's voice into "ribbit".

Sounds of Life from Broken Blocks

Last night I took the subway to a part of Brooklyn I hadn't seen. I walked about six blocks past broken buildings, broken cars, broken fences, stepping over broken glass, broken sidewalks and bits of broken other stuff. It was a Broken Brooklyn that time forgot, and I was its only life form, map in hand, Visa card removed from wallet and hidden in my underwear.

Finally I reached my destination, a massive old brick building. Signs of life - a few parked cars and directions on an unlocked door. I heard things and found the source on the fourth floor. A long, tall skinny room full people sitting at laptops plugged in to a large electronic brain distributing unusual sounds moving through an array of hanging speakers with indescribable films playing on the walls. There were a few home-made instruments and a couple of electric guitars. 

Some people were audience, some were performers, with no line to discern who was who. There was seemingly no one in charge, no line between what was conceived and what was randomly generated, no way of telling who or what was creating any specific elements. The lights were slowly dimming, perhaps by themselves, there was beer by donation, and a few people eating take-out food occasionally talking.

"Remove your shoes and try the bed upstairs before they turn it off." a woman with a French accent told me. So I found the stairs, removed my shoes, and ascended to find a bed surrounded with built-in speakers. I lay on the bed and sound built up around me, moving past me, through me, and under me from swirling subsonic vibrations I can only describe as unpredictable and life-threatening. I went back downstairs to take in more of the evening. 

For an hour or two I listened and watched, leaning against a dark wall, and concluded that this room of morphing amplified surround sounds created by strangers sitting at laptops was somehow a comforting, communal, almost organic experience. What a juxtaposition to the surrounding neighbourhood which I scurried back through, in dark blocks of brokenness, to find my train.

more info: http://issueprojectroom.org/

DO NOT NEED TO DOUBLE BAG

The symphony ideas were flowing this morning so I wrote them down, as much as I could. This afternoon I went for a walk and passed my favourite store where they I.D. me when I buy beer and then double bag my groceries with bags that state in big bold text: DO NOT NEED TO DOUBLE BAG. 

I had two symphonies in my head, besides my own bits and pieces. Both Beethoven 5 and Brahms 2 were coming and going - I know neither piece expertly, so I conjured up a bit of a combo as I walked. I came across a parade with people on stilts, food kiosks, and more percussion bands. I'm not sure what that was about. 

Then I walked somewhere around Carroll Gardens. More beautiful, ancient tree-lined streets. As I am the only person in Brooklyn clutching a map, people ask me for directions - it is surprising how many people have no idea where they are. 

I ended up at the water close to the bridge with two layers of zooming cars underneath me. You can lean over the edge and see them all zooming somewhere. Or you can step back and just enjoy the view of Manhattan. 

There are lots of babies in strollers being bumped over the crooked slate sidewalks all over Brooklyn. And there are a lot of dogs being walked, with a hefty fine if you don't pick up after. Curiously, the same law does not currently apply to horses here. So at least for now, DO NOT NEED TO DOUBLE BAG.

Park in Progress

There is an island about a kilometre off the tip of Manhattan called Governor's Island. It had been in the military forever, followed by the coast guard, until a few years ago when it was handed over to the city. It is a park in progress and there are great plans. Meanwhile, empty heritage homes and ancient fortifications and condemned industrial buildings mix with greenery and great views of New Jersey, Manhattan, and Brooklyn. The juxtaposition of these now-useless massive military living quarters and infrastructure alongside quaint rural sea-side charm is quirky and a tad unsettling. Half this place is in rough shape, and half is beautiful. But I needed a green break, and I found it here.

I took the free ferry along with every single new york resident, as today was a celebration of water for NYC. I rented a bike for $10 and spent an hour going around the island, and exploring pathways and little streets under the shade of ancient trees, in a constant ocean breeze. I saw tugs, ferries, sailboats, and in the distance, a massive cruise ship. Beyond were the great bridges that span the various waterways. 

It was a refreshing morning excursion. 

My security guard was obviously following me again: "Sir, you can't sit on that wall!" he bellowed, while I waited for the return ferry. 

The Evening

In the calm before the thunder and lightning came the drops, hanging in the air. Neither mist nor fog, just wet and heavy. The sidewalks were tunnels now and sound was muffled, everything hot and sticky. Then distant drums interrupted the darkness - a joyful reverberation of percussion coming from Fulton Avenue and bouncing along the brownstones. 

I stood in the light from the take-out, listening, eating my slice off a thin paper plate. 

Some people were going somewhere - couples, dog walkers - but most sat still in shadows on their stairs or front walls. At a few doors, families were out talking, laughing, with chairs sprawling over the sidewalks so that my quick passing could be felt an intrusion. The timing was good however, for on my way back the sky began to answer the drummers, first with a flash, then with a sound bigger than any drum could ever make.

Once back the drops began their coordinated frenzy. Our skylight sounded like these might be her last moments, but she was still holding, so the water slammed at the windows instead, trying any angle to drench new territory. 

And here in this deluge, a new rhythm announces itself and another movement of my Missa Brevis begins.

Walls of Art

I took the train to Times Square to get half price tickets to a musical - booth was closed for 3 more hours. So I gave up writing music today and took a train to the Guggenheim. It was closed. So I walked to the Whitney Museum - it was open!

I stood in little mirrored structures and watched boxy televisions. There was a glass display of vacuum cleaners. The "music room" was a gallery with giant bright canvas musical instruments drooping off the walls from hooks. Later I leaned on a wall while taking in some blotchy paintings and a security guard didn't like me doing that. Perhaps the wall was art. I exited past a Jackson Pollock and found a Phillip Glass score to read. We saw him play solo piano a few years ago and he stopped part way through a piece and said something like, "Oh sorry I am playing the wrong piece now, it is easy to mix up because my pieces are often so similar."

Then I went in a room to see six films all playing on the walls at once by Caes Oldenburg. Fine-dressed people walking slo-mo through a river, acting like chickens while a woman is pulled by on a plastic sheet, a topless woman in fisherman's pants sticks a hose down and fills 'em up. It was beyond absurd and though filmed in the 60's still felt new and fresh. Suddenly life on planet earth was beginning to make sense and my brain was on fire with new connections and I started to laugh out loud in glee. The security guard didn't like that either.

I left, walked past happy kids at the zoo in the park, cavernous stores full of stuff and people, famous buildings, and back to the ticket booth in Times Square, where the pulse from the epicenter of the commercial world vibrates all around you. The wait was going to be at least two hours. So I decided to go to a jazz club instead, featuring the music of Sting played by his former band mates, along with the guitar player from Wicked and the trumpet giant Lou Soloff. This was amazing. Really amazing. Under rehearsed, so a bit of a jam. I heard solos from these guys that each made my trip across the continent worth it. Again, I was laughing in glee, and in a club apparently you can do that sort of thing and no one notices. The sound man was either deaf or dead, but despite sound glitches so terrible the audience will have nightmares for years (and I quote the club's brochure: "State-of-the-art Meyer Sound System") the evening was a huge treat. The event was in part to raise money for rain forest preservation (5% of proceeds!!!) and to prove this my waiter gave me an ugly green plastic thingy to wear upon my wrist. There was also a bass for silent auction, signed by Sting himself. His signature was more like groovy modern doodle art, so I leaned back against the club wall and studied it for as long as I wanted.

Critters and Keyboards

So there are many critters and creatures here. The other day there was the guy out front rolling on the pavement letting air out of SUV tires, but that's not what I mean. I mean bugs and animals and plants. Today I surrendered the bathroom to what looked like a man-eating cephalopod. Really, he can have the bathroom as long as he wants, and no, I was not looking in the mirror.

Earlier this year I read a great book on the rats of New York - the history, the politics - they have standing committees and policy revamping conventions, and every meeting includes huge meals, or is that the Republicans?... and then I saw some lovely footage of them on youtube hijacking a Burger King. Rats I mean, not Republicans.

We haven't seen many bugs or rats. Yesterday while I was lost trying to leave Central Park, an odd man thought it best to warn me about the raccoons. I'm not sure what he was implying. There are squirrels at our attic window, and trees, birds and plants flourishing all about the neighbourhood.

Today I wrote a tonne of music, which usually means tomorrow will be a bust, we shall see. Sometimes I sing the notes into my music software, but today I was using a little keyboard. So tiny it might as well be made of Lego. So cute it made an imposingly large airport customs officer giggle. I was going pretty fast, trying to get my ideas out of my head and into the computer. My little ant friend was running around the keys today as I played, which as you now might be able to guess, led to an unfortunate incident.

These unfortunate incidents between humans and other critters probably go unnoticed thousands of times a day in cities. If every critter howled in his moment of death the city would be so loud we wouldn't hear the ice cream truck playing Frank Mills. But this incident could not go unnoticed. Bye little ant friend. "A Flat Ant". Sorry.

Jupiter and razor blades

Amongst tens of thousands of cel phones, expensive cheese, wine, Blackberries, iPhones, men comparing the size of their cameras, smokers, chatters, and dozens of other distractions came the sound of Jupiter. We were crowded together in a beautiful field with a pond and castle behind us and a forest of majestic trees in the distance. This really happened.

It was Mozart's "Jupiter" - his 41st symphony - followed by Beethoven's 7th, performed at the NY Philharmonic's summer concert in Central Park. You could donate by calling a certain number on your cel phone. You could vote on what the encore could be too, by calling certain cel phone numbers.  The music was a tad distant, but excellent. I heard new things in the Beethoven that I will study tomorrow. And then there were fireworks, of course. I'm glad I went - it was worth it!

Earlier today I went for a walk in the lower east side, and came across a barbershop, so I went for it, partly on a whim, and partly cuz people were staring at my unique heady combo of 70's feathering bangs and 80's mullet, with sweat pouring off because of this heat. The guy sculpted my head for 40 minutes with six types of electric razors, then he got out a straight razor and shaved my neck. I never thought I'd have the nerve to have someone with a razor blade at my neck but I didn't have time to get worried or protest, cuz he just went for it. Then he said wefrm. I said pardon. Wefrm. Pardon? Wefrm. Pardon? Oh, where am I from? Canada! Ever been, I asked. No, he said. You should go, I suggested. No, he said, not worth it. 

My haircut was finished, and I was still very much alive, so we both laughed and I tipped him.

Concentration and Distraction

How do you write a choral piece that is singable by amateur choirs? By sticking to some traditional techniques that they are comfortable with and can latch on to. But how do you create something new and original while adhering to a certain amount of these tried and true traditional bits so that no one freaks out, and yet still make sure you are not dumbing down to your singers or your audience, while still exploring some fresh territory, being true to your inner voice and your heart? This is where I am now, and as usual, the easiest way out of the maze is to relax, follow the text, imagine the choir in rehearsal, and imagine them and the audience at the premiere. 

When the in-the-moment of process of creating art with all of the above being considered is sailing on, the music flows. I can go between and hour and three hours at a sitting before the distraction comes, and I believe the distractions are good.

My current favourite distraction is an ant that enters and exits my computer at will all day. There is a bug in the system, no there isn't, yes there is, no there isn't, yes there is. Once distracted, my ears pick up the outside instead of the inside. Jets heading for JFK circle outside my window about every eight minutes - some hum and some whale. Car alarms - how come you can't download new car alarms like ringtones? Now someone is singing (there is always someone singing around here, and it always sounds great). Now thunder - I prefer that to the jets - oh that wasn't thunder, that was my stomach. Gotta go eat and then get back in the moment.

Ballet and Baseball

Yesterday I was at the Met Opera House to hear some Prokofiev. On the way I found Carnegie Hall, and then was attacked by 230 men holding "bike rental" signs by Central Park.

America Ballet Theatre's production of Romeo and Juliet is not Prokofiev's own happy ending version, no, here we get the original Shakespeare's last few minutes of much misfortune. I've never understood why Romeo happens to be carrying a lethal dose of poison in his pocket, or how he gets it past security. 

The production was stunning - everything about it was immaculate and completely fantastic, all for $29. I sat in the "family circle", which means you climb 366 steps and sit with babies who are crying in a circle around you. On the intermissions I ventured into the lower levels, and the lower I went, the more social the crowds were. But the bottom level was an unpenetrable wall of imposing private doors. That must be where the babies are coming from. 

After the ballet I went for fast "catch up" coffee with the conductor, who is the same conductor of my ballet, A Streetcar Named Desire.  Then I was off on the subway to Coney Island to see baseball, because this is New York, and you can do that. 

Above the ancient litter-strewn grounds, rusting rides, sagging tents, crowds of happy folks and blocking the view of the Atlantic Ocean was the gigantic count-down clock for next year's hot dog eating contest. It said there were only 367 days, 16 hours and 32 seconds to go.

As arranged, I met my friends at the game, by now deep in the 6th inning, deep into hot dogs, cotton candy, chanting, clapping, yelling, standing, sitting, and more yelling, for this was a little league team's big field trip day. It was tonnes of fun until right near the end, when two kids were hit by a ricocheting foul ball. 

So, another production where the last few minutes contained much misfortune, but this one had the advantage of some well-prepared paramedics. Thankfully beneath all the blood were just some small cuts and bruises. 

Then, what else? An over-the-top fireworks display from centre field, rather incongruous for us at this moment, as if someone had orchestrated a Sousa march for the pit orchestra to blast double forte through the lyrical, beautiful bows and curtain calls at the ballet.

Central Park and Safety

I walked through part of Central Park: baseball, soccer, picnics, lovers, children, families, some guy looking for his friend, dogs, no Canadian Geese. I stopped and watched a marathon and then realized the stream of runners and cyclists was just another average evening. 

I joined a line of folks through a haphazard security check to attend a free concert (sponsor: Molson Canadian) that was less than great, which shocked me because I assumed all music in NYC would be fantastic. But people were enjoying the event anyway, many were groovin' to the beat while they smoked and talked on their phones.

The music in the park was loud, but not nearly as loud as people's earbuds in the subway. The train I was on was particularly loud, and it was bumping around like the Coney Island roller coaster. I was apparently alone in my concerns for safety and balance. The headline would read, "Canadian Man Thrown End to End in Subway During Average Smooth Commute." 

One headline I actually did read was about the weekly crime reports here. My advice to anyone visiting: do not read the crime report and then go for a walk in a rather scary area you have never walked before. People were out to get me; everyone was looking at my Visa card right through my wallet, right through my pants. Even little old ladies were scheming on how to bring me down. Then through this all came the ice cream truck playing Frank Mills. He wasn't doing much business there, and with all that booty may have been as nervous as me. Then later, after midnight, someone started ringing our doorbell over and over, so I knew this was it. May as well just go down to the door and politely hand over my wallet.

The doorbell in this building rings in everyone's suite at the same time, and so it turned to a tense tenant showdown. Who would eventually get so mad and frustrated that they would actually give in and go down to get robbed and killed so everyone else could go back to sleep? Well someone eventually sacrificed themselves, thank goodness it wasn't me in my underwear with the frying pan ready to swing. Turned out it was just some guy looking for his friend.

Hit Songs, Sirens, and Ice Cream

My brother-in-law in NJ was asking how the composing career was going, and he mentioned all I really need is one hit song. And he's right. That's all any of us really need. But I'm not writing songs, I explained, I am composing symphonies and big choral works. Blank stare. 

Canadian Frank Mills once wrote a hit song. If you were alive in the late 70s, you know it. A simple piano-based instrumental hit in C Major with a few predictable turns all with a hypnotic alberti bass-like left hand accompaniment. What's not to love? I even played it myself as a youngster. Now here I am waaaay up in our attic sublet (the average Brooklyn dwelling has 26 steps) in Brooklyn and it is blasting up into the windows from a very slow moving ice cream truck. Yes, "Music Box Dancer" was attacking my brain today right when I was trying to frantically write down a few pages of a Kyrie for my Missa Brevis while it was still clear and new in my head. I've since combed the piece for any Mills influence, and I think I am safe. 

So there is some noise here, but there are way less sirens than at home in Victoria, Canada. Victoria is siren heaven. Sirens 24 hours a day. Every car in Victoria has a siren and there are big signs near our house that say "Activate Sirens Now!" Here I think I have heard three, and there are 50 times as many people all living in close quarters. So why are there almost no sirens here? Obviously everyone is really healthy because they are walking up all those stairs to get to their apartments. 

OK I gotta go, I am craving an ice cream cone.

The Two L's.

Yesterday we had to go to JFK to take care of a student visa problem. 4.5 hours of subways and trains for a very small stamp that was missed earlier. I think there are more security guards in Brooklyn than the entire population of Canada, and 90% of them will not help you unless you look them in the eye. They will ignore anyone that needs anything, so are they trained to let the average citizen figure everything out for themselves, thereby making them stronger and better people through trail and error, thereby creating a stronger, more informed confident society? Doubtful, so maybe they're on prescription drugs.

Speaking of confidence, last night we had Luigi's pizza, the real Brooklyn slice, and you can have broccoli if you want! This proves the pizza purists wrong - those experts that have told me over the years that real pizza has no green stuff. The pizza was fantastic - it had strength, kindness, sympathy, joy, acceptance, excitement, steadfastness, and more than any of that, confidence. OK I am actually describing the first 4 minutes of Beethoven's 2nd symphony now. So here are two dudes that simply lay it down - Ludwig and Luigi. Both pumping out the best, through their confident statements, bold and completely sure of themselves. Whether Allegro Con Brio or Cheese Con Broccoli, they know they've got it down, and that they will be forever talked about and plagiarized. 

Brooklyn vs. Schumann

I was listening to Schumann's second symphony, first movement. It starts so well in its muted heralding with choral-like string counter themes moving in opposite directions, but it soon turns into this mish-mash of unbalanced theme tossing. It picks up here and there, and you can hear the genius of Schumann - the sincerity of his thoughtful melodic structures, but then it just blathers back into the usual uninspired tricks and turns and echoes to fill time. Wow, I must be really hot and tired! 

Saw much of Brooklyn today on foot, and the parts I've seen now are almost all beautiful, friendly, and interesting. Today, I pick Brooklyn over Schumann. Brooklyn develops his themes, has more originality, and is more generous in his inspiration. There is a solidity and a natural uninterrupted building flow and sense of purpose and storytelling just below the surface with Brooklyn that I'm not able to decipher in Schumann's second, at least in the first movement.

Tomorrow at a church in the next block, there are signs up inviting one and all to come watch live on a big screen across the alter, the funeral of Michael Jackson. I think I will attend. 

Recession? What recession?

On TV yesterday I watched a guy over at Coney Island eat 68 hot dogs in 10 minutes. 40 000 people had travelled there to watch this world champion gluttony. The fireworks last night were impressive: lengthy, beautiful, original, surprising and extensive, in the town of Nutley, pop 30 000. How can this nation afford this? We saw our first firefly last night - a curious mixture of invisible insect and electricity. Hard to believe what we saw, at first - only ever saw them in children's books. Today I watched a loon somehow swallow a fish with a circumference that looked twice the size of the loon's throat. Later today we found our attic apartment, pausing in merging traffic for 45 minutes before the Holland Tunnel, over the ancient Brooklyn Bridge. But now here it is surprisingly peaceful and I know I will be able to write here, no problem. I sat on the worn front steps this eve, with a Coors Light left by the previous tenants, and pretended I lived here. The rhythms of the evening are obviously ingrained in generations in this neighbourhood. Cyclists and occasional dog walkers coming and going, moments of almost complete stillness and quiet, broken by speeding pimped up SUVs cranking the latest rap release through open windows with the gas pedal to the floor, brakes pounding at the lights, then gas pedal pounded on again, horn honking, on into the night.

I feel inspired here! 

New Jersey

Flew in to Newark last night, circling over fireworks going off all over in parks below us and right on the horizon. Quite a welcome and it's not even the fourth yet. Today we are in a beautiful town not far from Manhattan with family. The weather is hot, humid, beautiful. Apparently I am playing piano in an Italian restaurant tonight for my father-in-law. 

one day to go

One day until our trip. Kayaked and watched fireworks with 40 000 people on Canada day yesterday. Bought a rugged back up hard drive just in case. Then my laptop started acting up. Jealousy? I've a list of things people tell me I MUST do in NYC. Broadway shows, favourite grocery store, museums, bagels, and on and on. And I have some contacts to catch up with - friends, friends of friends, family, etc. The list would take me a year to complete, and I wouldn't get any work done. Tried to move and ended up canceling free flights we had from Victoria airport to Vancouver. Leo and I will take float plane on the first leg of the journey instead. Aeroplan tried to charge me $94.50 per ticket cancelation fee on a trip they had given us for free! I managed to get out of that one after 2 hrs on hold. What an odd bunch. 

Checked my contracts one last time - I must deliver my full symphony #2 on October 1st to the Victoria Symphony, and I must deliver 3 movements of my Missa Brevis for the Unitarian Church commission on Sept 30th. 

Composing in Brooklyn!

Follow me for the month of July 2009 (and maybe a tad before and after) as I travel across the continent to get waaaay overheated while working on my Symphony No. 2 and Missa Brevis Pro Serveto in a temporary studio in Brooklyn. Will I succeed? Will I die in all that foreign humidity? Will it effect my compositions? Shall I pack some shorts? Will I wear socks with my sandals? And, after a long hot day of composing, will I check out Broadway? The Blue Note? Moma? Lincoln Centre? Just how much inspiration can one person take? Will it be muggy? Will I get mugged?