My music allergy

“The problem is that the deeper you go into your own [music] writing, the harder it becomes to enter someone else’s. If pursued seriously, [music] writing demands a kind of obsessive concentration that came, at least for me, to preclude reading [listening].”

**The above is adapted from the New York Times Book Review “Bookends” section: “Is it harder to be transported by a book as you get older?” It’s by Benjamin Moser, one of the writers offering their perspective on the above topic. While the topic itself was only mildly interesting to me, those words sounded a responsive chord. 

It’s not about reading vs writing per se. But about listening to music vs writing it. While I was an avid listener in my youth, I also began writing music. As the years, and the songs, went by, I gradually developed an unexpected quirk: I found it almost impossible to simply listen to music for enjoyment, especially popular music in all its phases and forms though the years.  

Recently in an effort to get more fit I realized that fast music tends to rev up my cardio workouts. After a brief flirtation with Eminem (sparked by curiosity about that form for a project I’m working on), I fell back to Oldies. But in spite of the salutary effects of listening to music while I strained to raise my heart rate, I still found it more tolerable to listen to podcasts, especially long interviews.  (And my heart rate probably suffers)

Until Moser’s statement above, articulating the reason for my music phobia has been difficult. I’ve usually attributed it to guilt and shame that I hadn’t developed into a proper musician when young. There were seemingly good reasons at the time – family to support, relationships to maintain, available jobs that could be turned into careers, a long religious captivity and knowing the statistical odds against success. I still consider them valid reasons for drifting away from listening to music. But not my discomfort when listening.

Music is like a drug for me. I’m drawn to it like addicts to chemicals in their bloodstream. Background music is the worst. It feels like an assault. Distracts me, makes it hard to concentrate on people and tasks in front of me. I feel myself being drawn into a vortex where every detail – musical, lyrical, production – attempts to grab me by the brain and lead me away. The ensuing struggle to stay present tends to upset and confuse me until I wrest control. Sounds kind of psycho doesn’t it? But maybe not. Maybe I can be proud of it! Maybe it’s just an “occupational” hazard, a temperamental quirk that some creative people share.

For half of the time I lived in California I had the opportunity to work with a partner, Rick Martinez, to produce a few dozen of my earlier songs. We worked under the name of Ramona StGeorge (the names of our respective streets) and dragooned his musician friends into recording with us. Though I wasn’t always pleased with the way the vocals turned out, I’m grateful they’ve been preserved in some recorded form. And yet, even they stay outside my cone of musical silence.

The only musical exercise I get these days is banging on the piano or guitar while singing with my granddaughter, something I greatly enjoy. The songs are easy and my primitive playing abilities are adequate for us both to have a good time. If I ever finish writing the extended rap I’ve been working on for a while I may get back into music creation, although it may be just a simplistic building of “beats” behind a chattering vocalist. For the time being it's the likes of "Clementine" and podcasts that will substitute for music.

At my age, "Why a Moosical…?"

**I take great pleasure in and gratitude for two young people who are living with us for a few weeks. Grandson and his girlfriend are in their mid-twenties and have been luxuriating in the freedom to travel the world. Having spent the summer in Australia and New Zealand they are on their way back to Detroit, which seems to be a kind of staging ground for their next set of adventures. Because of scheduling problems they were not able to spend these  last few weeks in Hawaii as planned, and sought a mainland alternative. Quite a downgrade, from Hawaii to here, but the timing couldn't have been better. They arrived the week I went into the hospital. My Friend and Producer (more later) and I had planned to spend four or five days alone together here to work out some of the major issues about the Moosical (more later), while Wife traveled to NYC to help nanny the kid of a friend's daughter. Would have been a nice arrangement. But the day before she was to leave, Wife ordered me to the ER, whence began that series of scary adventures that have left me sitting quietly at home typing, while my body tries to recover from the ordeal (see previous post).

Friend/Producer arrived the day I was released from ICU and we spent a couple of days working in a limited fashion. That's when the nosebleed part of the saga began (see previous post.) F/P's wife arrived on schedule midweek and somehow we managed to get work done. Including downing a couple of glasses of heart-healthy red wine.

Since their departure, grandson and grandgirlfriend arrived to take up the guest room, and to supply what feels like 4-star Celebrity Rehab Spa service. This has taken some burden off of Wife, who has been quite stressed, but competent, throughout. They prepare mostly veggie cuisine, which in conjunction with the "heart healthy" low-sodium/fat/fluid/flavor diet the docs put me on, has been nutritionally adequate. (I'm resigned to being a non-foodie from now on.) They walk with me on my somewhat slower excursions, and talk with me about everything from video games to the details of the Moosical (still coming), and and even manage to spend some quality time with each other, it seems, enjoying our patio against the often salty backdrop of duffers golfing away their retirement years. Grandson has even recorded a few bits for the Moosical (story begins now).

www.themoosical.com

In 2009, my Friend/Producer, upon learning of my songwriting passions, urged me to write a musical based on the seemingly abstract premise of the "net neutrality" debate. I've put up a placeholder website that explains some of the issues and presents the songs I've written (18 so far). The subtitle is "In Defense of a Free and Open Internet."

After lying dormant for a few more years, the project was reopened when friend came for a visit in 2012. We wrote more songs and continued thinking about how to design the project. This is when my "Friend" added the role of "Producer" to our relationship. With his strong guidance I've been able to keep on track and the project has blossomed into a full-time job (my retail job functioning basically as hobby and social therapy.)

This post initially addressed the issue of "Why a Moosical" for someone who if lucky, will be 73 years of age this December. All the other people in my age group, and even younger people within the family, have graduated to being grand-things. Some even go the travel route, and some even play golf . I, on the other hand, between visits to the various tentacles of the medical establishment, claw my way to my studio to write, produce and edit these songs; maintain the website; discuss the project with F/P and graphic artist (from Scotland); and embark on creating an animated video of the program. Sometimes I am too tired to do very much, so I write things like this, which don't take much energy but do use up the time.

I don't easily slide into grand-thing roles. My kids and grandkids live thousands of miles away and their visits are few and far between, though most manage to stay in touch via the media. I have no social life. Most of my neighbors appear to be Republicans (at least they frequently fly their flags for no apparent reason). And most of the friends I had when I was in the good graces of the Church are distant and mostly silent. My part-time work life keeps me in touch with general, if upscale, humanity, and I enjoy most of my co-workers, half of whom are younger than grandson. If my body wouldn't keep failing me, I'd consider myself a happy person, doing what he loves with greater involvement than ever. This passion had to be kept in abeyance all those years I was trying to live the idealistic life of a devoted religionist, practitioner and teacher -- ascending the scale of the Mother Church hierarchy. Being a big fish in a small pond seemed sufficient, especially in light of the ideals of being a magical healer and inspiration to others. But I now see that it was the exact opposite of what I believed was my motivation. It was mostly for fame and "success." Unfortunately fame took the form of notoriety after the tragic and needless death of a friend's 11-year old boy who was placed under my deluded "care." And success came in the form of being booted out of the church headquarters for being on the wrong side of a political issue. Success, in that it landed me here within a few months and this phase of my life began.

It's the only life I feel I have left, and as of a few weeks ago, it seems shorter than I ever imagined.

So, again, why do I work so assiduously on this odd little "Moosical?" Mostly because it allows me to use the resources I already have (talent, tools, experience) and continually add to my store of knowledge and expertise by learning to master in some degree whatever new thing stands as an obstacle to progress on the project.

This is my notion of "living:" continual learning, acquisition of vision and expertise, production of something worth leaving behind. That's called "Legacy." Since I can't take it with me, it should be something worth leaving behind for other people to examine and use if and as they see fit. There's no "heaven," no afterlife, no more to my story. I know this is it, have known it for some time. But the swift kick in the chest of mortality has made me a possessed man. Sorry if I'm not a good grand-thing. Sorry if I'm not a good neighbor. Sorry if I've become less than what others might have expected of me. Sorry if I'm not the best husband and father one might wish for. I work on a crazy "Moosical" because no one else could or would. Because when I finish any part of it, I have the satisfaction of knowing that something now exists in the universe that wasn't there before.

Small potatoes to be sure. Others are known for their great compassion, patience, generosity and unselfishness. And these are worthy ideals to strive for, Wife being the supreme example among them. But I'm finally having to admit that my body is older now than it was ever designed to be and that I may be only one little mistake or twist of fate or unrealized technological improvement away from being dead and gone. No one will have me as tangibly as this silly little Moosical and dozens of other songs I've managed to introduce into the universe since leaving the thrall of religion.

Can violins be an answer to violence?

Truthdig reports on a wildly successful Venezuelan governmental program that makes free musical instruments and training available to all children and should serve as a model for the U.S. as we struggle to keep guns out of kids’ hands.

Recently, I read an article in the Los Angeles Times about an astounding music education program in Venezuela known as “El Sistema” (The System). El Sistema is a government-sponsored program that provides free instruments and lessons to any child who wants them. Since its founding in 1975, more than 250,000 youngsters have gone through the program. Currently, there are nearly 500,000 children receiving free training at more than 120 centers around the nation, and more than 200 youth orchestras are functioning.

It is quite an achievement. What makes it even more laudable and remarkable is that there are no barriers. Low-income and at-risk Venezuelan children and youths can participate as easily as those who come from well-to-do families. To be sure, there are community schools of the arts across the United States, but nothing quite like this. Certainly nothing sponsored by the government. We are too busy piling up debt and deficit by funding arms races and by invading other countries to pay attention to the arts.

But back to El Sistema. It was founded by Jose Antonio Abreu, a Venezuelan conductor, economics professor and member of Congress, who had a vision of not only encouraging the arts but also giving at-risk youths an alternative to crime, drugs and other antisocial activities. He envisioned making both a social and artistic investment. The amazing conductor Gustavo Dudamel is but one such graduate of El Sistema.

Cut to a second article in the L.A. Times, on Jan. 14, which describes a plan to “attack” the gangs of Los Angeles through more incarceration and sending more police strike forces to crime hot spots. All well and good and perhaps necessary, but in the long run the Venezuelan approach of providing better societal alternatives to crime is far superior to programs that attack already existing failures. An ounce of societal prevention is far better than pounds of attempts to cure its ills.

Time and time again we read of individuals whose lives—in poverty, in prison, in desperate straits—were redeemed, regenerated and resurrected by experiences in the arts. The Venezuelan example is but one. Poetry in the prisons, juvenile camp drama programs (see my last blog) and skid row writing programs are but a few. Yet, we continue to undervalue the power of the arts, and our government provides paltry support. Billions for arms, pennies for the arts. Sadly, we reap what we sow, and we don’t harvest what we don’t plant. More violins in the hands of inner-city youths would inevitably lead to fewer guns. How can we get this message across to our citizens and our legislators?