music – Clara Hsu

The Piano–a play-movie

The Piano is a fantasy-adventure theatrical play written by Clara Hsu for the students of Clarion Summer Theater, 2020. The play is based on Clara’s knowledge and experience as a child growing up in her father’s piano factory in Hong Kong.

Players ages 10 to 16 met frequently on zoom to rehearse. They learned to act, dance and sing. Then each player was filmed individually at Clarion Performing Arts Center. The footage was creatively edited together by Brent Benaway. We’re proud to present to you “The Piano 2020 — a Play Movie”

The Piano is produced as a testament of tenacity and creativity of the human spirit. It was so for Mr. Ma, the piano manufacturer. It is so today, for all of us in the time of Coronavirus.

The Consciousness of Words

Mallarme to Degas: “Poems have to do with words, not ideas.”

If words are like music notes, how is a poem written?

Consider a word: its meaning, etymology,size, shape, sound, color, rhythm, effect, strength, and weakness. How does a word look on a page? How does it move and sound in space, appear and disappear; how does it jam and set apart from others?

If words are like music notes, then poems may be written not for their connection of things or feelings. Meanings would have to be derived from the synthesis of sound, with each word contributing to their shades and dynamics. Reading a poem would be an active production of sound instead of someone sitting quietly in a chair leafing through a book—imagine an audience leafing through a music score in the absence of an orchestra.

Words—alive in all possibilities, with poetry their vessel.

Jazz Night

They were all accomplished jazz musicians, coming together for a concert in the Marin. Five people. Five instruments. They played. There was no fire.

I wanted their sounds to amalgamate. I wanted them to combust, to turn their individual beauty into something larger and new. Out of five musicians there should have been born a sixth, with elements of the parents and a unique voice that makes its presence known.

Not easy, with everyone’s busy schedule. Clearly the musicians have not rehearsed. You can’t have a child if you don’t come together to make love.

Their solos were filled with virtuosity, going their separate ways.

Image taken from: therefectoryrestaurant.com

Voices in the Head

He hasn’t heard such beautiful music in years. Since his stroke, his hearing declined gradually, and now he is practically deaf. But the singing! There are solos, duets and choruses performing right at the back of his head. He’s been listening to them all day long.

“Don’t know who the composers are but these guys sing very well,” my father said to me. After he took a shower the music stopped, but resumed again as we sat down to dinner. He asked me to go to the internet and look up: old people hearing voices.

Sure enough there are articles about the phenomenon. They call it hallucination. There might be something wrong with his brain.

“That’s obvious,” said father. “At least the voices are not asking me to go murder somebody.”

“Don’t think you are capable even if they do,” I replied.

Words in Music

The young woman sang some English pieces at her graduate voice recital. When it came to her selection of German lieder she gave an introduction, “I have no idea what these songs are about.”

Dore, who is a music DJ, says when he auditions a CD, the music comes first and foremost. With music coming from all over the world, it is nearly impossible to know the meaning of each song that he favors, even when the lyrics are printed on a separate pamphlet. Rightly so, Tangents is a music program, not a poetry reading. But as a singer it is imperative to understand the text. Music is not just notes but story-telling and we can’t tell a story without knowing what it is about. I wonder if the young woman was graduated.

No Notes, Please

A violin student came into my studio for a lesson on singing and listening.

“I can’t sing.” He said sheepishly.

“Of course you can.” I said. “Sing with me.”

We matched pitches, going up and down the scale. His voice was shaky at first, but soon he was able to hold a note for a few seconds and hop up and down small intervals. A big smile spread across his face.

He didn’t know about the major musical periods. When I began to explain he took out his notebook and started writing.

“No notes, please.” I said. “Just listen.”

He was not used to doing that, and felt uncomfortable. He was a good student.

I played him examples: Bach, Mozart, Chopin, Gershwin. We talked about musical lines that run horizontally and chords that move a piece of music vertically. He asked questions now, of things he didn’t understand.

At the end of the lesson he didn’t want to leave. A good student. I look forward to seeing him next week.

On Dublin Street

Jack Foley played me a recording of James Joyce reading Finnegans Wake. I had no expectation, as I had never read the book nor heard Joyce read. The voice came on, gentle, musical, drawling and at times whimsical. Joyce was impersonating two women washing by the river bank. I found myself nodding at the rhythm of the words without understanding, laughing at a vague impression of women talk while shlepping clothes into the water, or on a rock, or a washer board. I fell in love with Joyce.

That was a timely opening, and I’m more convinced than ever that things don’t happen as isolated incidents. A week later I found out about a Finnegans Wake reading group from Sydney Clemens. The group has been meeting once a month. Last night I joined them. They were up to page 79 after two years. Someone read a paragraph. We then freely associate and wildly interpreted with the help of two books of analyses/commentaries. After two hours we stopped on the top of page 81, before an extra long paragraph that would carry on and on for pages.

The Voice of Baaba Maal

I first saw Baaba Maal some years ago at the Filllmore. He looked princely in his white Babariga outfit that flowed all the way to the floor. But it was his voice that mesmerized me—dark, strong coffee, tender and earthy. The kora with its relentless and clear, plucking sound; the talking drums, the various gourds and seeds shakers accompanied him and the tender rhythms of Africa carried the audience like waves lapping on the shore.

Last night he sang at Oakland Yoshi’s. This time he wore a very nice tailored suit. Baaba in his early fifties retains the face of a twenty year old. Before he played he spoke about his musical journey. It was unusual to have a lengthy talk before a show, but Baaba was engaging and captivating in his story-telling. The man and the musician came together and when he played I was right there with the griots, the women playing the calabashes, the blues, the classical traditions of Europe and Africa. And Baaba, the chosen one, took me back to the cradle of Africa and rocked me.

Photo by Jon Klemm.

Eric’s Tentacles

BB-nighttime-storefront — click to Bird and Beckett's website

For a tiny bookstore, Eric Whittington puts in long hours and grows tentacles to keep Bird and Beckett running in the heart of Glen Park. Breakfast cookouts, jazz nights, poetry readings, book clubs, and fundraising events are some of what he does beside selling books. When I first met Eric he was still at his old place on Diamond. After narrowly escaping a fire that broke out in the building next to his, he moved the store to the old public library location on Chenery Street.

With more room Eric builds a stage in the back of the store, elevating musicians and poets to their proper height. He has created and maintained a vibrant community, something that cannot be competed by internet businesses. People gather, touch, speak, listen, feel—all the essential human experiences are for the taking within this space. Eric’s tentacles bring the herd together. We buy books from bookstores.

When We Can Read

I won’t tell a student to let go of his prejudice. As long as he comes into my studio at the appointed hour and shows a willingness to work, it is all that I ask of him. I’m talking about a piano student who doesn’t like to read music. At a certain point his playing suffers because he can no longer memorize all the notes. Learning becomes tedious and frustrating. I decide to stop everything that we have been doing and just focus on improving his sight-reading ability.

It seems a long time, and parents are worried that their son plays the same song over and over for nearly a year. But his real work is during the lessons, when he is drilled to make his fingers “see” the keys on the piano. It is eye-hand coordination. Some of us do it better than others, but all of us can do it given time and persistence. My student had a break-through yesterday, playing something the very first time correctly by sight. All at once time and grievances melted away. We reveled in the unsuspected moment. I watched him walked away with silent pride.