Making a recording

I'm making a recording next week.

Recordings tend to sound perfect. Does that mean the recording sessions were perfect? If a performer sounds a certain way on a recording, does that mean s/he sounded that way in the raw footage? Or can the performer just play and let the editor fix anything that's not right?

Well, of course we know it's the latter. But who decides what's "right?" In a few cases, I have heard a thrillingly hair-raising recording and then heard the performer live and was deeply disappointed. And in very few cases, I have heard live performances that sounded like recording quality.

Athletes get one shot to win the race or the game. Assassins get one shot (literally). Performers get one shot on stage for each gig. Why, then, don't recording artists do it in one take? I suppose because of the "replay factor" -- if it isn't right, it will still get played over and over by hundreds of listeners. But some people would argue that you lose a little more "edge" in your performance with every additional take. One of my teachers was convinced of this, and so he made his first recording in single takes. For subsequent recordings, he decided that multiple takes were OK, but he wasn't going to allow piecing together of tiny bits, so he would re-record entire sections or entire movements, just to fix one note or one errant phrase. That is a high work ethic, indeed, and the procedures for steeling yourself in preparation for those recording sessions are mind-boggling. Maybe that's why I haven't recorded much.

So why do people record? If they don't sound that way on stage, then why bother? If they have plenty of publicity already, why bother? Well, perhaps some people want to promote themselves. Some want to promote a new instrument. Some want to promote the builder or the institution or raise charity funds. Some just have a lot of music in their fingers, and they want to get it recorded. Some want to celebrate the complete works of X. Some just have something to say, and they say it well on recordings.

Why am I recording? In this case, to celebrate a great city of great organs, and to say something I've been saying on stage with these pieces. But I am determined to sound as good in those sessions as I possibly can, so that when I play live for any recording listeners, I will sound the same. This is the sonic version of keeping one's publicity photo updated -- you want to look like your photo so people can identify you when they pick you up at the airport!

I have found that the more the recording sessions look like a recital, the better I play. If I can play a group of pieces before stopping, I play better. I am more "on" that way, like I am on stage. I once made a full recording in two takes. (Then I decided not to use any of it. We are usually our own worst critics that way. And I am the worst.)

Steps to preparing for a recording:

1. Practice every note, every movement, every glance at the score, every piston.

2. Do all the other legwork, and good luck with it all: venue management, graphics, scheduling, paying for it, etc.

3. The best way to prepare for recording sessions is to record yourself, plain and simple. Listen back, mark problems, fix things, re-record. You'll save a lot of time, and the sessions themselves won't be so foreign or intimidating.

There probably won't be a blog post next week. If you're wondering why, see the first line of this one.

Learning it the hard way

I am a quick study. Once it's learned, it's learned. And it won't be un-learned unless a brick comes in contact with my head in the process. I have learned countless social and emotional lessons the hard way. But when it comes to teaching, I'm happy to report that the number of lessons learned the hard way is ONE. Or so I can remember on this rainy Monday morning:

I once heard a young high school whippersnapper play a very nice public recital. Afterwards, I approached him and told him to let me know if he ever needed anything. You know, the benign sort of stuff that old people say to young people all the time. Well, several days later, he was in touch, asking for organ lessons. I was friends with and had the highest respect for his teacher, and so I told the student that he needed to discuss this with the teacher. LESSON LEARNED: he should discuss this with the teacher before we speak ANY FURTHER.

Well, he did speak with the teacher, but not that day, and I was slow to contact the teacher myself, not knowing what to expect as I made my first journey down that particular path as a teacher. LESSON LEARNED: contact the teacher IMMEDIATELY after student contacts you, no matter what. By the time the teacher and I talked, the teacher felt conspired against and was beyond livid, to the point of threatening suit. I had never seen such anger coming out of such a mild-mannered person before or since. It was profound.

I believe all this was further complicated by something I had said in passing a few days before but meant nothing by, except to fill some awkward silence: "He needs pedal work." LESSON LEARNED: DON'T SAY THAT. But in my defense, I had just played a recital for a bunch of discriminating organists, and my mind was nowhere to be found in the vicinity of my mouth.

That rift is probably permanent. At least it seems so after many years and two letters of apology.

Well, the long story short is that I am still sorry, dear Teacher. I am sorry for my comments and for not knowing what to do. Although I learned this lesson and learned it well, I am sorry that it was learned at the expense of your friendship and trust.

This has remained with me and troubled me for years. (Some would diagnose this as being a Pisces.) But a blog might be a good way to get this off my chest, even though the other party will surely not read it. If it helps another Reader avoid a similar lesson in Hard Knocks, then it was worth it. If it helps me get past the stonewalling, then I'll take it!

Weddings! Part 3: No charge

I don’t charge for wedding rehearsals, simply because I will not be there. Reasons, in no particular order:

My role at a wedding rehearsal is not in line with my role in the professional world, and I have never reconciled those two roles. Chalk it up to not enjoying playing when no one is listening. Going to a wedding rehearsal opens me up to unnecessary scrutiny. In the name of it’s-their-wedding-they-should-have-it-the-way-they-want-it, I have been critiqued and asked to play faster, slower, more detached, softer, and louder. I may be a world-class organist, but not at a wedding rehearsal. At a wedding rehearsal, I’m a vendor with a customizable product. I am not Dr. Bell; I’m not even Joby. I’m usually “the organist,” and in one case, I was addressed by the visiting clergy as Mr. Organ Player, while he pantomimed air-typing.

Wedding rehearsals are logistical, not musical. They exist to give the uninitiated a chance to find their way.

Wedding cues are visual, not aural. It is much more efficient for the musicians to watch what’s going on and provide the correct music than it is for a wedding coordinator in a noisy narthex to listen for musical cues.

Mothers and grandmothers do not need to rehearse walking down an aisle and taking a seat. I’ll say that again: Mothers and grandmothers do not need to rehearse walking down an aisle and taking a seat.

No one needs to rehearse “walking with the music.” That is known as marching, and it has no place in a wedding. If the power goes out and takes the organ with it, the walking can continue, and the place of arrival will not move.

At the rehearsal, while the wedding coordinator is trying to instruct the wedding party, usually from the other end of the room, music on top of that just adds to the confusion.

No one walks on Saturday the same way they did on Friday. So why bother rehearsing with music?

In addition to my day job, I play Sunday mornings. A wedding gets an additional chunk of my Saturday. It’s not getting my Friday evening, too. Enough already.

And finally, I don’t need to rehearse; I’ve done this before.

Glad that’s off my chest.

My teachers

Of all the topics I could write about, it wasn't until a few days ago that the idea of writing a few words about my keyboard teachers came to mind. Where, O Where would we be without our one-to-one teachers?! I have had eight:

Mrs. Josephine "Jo" Bunch (now Bunch-Sande), Statesville, N.C.: a fine, upstanding, proper Southern lady. She was reluctant to take an 8-year old (me). I thought she was the coolest ever. She had lots of students, lots of music, and lots of respect. Those were the days. She had three pianos in her converted garage. Two of them had stiff actions for little hands, and the other was a square Steinway that was not to be touched. Later on, she added a 9-foot Knabe to all that. Her class recitals were legendary. And long.

Marian Hahn, North Carolina School of the Arts: a picture of patience with a high schooler like me, and a picture of pianistic elegance seldom matched. I talked about her all the time, to the point that my mother thought (mistakenly!) we were having an affair. (I was FIFTEEN.)

Robert McDonald, North Carolina School of the Arts: while my keyboard fingers got their training with Mrs. Bunch and Ms. Hahn, my musical ears woke up with Mr. McDonald. Studying with this guy cannot be described; it can only be experienced. And then years later, all you can do is send him a sheepish, nearly speechless letter, thanking him for his patience and for his extraordinary teaching, not to mention his playing. One of the two most intense musicians I have ever known.

John S. Mueller, North Carolina School of the Arts: Dr. Mueller gets the short straw in this list. I studied with him for only a semester. But it was my first organ lesson ever. Self-teaching was no longer an option.

H. Max Smith, Appalachian State University: Daddy Max, Uncle Max, etc. A father-figure to those who needed one, a safe haven to those going through identity crises, a safe haven to those undergoing wars with parents.  A tireless champion for the students, ALL students. And a great teacher. Thanks to Max, I have the job I now have. It was he who suggested "they" call me to fill in at Appalachian for a year. That was 2004; the rest is history.

Rodney Reynerson, Appalachian State University: elegant, poetic, knowledgeable, and overworked, this man was and is a quiet mainstay of teaching at Appalachian. And he likes jokes.

Allen Kindt, Appalachian State University: a powerhouse of a pianist and teacher. A pupil of Sandor. And a kind, huge-hearted bear of a man. May he rest in peace.

Clyde Holloway, Rice University: the other most intense musician I've ever known. What can I say? Everything I now do as a musician is a direct result of his legendary teaching: everything from practice habits to teaching style to self-promotion. If I have my job because of Max Smith, I know how to do the job thanks to Clyde Holloway.

My torch burns for all these. They were a perfect storm, in the perfect order, at just the right time. How much more fortunate can a kid be?

Copping out

This blog is a bit over one year old. While I have plenty of random thoughts to flesh out into posts, I am facing blogger's block this week! But I am swimming in News, which may explain the block. Help yourself there this week:

Come, labor on

And I'll hope to see you back here next week, probably with some interesting commentary on the evils of wedding rehearsals.

Weddings! Part 2: Prelude music

Memo to:
The Wedding Terrier
The Associate Pastor
The Pastor
The Director of Music
The Chair of the Worship Committee
My favorite vocalist and trumpeter

From:
Joby Bell, the Exhausted One

Lately, the organ’s role as a service instrument has become difficult to maintain at weddings. I feel it is time to reduce the organ’s (and/or piano’s) “social” function and tighten up its liturgical/worship role for weddings.

Indoor traffic during 30-minute wedding preludes has increased in quantity and noise level. At any given wedding, there is usually a fair amount of noise generated by chatty acolytes, clergy conversations, soloist/reader traffic, media traffic/conversation, and general congregational nervous excitement. It has become difficult to establish and maintain a worship atmosphere, let alone be able to concentrate. [Hint to the clergy: stop bringing guest clergy out at the last minute to talk through logistics while the prelude is underway.]

I believe we are all in agreement that the organ’s first “appearance” at a wedding or any other service of worship should signal the beginning of that service, but I have found it is impossible for guests to maintain such a frame of mind for very long, let alone 30 minutes, in the midst of such a social event. Since many of the participants mentioned above are rarely ready by the time the music has begun, it now seems more effective to me to allow a reasonable time of socializing and last-minute setup, then signal the commencement of the service with the organ’s first notes. Therefore, I have made the decision to reduce wedding prelude time from thirty minutes to ten. It is my hope that by ten minutes prior to the ceremony start time, the room will be prepared and the service may commence. I feel that a worshipful attitude will then be unmistakable to most people. When taken in the context of continuing efforts to promote a certain high level of worship IQ among all who enter our doors, I feel that this is a good decision and will not detract from the ceremony’s importance as a worship service first and a social event second. [Hint to all: Seating of guests to music is a social convention, not a liturgical one. I play for services of worship, not cocktail parties.]

Exception: I will be willing to play for up to twenty minutes, if the couple has made specific requests and if I determine that the assembled congregation and participants would not compromise the organ’s worship role with excessive noise or distraction. This exception should never be construed as a license to solicit such requests from couples. Those couples to whom music is especially meaningful will know who they are and will already be organized accordingly with their requests. [Hint to the Wedding Terrier: do NOT mention this exception to couples. I’ll handle it myself, based on my visit with them.]

If there are questions, see my tirade on playing when no one is listening.

My debut

Technicalities abound when determining what my “debut” was. Was it the first time I played the piano in church at age 11? Was it the first time I played the organ in church at age 14? Was it the first recital I played before going off to boarding school at age 15? Was it the first recital I played in college? Was it the first non-degree recital I played while enrolled in grad school? Was it the first master’s recital I played? Was it the first recital I played after grad school?

I tend to define my debut as the first recital I played away from home turf at the invitation of a complete stranger. In that case, it was a recital played on November 4, 1996, at the Rivermont Presbyterian Church in Lynchburg, VA, at the invitation of David Charles Campbell, then director of music. But even that carries a bit of a technicality, because David Charles had heard me play earlier that year for a traveling youth choir and wanted more. And so the truly completely stranger-invited recital was April 13, 1997, at St. George’s Episcopal Church in Port Arthur, Tex.

But there were other debuts. My “European debut” was little more than a performance as part of a group tour. But an audience of tourists developed downstairs during the performance. That was a highlight of my career. Or perhaps my European debut was as Mass organist at Saint-Sulpice during the summer of 2003. Then there could be a mini-debut chalked up for each large region of the country in which I have performed. And we could assign even mini-er debuts to individual states or major cities.

But who's counting? This is all in good fun. I’m not gearing up to make some sort of pithy statement with all this. I’m merely reflecting on all the fun I have had and how I wish to do nothing else. And I’m only 43, so I hope I have at least 30 years of stage enjoyment left.

Every recital is an event for me, and I plan each of them carefully, paying attention to the event, the targeted audience, the instrument at hand, the time of year, and a balance between exciting and soothing programming. And I’m in the business of helping others make their debut, however they choose to define that. So let’s have some more fun now!

Memorization, Part 2: Hoping vs. Having a Plan

The topic of memorization of organ music comes around every few years. And it’s back now. Those who memorize swear by it. Those who don’t memorize preach its evil qualities. I have just read the latest fire & brimstone in an organist magazine. That writer apparently had a VERY abusive past with memorizing.

He says in reference to an organ audition that required partial memorization: “I was unaccustomed to memorizing, and I worked very hard at it.” He says about a later recital memorization requirement: “I had no idea how I would manage to cope with that requirement. Either I would work very hard at it and hope that it went well…or I would hope for some sort of miracle.”

He also says, “…it would be hypocritical of me to believe that we teachers ought to expect – let alone force – our students to memorize.”

He goes on to say plenty other things.

Well, my poor abused friend, the scenarios you describe are indeed barbaric, nerve-wracking, and unnecessary. They are also indicative of a lapse of good teaching. Your comments on having no idea how you’d survive give away the fact that your teacher/s must have given you absolutely no guidance on memorizing, other than probably to say, “Memorize this.” That is indeed barbaric and unhelpful. For that kind of teaching, you could have stayed home and saved the tuition.

I’ve said before that there is a big difference between being told to memorize and being taught how. There are many difficult tasks in life that we are taught and allowed to practice to perfection. And I dare say that there are many athletes, lawyers, scientists, and doctors who are taught and THEN expected to do things that are far more difficult than memorizing a few notes and muscle movements to play them. So, organ music memorizers are not at full liberty to complain about our lot in life!

I know of only one teacher in higher education who taught memorizing as a discrete, step-by-step process. Fortunately, I studied with him. His processes served me well and still do. And I teach them, too. When I am asked, “Do you make your students memorize?” my answer is, “Yes, right after I teach them HOW.” I should add that practicing what I preach is a great seducer – my students witness my playing a recital from memory every semester; and they are practically begging to learn how to do that.

Memorizing eliminates at least 90% of unnecessary motions. When you have only your body to look at, you quickly learn the virtue of cleaning up your act, literally. Putting a free hand in your lap is no longer useful. “Skating” back and forth on the pedals is no longer useful (and was never pretty to watch in the first place). Figuring out elegant ways to punch pistons without sacrificing notes and rhythms can only help, and it will remove much of the element of panic from the sound. One of the most dramatic proofs that memorization serves the music shows up when I sit down to memorize a piece I had been playing with score for years. Immediately, I notice note patterns I had never noticed before. And I discover far more serviceable fingerings/pedalings. Discovery of the composer’s finer details is life-changing, and thanks to the discrete training I had in it, it is not scary. And it is not rocket science. It is merely Having A Plan.

Yes, memorizing is time-consuming. But over the long haul, a memorized piece will “come back” to you much more quickly, and it will come back at a higher quality level than a non-memorized piece. Yes, it does slow you down for amassing repertoire, but is repertoire haphazardly learned and constantly stabbed at really worth listening to? The most useful product of memorizing is that the music sounds better. When you eliminate unnecessary motion, fix the sloppy playing, and demonstrate a deeper understanding of every note, then the music just sounds better. And since it’s music, I’ll take Sounding Better any day over Playing More Pieces.

Memorization is your friend, and I will allow that it is not for everyone. But when employed, it must be taught, not merely commanded. You will be authorized to say it’s useless and that you hate it only after you have thoroughly learned how to do it with a Plan and not just a Hope.

Unfortunately, I can’t offer you a Plan in a blog; you’d need to come have some lessons.

In pursuit of perfection

A former boss of mine, Richard Forrest Woods, said that he heard a perfect performance of the Fauré Requiem in his head, but of course, he would never be able to pull it off with a choir. There would always be a blemish somewhere. I suppose that’s true for a lot of people and a lot of pieces.

But how expensive is a blemish, really? And how much should we apologize for hearing a perfect rendition in our head? Who defines “perfect?” And who else cares?

For a soloist, a great way to approach perfection, as defined by the soloist, is to record yourself frequently and listen back. No other feedback is more accurate than hearing a machine reproduce what you just did. Scary, but verrrrry productive, and not all that time-consuming.

I have been known to perform the slow movement of something with score so that I could practice the harder stuff from memory. Of course, much of that is borne from not having enough time to finish everything. But so it goes. I do remember two “perfect” performances of mine. I’d like to have more, but I’m willing to let “perfect” be more elusive while I simply pursue “excellence.” Run the race, the Apostle Paul always used to say.



Quantifying our art

School is about to start. That means syllabus revision, which isn’t easy. Each of my courses comes around only once every two years, and so I re-discover, re-assess, and re-vamp the subject matter each cycle. While I’m tweaking course content this time around, I’m also revising syllabi to reflect the latest university policies and academic trends and buzzphrases.

Hiding behind the syllabus and the exams and the juries is an increasing amount of number-crunching designed to measure student progress and, therefore, program success. In the arts, such quantification is neither easy nor readily embraced by my colleagues and former teachers. How do you assign a number to a student’s development in the fine art of communicating without words?

We’ve been teaching for years. But we have reached a point in “the system,” whatever that is, where we now must define what we teach, how we teach it, how we measure it, and how we will improve it if the measurements don’t measure up. Most of it boils down to the biggest buzzword I have seen hit academia: “Assessment.” Just this past semester, I had to show on paper how my applied music instruction for graduate students is actually more advanced than that of the undergraduate.

The age of platitudes is over. It is no longer sufficient to say, “Music is a way of expressing yourself, and I’m here to encourage that.” That is no longer considered informative. Other examples of statements that have become commonplace yet uninformative:

“Pay more attention to phrasing.”
“Have this memorized by next week.”
“Music is a tool we use to help us worship God.”
“I want to be part of the next step forward here.”
“Stop that crying, or I’ll give you something to cry about.”
“The budget should be balanced, the treasury should be refilled, the public debt should be reduced, and the arrogance of public officials should be controlled.” [Former U.S. presidential candidate Ross Perot.]

Search committees and accreditation agencies now want to know how you’re going to do something, what tools you will use to do it, what the student or choir will actually learn in the process, and how you’re going to Assess the success of it all. But then there is another level to work through, because additional platitudes had been employed up until now to answer those questions:

How will you do or teach something? “I’ll give them a lesson each week.” Or, “We will have rehearsal every Wednesday night.” No longer good enough. Exactly what will you do in these wonderful lessons or rehearsals?

What will they learn? “They will learn how to play the organ well.” Well, how do you know? And how will you know that it worked, when the time comes? And who defines 'well?'

How will you Assess their progress? “Well, they’re going to play a jury each semester to determine if they learned anything.” But how will you determine that consistently from semester to semester? And how will you display that data so that the non-musical accreditation entity understands it and appreciates its value?

The profession has changed. Wake up and smell the coffee. But know that the coffee doesn’t smell that bad, after all. We can handle this.