The Fredösphere

That scraping sound you hear is my lazy rear end dragging itself to the keyboard to feed sweet wordlets to the loyal fans of Der Pfredöspher. (Hi, Tante Gertie!) Today, I bring a handful of webcandy; I hope soon to offer something more substantial.

Item One. Blogger Allen H. Simon describes a nifty programming idea: a concert of nothing but misattributed works. (I.e., Pseudo-Buxtehude, etc.) Then he goes and steps in it by attacking the Cult of the Composer. Yes, comments are open, and yes, the powdered wigs are flying. I'm sympathetic to the urge to demystify. Ultimately, composers are at the mercy of performers (especially dead composers!) and a stupid but well-researched performance cannot come close to an intelligently ideosyncratic one, in my opinion. Note the bad faith, or simple failure to understand the argument, of the purists who comment, and yet, I understand their fear as well. If only there were a way to prevent HIP (Historically Ignorant Performance) while letting the smart people have free reign. Perhaps a license of some kind could be issued. Shoot, if it were to be had from the Michigan Secretary of State's office, the long wait itself would weed out the lazy. Another problem: Solved! By the Fredösphere!

Item Two. I loved this quote found by Eve Tushnet:

Uyeda says that his approach to cocktail-making is grounded in the Japanese tea ceremony. It is an "adoration of the beautiful among the sordid facts of everyday existence. It inculcates purity and harmony, the mystery of mutual charity, the romanticism of the social order."
--"Tokyo, Cocktail Capital of the World," Hugh Garvey, in Best Food Writing 2009

Those words "adoration of the beautiful among the sordid facts of everyday existence" ripped me out of, well, the sordid facts of my everyday existence, and wonderfully expresses exactly why I make art. Like the setting of the words of the Christmas angels, "Fear not! For behold. . . ." Or for that matter, the fantasy story about neurotic chiropractors that I wrote last week. (No; really.)

Item Three. Ten thousand thanks to David Price, my new best friend that I don't know. He gave me a very kindly review of my chamber jazz space opera They're Made Out of Meat, available as an electronic download for 89 lousy cents at Amazon. (Go buy the thing! Now! What are you waiting for?) He said my opera is "[p]layed absolutely straight by The Fredosphere, which is what makes it so great. The best $0.89 I spent all day." No notice has given me quite such a thrill, since so far as I know David is utterly unconnected to me (other than that whole "All Men are Brothers" thing everyone's talking about). Even Alex Ross linking to me, back in the pioneer days, although far more flattering, seems less shocking, since we are brothers of the blog, after all.

Labels: Creativity, Culture, Performance, They're Made Out Of Meat

We had a blast singing that Menotti choral ballet I told you about and the performance went well.  Oh, yes, there was one botched bass entrance, but the audience clearly enjoyed themselves and laughed at all the jokes, proof that they were, one, paying attention, and two, understanding our diction.

I admire this work hugely.  The story telling and dancing ought to make it accessible to almost anyone (yet tragically it is rarely performed).  I do have a few quibbles with it; I think a few places are gratuitously difficult to sing because of changing meters; I find the story a bit too melodramatic, with its misunderstood artist on his deathbed surrounded by bourgeois blockheads.  and musically, I think it suffers in places from weak baselines.

But what is a strong bass line, really?  What characteristics make a bass line stronger or weaker?  I have ideas, but I want to hear what others think.  Please, please, leave a comment.

Labels: Choral, MusicTheory, Performance