music – Page 2 – Clara Hsu

A Crow Comes Back

I hear him cawing outside my bathroom window. It’s the first time I sense life in our backyard since the trees and shrubs were brutally hacked away a few months ago by an insensitive workman. The caw—AHH, AHH, AHH—always three times, as if the crow insists that I should come out.

“Hello.” I call. Then surprisingly, a string of musical notes runs up a scale. Is it by the same crow? He caws again. Yes, it is.

The air outside is warm and balmy, rare for us who live up on the San Francisco hill. My black and shiny feathered friend hops down the street when he finds me watching him. I say hello again. He cocks his head. I wish I know bird talk.

When Music Becomes Noise

Walking out of the Independent last night, the security guard asked if I enjoyed the show. No, I said. The sound was awful.

I was there to hear Yemen Blues, a phenomenal band with the charismatic singer Ravid Kahalani. I heard them at the Jewish Music Festival earlier this year at the Freight and Salvage in Berkeley. They played two shows back to back. I stayed for both of them.

The band is an orchestra of viola, cello, electric bass, percussion, trombone, trumpet and flute, with additional folk instruments like the oud and the gimbri. Their music is complex and flavorful, and Ravid has an incredible range and color in his voice. They are my favorite band of the year.

Last night at the Independent the sound was soupy. The intricacy of the music was lost. The vibrations of the bass shook the floor. The sound of the brass came out unfocused and Ravid’s voice appeared small. I turned to my friend and said the balance was off. She said yes but it was the problem with the sound guy.

That’s it! In our times music is as much as a show of the sound guy as of the band. Many times I was turned off from a show because the sound was intolerable. A good sound person can make or break a band. Granted mixing acoustic and electric instruments and the human voice requires some skills, but there is no excuse for a music venue to have bad sound.

The crowd loved the band well enough. I maybe one of the few sulking. When we accept mediocrity we go on a downward slide, hearing but not listening.

Mind Music

How do you get rid of the tune that is playing in your head? Mine goes on automatic rewind and it has been weeks now. This time, at least, is an impressive piece—Debussy’s Valse Romantique. It’s playing when I open my eyes in the morning. It’s playing when I write, coming in between pauses in its strong waltz rhythm. It accompanies me in the street, and the grand chords give dramatic background music to the shops and people I pass. The flowing notes disappear only when I’m asleep.

Sometimes the music is just a silly tune like Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. I have no control over what is playing and why it gets into my head and when it stops. I’m distracted this way, by the music in my head. It was a big problem when I was small. They called me absent-minded. Now, at least, there is no one to chide me.

The Great Seduction

Before they are introduced to the concept of examination, I find my students enjoy playing the piano with a certain degree of innocence and curiosity. But as soon as they have taken the first exam, the pleasure of playing is transferred to the pleasure of passing. And when the certificates arrive in the mail with their names printed in gold, they are forever seduced into the system of achievement.

Learning to play for playing’s sake doesn’t go down well with the parents. After years of lessons, they are no longer dreamy-eyed about the essence of the soul and how music will nurture the character of their children. The piece of paper is proof that they have gotten their money’s worth. All that tuition and the weekly transport have to have tangible meaning in the end. Their children agree. Music is a must-have to put on their college application. My job is to whip them in shape before the next exam.

Surrealism and the Art of Performance

Coming into writing late in life with no background makes it difficult for me to appreciate different poetic expressions. Surrealistic poetry is especially daunting. Friends suggest visualizing the imagery, but my mind can’t react quickly enough and I sink under the deluge of words. Ask the surrealists and they’ll say their poems are whatever you want them to be. I walk away feeling a little silly. Questioning artists for meaning of their work is like asking about the ingredients and nutrition facts in a cookie. It doesn’t help me in appreciating the nuance of the product.

For one thing, the mind—that stubborn, controlling, egotistical blob—does not want to let go of preconditioned bias. But recently I found a way to trick it. Instead of listening to the words, I listen to the rhythm and sound of the poem. The music in these poetry is the catalyst that allows me to immerse in them with awe and wonder. I am held afloat by their juxtaposition. I ride their waves until they bring me ashore. It’s all in the performance, and they often leave me breathless.

Music Orgy

I enjoy having the house by myself on Saturday nights while Dore does his show, Tangents, at the radio station. I hardly listen to his show. After a long day of teaching I find his selection usually too energetic. All I want is quiet.

We receive three to five CDs in the mail every day. When Dore auditions he puts the music on loud. The sound fills the kitchen and the living room. Escape is difficult, even when I keep my door closed, the pulse of drums and bass seep through.

Sometimes though, his music connected with me on a gut level and would change my state of being. One day I walked into the house to the music of cello and piano. The two instruments were in a most intense dialogue, drawing from each other’s breath, entwining, bemoaning, separating, coming back together, making love, urging the listener, stirring up an emotion that needed immediate fulfillment. I joined the orgy. Pen to paper, poetry flowed out like a third stream.

Photo credit: Raymond Van Tassel

This Funny Thing We Called The Brain

To get to know a friend is to try finding things in common. Pick a topic–hobby, age, birth signs, politics–between two people there has got to be something you can talk about. My friend Andy and I are excited over our dyslexia. It may be too broad a term to describe the sense of loss in our childhood, but we definitely were not wired optimally and timely. I remember eating an interminable lunch at my desk, while the rest of the class lined up to go somewhere. But more tragically was the lack of comprehension on all subjects (except music) no matter how hard I tried.

For some, the wires of writing, reading, remembering, comprehending, interest, drive and skills in the “jelly-mold” may never touch. The disconnect is real and surreal. I don’t understand why I write poems and not be able to read others’. My love of sound does not help me in learning a language. People said if you can play the piano you can type. That’s an assumption that I can prove them wrong. Anyway, I tell my piano students the brain is a separate entity of the body. In order to make it work for you, you have to command and repeat an action over and over again. That means practice, practice, practice.