Tag Archives: Music

Intensity

I’d say that my enjoyment of classical music has been on-and-off in my life.  I played cello from Grade 6 till Grade 13, hearing the pieces from the inside of the orchestra.  Then, sadly, I let go of my instrument.  Except for a few dabbles, I haven’t played again.

Years ago, I bought a 10-CD set called “The Most Beautiful Melodies of Classical Music”.  Such marvelous tunes, but truth be told I haven’t listened to them very often.  They sit on a high shelf, ignored.

In the early 2000’s, I went to a couple of Orchestra London concerts, watching the musicians from the balcony.  I don’t remember the pieces but it was good music.

Then a couple of weeks ago, I sat in the second row of Dundas Street Centre United Church to hear The Musicians of Orchestra London, folks who are determined to play on after the city dropped its funding.  Great sights and sounds from my nearby perch.

None of all that, however, prepared me for last night.  It was another concert from The Musicians, this time in the dramatic confines of Metropolitan United Church.  The centre part of the front row was blocked off, but I was allowed to sit up front on the left side of the orchestra.  I had been leaning back and talking to two women behind me when the musicians walked in.

A female violinist sat down about four feet from me, facing to my right.  When she did a downbow, I could have touched her right elbow.  The orchestra began with the Overture from the opera Don Giovanni by Mozart.  From the first note, my new friend launched herself into the stratosphere, moving and grooving to the music as her fingers flew on the fingerboard.  And her notes were so pure.  The melodies exploded in my head as I watched her grab on to them, then caress, then propel once again.  I tried to take my eyes off of her but usually couldn’t.  She was a goddess of the violin and I was transported into her world.  I had never been so close to a professional musician and I was overwhelmed with the power of it all.

As intermission started, I leaned forward and said, “Thank you.  That was lovely.  I loved watching your fingers fly.”  She smiled.  And then I continued:  “Am I sitting too close?”  She laughed.  “Oh no.  In fact you can sit up here if you want”, pointing to the very front pew beside her.  Wouldn’t that have been a hoot?  I’d be dodging her elbow all night.

Words cannot express the depth of my evening.  May I bring such intensity to the moments of my life.

A Circle of Drums

Yesterday was sunny and warm in London … such a blessing.  I strolled into Victoria Park – ten acres of green grass and mature trees – and sat on a bench.  Just me and the birds, except for that group of people over there.  Actually a circle of folks sitting on the grass, most of them with a drum on their lap.  Even from a hundred yards away, the sound was hypnotic.  The rhythms moved deep within me.  I closed my eyes and opened my heart.

Then I looked more carefully at these people, about twenty of them, mostly young adults with a few kids sprinkled in.  Two of the women who weren’t drumming stood and danced in their long patterned skirts.  One of them picked up a hula hoop and whirled it around.

I was transported back to the 1970’s, to the Mariposa Folk Festival on Toronto Island.  Lots of gentle movement there too.  Friendly faces.  Big smiles.  No problem, man.  In Victoria Park, the sun was falling between the trees, illuminating those flowing skirts and drumming hands.  I smiled.  How about if the whole world has a go with a drum on its lap?  We’d let the being emerge and the doing fade into the distance.

I closed my eyes again and began meditating.  The beat was strong, but over the minutes it lessened … and eventually stopped.  Excited voices for a bit.  And finally silence except for the breeze and the birdies.  Then I opened my eyes.  My friends were gone.  There was sadness in me.  May the good times never end.  But they do, of course, and that’s just the way life is.  Still, the beat goes on in the space where it had been.  The circle in the grass a hundred yards away still holds the joy of an hour before.  May I sense similar reminders of past glories as I walk through the day.

The Musicians of Orchestra London

I went to a concert tonight – 25 musicians playing classical music brilliantly in an old church with a wraparound balcony.  Up until a few months ago, these folks were the core of Orchestra London.  Then city council cut their funding and now the orchestra is virtually bankrupt.  How sad that our city of 350,000 no longer has funded classical music.

These players have a motto: “We Play On.”  And they most certainly do.  When we gave them a prolonged standing ovation at the end of the evening, there were tears in my eyes, and in those of several musicians.  Plus smiles all around.  We lightened their hearts, I do believe.

I sat in the third row, right in the centre, and I saw wondrous things.  The concertmaster (that is the violinist who sits close to the conductor and plays lots of solos) was a ball of passion.  He rocked forward and back.  He closed his eyes.  His notes, full of vibrato, were wondrous to behold.  At times, it looked like he was kissing someone.  At others, he seemed to be making love to his instrument.  The flautist was just as expressive.  Her head would dip and sway as she played her solo line.  And her long silver flute, usually held horizontally, would dip and sway as well.  It was all a dance.

The violinist closest to me had the most expressive eyes.  I was behind her and to the left so I could see her eyelashes move.  She would glance at her music, and then her eyelashes would rise as she looked at the conductor, keeping to the beat of his baton.  It was lovely to see.

I played cello from Grade 6 till Grade 13.  Why, oh why, did I give it up?  Tonight I watched the cello section intently.  When the cellist dips and sways, it’s a big instrument that moves around.

All these heads in motion.  All these eyes closing and opening again.  I couldn’t think of another profession where such expression is normal.  The average teacher doesn’t move like that.  Nor doctors, executives or plumbers.  It must be so cool.

We heard pieces from Mozart (composed when he was 17!), Wagner, Bartok and Haydn – different styles but the passion remained.  At one point, one of the musicians spoke to the audience.  She talked about classical music being “transformational”, beyond words.  Yes.  I was transported tonight to a land of tone and movement.  I’m glad I was there.

The Beatles

I went to see the Fab Four at the Port Stanley Festival Theatre tonight, a venue which holds around 100 people.  At 8:00 the lights dimmed and the soundtrack rolled … it was a Sunday evening in February, 1964 and the Ed Sullivan Show was on TV.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, here they are – The Beatles!”  Well said, Ed.

And here they came … John, Paul, George and Ringo … guitars and drums in hand, launching into the first song.  I was in the second row and from behind me I could hear girlish screams, just like that night 50 years ago when I sat with my parents watching the music world change.  Can’t remember what mom and dad thought but I bet they didn’t like the long hair.

Soon two women in front of me were twisting and shouting.  One of them pretended to faint and flopped into the lap of the other one.  Big smile from John.  All night long my new friends moved and grooved, much to the pleasure of the band.  Actually, I moved and grooved as well, with a little less throwing of arms into the air.  What great fun.

From “She Loves You” to “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band”, we heard it all.  And we sang.  My teenage life came flooding back to me and I remembered how the Beatles’ music helped keep my self-esteem afloat, even if ravaged by acne and lack of sports prowess.  I loved the tender songs, especially “Let It Be” and the big finale – “Hey Jude”.  I loved John and his granny glasses.  I so much wanted him to sing “Imagine” but I guess he never did it onstage with the other guys.

Jody was right there beside me, rocking to the hits.  Thank you for coming with me, my wife.

Before the concert and during it some, I had fun conversations with the woman sitting to my right.  We enjoyed each other’s company.  After the final bows, though, I looked around and saw her and her husband heading to the exit.  No goodbye.  That made me sad.

So it was an evening of joyous remembrance, of letting the vocal cords hang out, but tinged with a note of melancholy.  Sort of like life.  I’ll take it.

Lap Dance

Jody and I went to hear Bryan Adams at London’s Budweiser Gardens last night.  My dear wife was deep within my heart as I walked in and sat down.

Jody loved, and loves, Bryan.  As “Heaven” rolled over us, I realized that my darling girl was sitting on my lap.  I reached around and held her thighs, just above the knee.  My wife and me.

And love is all that I need
And I found it there in your heart
It isn’t too hard to see
We’re in heaven

Then we were rocking to one of our favourites – “Summer of ’69”.  Jody’s hands were way up high, punching the air.  Oh, that smile!  And how we loved to dance.

Standin’ on your mama’s porch
You told me that it’d last forever
Oh, and when you held my hand
I knew that it was now or never

But Jody was just warming up.  Bryan found a lady in the audience who was willing to dance in the spotlight to “If Ya Wanna Be Bad, Ya Gotta Be Good”.  And my wife was just as nasty as she turned to me, snarling and pointing to my chest.  Oh my.

I’ll give you what you want, boy, but let’s make it understood
If ya wanna be bad, ya gotta be good

And more of the same with “The Only Thing That Looks Good On Me Is You”. Go, Jodiette!

The only thing I want
The only I need
The only thing I choose
The only thing that looks good on me … is you!

For many years, Jody caressed me with a Bryan Adams song.  The title says it all – “Everything I Do (I Do It For You)”.  And she did.  Jody loved me so much.  Bryan started.  I held my hands over my heart and cried.

Look into your heart, you will find
There’s nothin’ there to hide
Take me as I am, take my life
I would give it all, I would sacrifice

Near the end of the concert, as the anthem “Straight From The Heart” began, Jody’s hands were flying, palms forward.  I placed my hands over hers, and our arms swayed to the music.  Just the two of us.

Give it to me straight from the heart
Tell me we can make another start
You know I’ll never go
As long as I know
It’s comin’ straight from the heart

May there be another start for us, Jodiette, just beyond the horizon.  I love you.

Ah, For Just One Time

I went a tribute concert last night for Stan Rogers, a Canadian singer-songwriter who died from smoke inhalation on a plane in 1983.  As the brochure said, “Stan Rogers touched the lives of countless people.”

Stan wrote about ordinary Canadians … fishermen, farmers, factory workers, lovers, explorers, displaced East coasters who went west to work in oil refineries.  He told the story of an aging housewife, gazing at the wrinkles in her mirror but dreaming of “Friday at the Legion when she’s dancing with her man”.

Five passionate musicians stood in front of me, recreating Stan’s stories with their mouths and fingers.  And we in London’s Aeolian Hall responded with our voices held high, blasting out the choruses so the walls trembled.

Ah, for just one time I would take the Northwest Passage
To find the hand of Franklin reaching for the Beaufort Sea
Tracing one warm line through a land so wide and savage
And make a Northwest Passage to the sea

And then it was over.  Time to leave.  Or perhaps not just yet.  Do I say hi to the performers or let them have their space?  “Be a decent person, Bruce.”  But really, what does that mean?  As Jack singer and guitarist walked off the stage and started down the aisle where I stood, I knew this moment’s version of decency.  I smiled.  He smiled.  I shook his hand.  “I enjoyed your music.”  Contact, of the most lovely kind.

Further down the aisle, Brad singer and guitarist was talking to an audience member.  To brush past or to linger?  I’m sure you know.  Brad had enchanted me with his singing of one of Stan’s lesser known tunes – “White Squall”.

But I tell these kids a hundred times “Don’t take the Lakes for granted
They go from calm to a hundred knots so fast they seem enchanted”
But tonight some red-eyed Wiarton girl lies staring at the wall
And her lover’s gone into a white squall

“I loved your singing, especially on ‘White Squall’.  Thank you.”  Two smiles.

The concert hall was three flights of stairs up from the street.  A narrow stairway.  So it was a very slow process having all of us move towards the outside world.  Just before I reached the top of the stairs, I saw a little room on the right, with a snack bar.  Leaning against the counter was Paul singer and guitarist, waiting to be served.  There was no thought, just an abrupt change of direction.

Bruce:  “Thank you for your music.”

(Smile in return)

Paul:  “It’s Stan’s music.”

Bruce:  “Yes, but really it belongs to all of us.”

(Nod)

Down the stairs.  Off into the night.  Happy.

Fifty Years After – Part 2

As Cam and I wandered the halls of Lawrence Park, looking at the photos of former classmates on the walls, we came across five girls sitting on the floor.  They all smiled when I said hi, which was lovely.  “We went here fifty years ago.”  Shock and, I think, curiosity.  “Do you still have school dances in the gym?”  Yes, a few.  I proceeded to tell them the ritual of the day:  girls sitting on one side of the gym, boys on the other.  I would walk across the floor, ask a girl to dance, and usually she would say no.  So … there I was, plodding back to the boys’ side, with everybody in the room knowing what had just happened.  Owwie.

The girls seemed to hang on every word.  I then launched into the topic of acne, since my young face had been covered with it.  Smiles of recognition.  And friendly goodbyes as we moved on.

We walked into the auditorium, where I’d attended countless assemblies, and performed in many concerts.  I was floating in my memories when I decided to turn around and face the back of the hall.  There on the wall were the missing plaques.  Under 1967, I was indeed there, resplendent in yellow calligraphy.  I just stared.  Who was this young man?  How much of him is with me now?  Lots.

I wanted to see the orchestra room, where I had practiced the cello for the five years of high school.  Being an orchestra member, playing concerts featuring symphonies from famous composers, had helped me rise above my acne and become a fuller human being.  There was a Vocal class going on as Cam and I passed the open door so we decided to come back at the end of the period

As the old kids were filing out, we walked into a room which was the site of one of the most traumatic moments of my life.  The Vocal teacher (also the orchestra and band teacher) welcomed us, and after hearing our story, invited us to listen to a few songs from the new group of students.  Sounded good to us.

I asked the gentleman if I could say a few words to the kids.  Of course.  I told them of our presence here fifty years ago.  I also told them about November 22, 1963.  It was ten minutes into our morning Grade 10 String class.  We were tuned up and ready to go, but our teacher, Miss Kuzmich, was nowhere to be found.  How strange.

In 2015, I pointed to the door and said, “Suddenly, that door smashed open and Miss Kuzmich fell through the opening, tears pouring down her cheeks.  ‘Kennedy’s been shot!’  And the shock raced through the String room.  I was immobile.  Terrified.  No body parts worked.  It was a moment that will never leave me.  At lunchtime, I raced home to watch TV with my mom, and found out that the president was dead.”

The kids listened and, I believe, gulped.  They too were silent.

We heard two lovely songs from the group.  So skilled.  So expressive.  We applauded.  Then I asked the teacher if I could sing a song.  Seems to me that Cam’s face dropped a bit right then.  But what the heck.  Time to sing.  Was it “Imagine” by John Lennon that flowed from my mouth?  How about a little opera from Verdi?  Naw … it was “Give a cheer for the good old gold and blue.”  The students smiled.

Just before we left the room, I said,  “Lawrence has meant a lot to me.  Fifty years from now, I hope that you look back on your days at LPCI with joy, that you reminisce about how your time here contributed to your life.”  We all waved goodbye.

It was a precious day in the hallways of my youth.  Thanks, young Bruce, for being there.  Thanks, young classmates, for giving me so much.  Thanks, young teens of 2015, for listening.

 

Sweet Music in the Evening

Neal and I went into London tonight to listen to a Canadian folk music group, appropriately called “Eh?!”  Two fiddlers and a bass violinist.  All brilliant performers.  Their concert was held at The Cuckoo’s Nest, an intimate club that takes over Chaucer’s Pub on some Sunday evenings.  Chaucer’s seats about 50, and features a huge stone fireplace, dark wood, and beer steins on a high shelf.

We sat immediately to the right of the band, in the second row.  I was about eight feet from James fiddler’s right arm.  Joe bass violin was on the other side of James, and farther along was Anne fiddler.

Sitting right in front of me was a man of about my age with a very large head.  He kept that head extremely still throughout the concert.  There was no hint of grooving to the fiddle tunes.  I felt sadness and dryness coming off him, even a depression.  And so I felt sad.  I decided to simply be with him.  No beaming of positive energy his way.  Just let him be as he was, with my company.  But sometimes he would lean way to the left or right, trying to see beyond James.  The first couple of times, I was irritated, and then I let that go.  Actually, when he leaned right, I could see Joe playing haunting melodies on the bass, rather than just the top of his head.  So my neighbour was helping me out.

At the break between sets, I decided to talk to the gentleman, to see if I could make a contribution.  “Hard to see past the first fiddler from our angle, eh?”  Big smile in return.  I was happy.

The tops of Joe’s and Anne’s heads were just fine for me because I got to see three musical heads feeling the melody and making the harmony, swaying to the peaceful tunes and jerking wildly during the raucous ones.  Very cool.  Oh, and I also got to see Anne’s left hand on the neck of her fiddle, her fingers alternately caressing and smashing down on the strings.  Cool again.

During the love songs, Joe played his bass like a violin, moving his fingers way down the fretboard to draw out ethereal melodies, with his head bowed as in a trance.  Gone I was in those moments.  Tears came to my eyes as the distinct sound of incredibly high bass notes worked its way into my soul.  Jody came flooding into me.  She was happy I had brought her to the concert.  Always with me, my dear.

It was a lovely evening.  Virtuoso musicians.  Tunes that led me away.  And a bigheaded man who knows how to smile.

 

 

 

Toronto – Part 4: The Music

Neal and I went to folk music concerts at Hugh’s Room on Thursday, Friday and Saturday evening.  Immersion indeed.

First up was Lillebjorn Nilsen, a singer-songwriter from Norway.  He had come to Toronto to pick up an acoustic guitar made for him by Grit Laskin, a mainstay of a longstanding local group called “The Friends of Fiddler’s Green”.  Lillebjorn was so enthralled with his new instrument.  It was as if he was making love as he played.  Grit was pretty happy too.

Lillebjorn sang in Norwegian, which was fine for the large Scandinavian crowd at Hugh’s but a challenge for me.  Even though he sometimes gave a little description of the song beforehand, I was getting frustrated.  I love lyrics most of all.  At some point, though, I let go.  “Just be with Lillebjorn, Bruce.”  So I did.  The soul of the man flowed out of his mouth and out of his fingers.  He could have been reciting a grocery list.  It didn’t matter.  He loved his country.  He loved people.  He loved making music.

At the end of the evening, he pulled out a Norwegian fiddle … with nine strings.  Oh, how he could make that violin sing!  Sad, joyous, mesmerizing.  Thank you, Lillebjorn.

***

Our encore visit favoured us with the songs of Paul Simon, offered by seven individuals and groups – two pieces for each.  Some of the songs I’d never heard of.  And the best performances came from a trio of musicians – keyboard/vocals, lead guitar and bass guitar.  I’m sitting here trying to remember their songs, and I can’t.  But it doesn’t matter.  The fellows were brilliant together.  I remember the smile on the face of the lead guitarist as he played a long lick … in a trance, it seemed.  One rollicking tune featured the pianist belting out the melody while tickling the ivories with his left hand and banging the keyboard lid against the vertical surface of the piano with his right.  So cool.

Then there was the trio of East Indian descent who gave us “The Sounds of Silence” – an ethereal female voice accompanied by a sitar.  Otherworldly.  Finally, the whole crew went up on stage for a rousing version of “Slip Slidin’ Away”.  We were in love.

***

Day three featured Joanna Chapman-Smith, a Toronto singer-songwriter who had lost her voice during an illness, and had it magically return months later, to our immense benefit.  Joanna was such an original … rich love songs, some unusual melodies, storytelling mixed in with the singing.  The place was packed in celebration of her aliveness and virtuosity.  I struggled with the long stories and with some of the dissonant melody lines but I marvelled at her humanity.  Such a glowing face.

The biggest revelation for me was during the break between sets.  I listened to the one hundred of us talk.  It was a symphony of voices that seemed to get louder as the minutes passed.  First, I resisted.  After all, I’m a nice little Buddhist guy that needs his large doses of silence.  But then I started smiling.  It was music.  It was we humans embracing our fellows.  It was sweet.

***

Sing me a melody, please
Make it last long inside me
Sing me a melody, please
Give me a good vibration

My Song

Thoughts from Jack Kornfield, in his book A Path With Heart:

There is a tribe in east Africa in which the art of true intimacy is fostered even before birth.  In this tribe, the birth date of a child is not counted from the day of its physical birth nor even the day of conception, as in other village cultures.  For this tribe, the birth date comes the first time the child is thought of in its mother’s mind.  Aware of her intention to conceive a child with a particular father, the mother then goes off to sit alone under a tree.  There she sits and listens until she can hear the song of the child that she hopes to conceive.  Once she has heard it, she returns to her village and teaches it to the father so that they can sing it together as they make love, inviting the child to join them.  After the child is conceived, she sings it to the baby in her womb.  Then she teaches it to the old women and midwives of the village, so that throughout the labor and at the miraculous moment of birth itself, the child is greeted with its song.  After the birth, all the villagers learn the song of their new member and sing it to the child when it falls or hurts itself.  It is sung in times of triumph, or in rituals and initiations.  This song becomes a part of the marriage ceremony when the child is grown, and at the end of life, his or her loved ones will gather around the deathbed and sing this song for the last time.

Truly lovely.  And I ask myself what song I would have my mother choose for me.  To see me through the length of my life.  I’d want it to be sung for me during the tough times, when I was stripped bare of my usual comforts, standing naked before the agony of the moment.  I’d want it to rock me gently, like floating in some amniotic fluid.  I’d want the words and music to be something I could come back to again and again.  Something like this:

Be Not Afraid

You shall cross the barren desert but you shall not die of thirst
You shall wander far in safety though you do not know the way
You shall speak your words to foreign men and they will understand
You shall see the face of God and live

Be not afraid
I go before you always
Come follow me
And I will give you rest

If you pass through raging waters in the sea you shall not drown
If you walk amid the burning flames you shall not be harmed
If you stand before the powers of hell and death is at your side
Know that I am with you through it all

Be not afraid
I go before you always
Come follow me
And I will give you rest

Blessed are your poor for the kingdom shall be theirs
Blessed are you who weep and mourn
For one day you shall laugh
And if wicked men insult and hate you all because of me
Blessed, blessed are you

Be not afraid
I go before you always
Come follow me
And I will give you rest

And who is the “I” that goes before me always?  Something interior rather than exterior, and yet something up, up and away.  A part of me that embraces fear and everything else as merely a passing show.  A storm coming in, raining hard, and then disappearing.

May I be sung to as I die.