Music and Medicine

Performing can be taxing on the nerves, even if one is part of a huge group on a stage. As I wrote in a much earlier blog, the use of beta blockers is very common among performers, as is anti-anxiety drugs. Many still stick to the old standby, alcohol, which can do the trick to many and remove anxiety and fears. It, however, has the unfortunate tattle tale odor attached to it. Ivan Galamian, of Juilliard and Curtis fame, fought the boredom of having far too many students by starting with vodka early in the morning. Of alcoholic drinks, that smells the least in one's breath. "Dopamine" is another drug that one thinks would be used by many musicians, conductors, critics and audience members alike.

Boredom is the other aspect that afflicts orchestra musicians. I had a wonderful longtime stand partner in 1980s and 90s, Walter Schwede, now a professor at Western Washington University in Bellingham. We tried to cope with the monotonous and at the same time often unpleasant work environment by being creative. We would come up with silly comments and other markings to write in our parts, in multiple languages. Computers were still relatively new, but I always had the latest technology available. Windows still had plenty of problems and would crash all the time. I had a different operating system, GEOS, in one computer and its GeoWorks, starting in 1990. It offered a surprisingly stable environment with advanced graphic and words processing capabilities, with good layout control. To my stand partner's delight, I scanned the title page of Elgar's rather awful "The Dream of Gerontius" and, using the same font type and size, changed it to "The Scream of Geraldius". The baton wielder looked at it in a state of shock, not knowing what to do or say, and even tried an eraser to no avail. We laughed at our successful prank and I peeled off the printout which had been attached with removable glue.

My most creative work came with labels for medicine containers, some the kind used for prescriptions, some others for pill boxes. Of course, some were named appropriately, but we got laughs with "Russium hydrochloride", "Egozac" and "Moozine". They were all inspired by personalities of our colleagues, and all came with detailed instructions relating to conditions they were intended to treat, with proper dosages. I don't remember what we put inside; the "pills" might have been Altoids or Tic-Tacs. It felt good to be able to offer a "Moozine" when a particularly offending sound of that nature was heard. Mr. Schwede still has a few of these creations; mine have been lost or look worn after all the years as the picture indicates.

Those were the good old days. My stand partner got smart and left the orchestral scene for teaching. I should have been equally clever and done the same much sooner. His parting advice to me was a warning: "Watch out for certain people. They have their eyes on your chair and will stop at nothing to get there." Well, we all learn from mistakes, and at least now I'm happy working with wonderful youngsters and also equally nice grown-ups. People search for satisfaction and happiness in all the wrong places: often it can be found right under their noses.

A couple nights ago I had a strange but pleasant dream. I was watching happy orchestra musicians with smiles on their faces. And what was the reason for this? They had just been given no less than four young and enthusiastic music directors, all looking similar to and conducting with the inspiration of a Gustavo Dudamel. Look at this amazing video and you'll understand how to excite an audience and musicians, the latter still being youngsters. Even my heart rate goes up watching it. Music can be fun and smiles, after all. What a difference!

Illustration by Talvi 1990

Musical Coups

When the Metropolitan Opera announced their plans of broadcasting some of their best productions live, to be seen in a number of movie theaters around the country, most people in the business were shaking their heads and saying the concept would never fly. How wrong they were! The demand was so high from the beginning that in addition to the live event, a second showing was scheduled a few days later. This coming season’s high definition productions are up to eight from this year’s six, and the number of theaters has increased to 700 worldwide, 300 of which are in the United States. How exciting to the artist involved to be performing for an audience of 100,000! If I were an opera fan I would definitely opt to go to a comfortable movie theater with a first-class sound system, where I could actually see the singers without binoculars and wouldn’t have to crank up my hearing aid (if I needed one). Why settle for a Pocatello production, just because “we can perform opera, too”. Instead of a local pick-up orchestra one can listen to some of the finest players in the country, and of course the singers are of the caliber Pocatello could never attract or afford. As a bonus, one probably could take his popcorn, other snacks and drinks along. The only people complaining would be society’s ‘sour cream’ who couldn’t come and flaunt their riches as in a movie theater setup nobody would notice or care.

Naturally, premier opera houses, such as the Royal Opera House (Covent Garden) in London, have taken notice of this fabulous idea and success story, and they plan to show their offerings the same way. The world is large and there probably are more than the hundred thousand opera fans. This venue thus will offer an opportunity for comparison of many of the world’s best companies, something that previously would have meant expensive and time consuming trips to many countries. Technology is cheap these days, so nothing will prevent Pocatello from setting up similar hi-def simulcasts. Of course, then it will be up to the listeners and viewers to decide which one they prefer, Placido Domingo and the Met, or Ernesto Flamingo and the Pocatello Civic.

A different kind of a coup took place recently in Los Angeles. The Philharmonic’s board and management obviously didn’t consult first with the White House when they hired today’s hottest and most exciting young conductor Gustavo Dudamel as their new Music Director, starting in that role in two years. Our leaders would not have supported appointing a Venezuelan to such a high profile position. Other orchestras in search of new leadership must be kicking themselves for not having the courage to act first. Then the New York Philharmonic announced their surprise selection for their Music Director, a ‘home grown’ conductor, 40-year-old Alan Gilbert. Based on everything I have heard, Mr. Gilbert is a first rate musician and will serve the orchestra well. However, he hardly has the kind of charisma Mr. Dudamel and his predecessor Esa-Pekka Salonen possess. But it has been a long time since the N.Y. Phil has had such a person at its helm: one probably has to go back to Leonard Bernstein. Perhaps there is so much happening in that city that excitement is reserved for visiting orchestras and artists. The resident orchestra represents something that is true and tested, a safe place to go hear a favorite piece of music. One argument which the selection of Mr. Gilbert proves wrong is the often heard one (at least in this corner of the country) that the orchestra would never give a conducting opportunity to one of their own. I guess it all depends on the artistic quality and musicianship of an individual.

The Big Apple also seems to continue its love affair with the ‘new’ Mostly Mozart Festival and its Music Director, the Frenchman Louis Langrée. For a festival that was about to die under previous leadership, this second life is nothing short of astounding. A person with supposedly terminal cancer, who all of a sudden is declared disease-free, must feel like the musicians involved in Mostly Mozart. The festival ought to perhaps change its name to “Anything But Mozart”, as the repertoire performed these days is very varied, including modern pieces by such gifted composers as Osvaldo Golijov.

Now, how about combining the two topics I just wrote about. Wouldn’t it be grand if we could go the nearest Cineplex to see and hear concerts by the world’s best orchestras and soloists? Since these all would be live performances, it would be easy to compare the different styles and come up with one’s favorite ensembles, instrumentalists and conductors. The Pocatello Phil may claim to be as good as the one in Vienna or Berlin, but at least give the music lovers the option to decide. And how about a first-rate recital where you can actually see the artist and his/her accompanist and hear the most delicate details of their interpretation? Even I would leave the house and go, as much as I dislike concerts.

Technology is there for us to use and enjoy. It gives new meaning to “If the mountain will not come to Mohammed, Mohammed will go to the mountain”, often interpreted as “If one cannot get one's own way, one must adjust to the inevitable.”

Babel

One of the greatest joys of teaching is getting to know many young people and their families, all from different ethnic backgrounds and cultures. In today’s America, white ‘Caucasian’ people are a minority, just as are married people. I consider interacting with all these ‘foreigners’ the greatest blessing our country has to offer, it being a melting pot of cultures. I feel honored to learn about different customs and traditions. Naturally, people tend to be a bit careful at first, not knowing what to expect. Soon they realize, however, that I have an open mind and heart, and allow me to have a closer look at their way of life. This country’s history is so young, and even the descendants of the Pilgrims cannot compete with a civilization ten times older.

Our past is not a pretty story regarding the way the white man has treated anyone different from him. We brought in Africans to serve as slaves and Chinese to build our railroads. The former didn’t attain equal rights until a few decades ago, and are still regarded as a lower form of the human race by skinheads and their kind. The second group was forbidden by law from becoming citizens or owning property. Interracial marriage was against the law until post-WWII era, although children of mixed ethnicity existed since the first African women came here. A slave was her master’s property and could never say ‘no’. Even among the ‘white race’ there were different categories, with Jews, Italians and the Irish finding it impossible to climb higher in social hierarchy.

Today this all is different, or it is at least supposed to be. The Southerners fought hard to keep their way of life through the 1960s; Lady Bird Johnson met with often hostile mobs of people when she tried to gain support to her husband’s policies. It is not uncommon even today to find two towns next to each other, one white, and the other black. We were eager to condemn apartheid in South Africa, yet turned a blind eye to our own almost similar situation. Twenty-five years ago I was shocked to see two groups of different skin color waiting for buses in downtown Nashville, one on a street running East-West, the other North-South. In the same city I was in a department store when I saw an elderly African-American man shoplift an item. Our eyes met. The look of despair made me feel sorry for him. He clearly expected me to alert the security, but I just waved for him to leave the store with his inexpensive stolen item. He smiled, even if awkwardly, and I could read ‘thank you’ on his lips.

A couple days ago I was reading a news story on America Online about road rage on a narrow highway in California. Numerous victims had died on this stretch, not to mention all the serious injuries, all a result of rage. The road was being widened but some drivers were getting crazier than ever, shooting the road crew members with BB guns and sideswiping them with their vehicles. The police and the mayor were forced to close the road until the construction was finished, which caused it to become a news story. Something prompted me to start reading comments on the blog the site provided. I was shocked not only by the truly primitive writing, but especially the outright hostile and ugly racist content of many entries. Most of it had nothing to do with the situation and the story itself, but these anonymous writers used the opportunity to vent their deep-rooted hatred for anyone different: Latino, Japanese, African-American, Indian, you name it. I guess the right for free speech protects this cowardly group of ‘humans’, but to me this was a blatant example of hate speech. The laws, in my opinion, should be changed and the identities of these racists should be exposed. Throw this lowlife in jail and free the drug addicts to make space. With treatment most of the latter could become productive members of society, unlike these primitive, lizard-like members of homo horribilis. We share a lot of the same DNA with older life forms from worms to reptiles. It is among the lizards where a mutation with a different color gets quickly killed and eaten up by others, often by the mother.

Is the same primitive reaction by the brain stem behind such hateful emotions? I think much of it has to do with fear of anything different, be it skin color, clothing or language, or perhaps a superior skill. As the percentage of ‘whites’, the former ruling class, shrinks, many people in that group become frightened and react with hostility. As a society we should do better with understanding and accepting each other. This city of mine, Seattle, is probably better integrated than just about any American town. But driving just less than three hours north to Vancouver, British Columbia, presents a society a light year ahead of us. If the Canadians are able to do it, is there any valid reason why we cannot? Seeing four friends, all from different backgrounds, dining together and genuinely enjoying each others’ company is inspiring and gives hope for a better tomorrow. Let us hope that our children are not burdened by the same baggage most of us have grown up with.

And to my students and friends, Europeans included, thank you for making my life so much richer.

07. 07. 07

Superstition is alive and well. A record number of weddings have been taking place worldwide, wherever our Western calendar is observed. Seven is considered a magic and blessed number by many in various cultures. If only a key to a successful marriage were that simple! The date didn’t prove to be a blessing to Iraqis who lost another 150 as victims of a car bomb. What a terrible bloodbath we managed to start in the area that once was the birthplace of civilization. An Iraqi doctor in the U.K. tried his best to show his gratitude for the mayhem with a few colleagues of his, but with very limited success. One must hope that he and his pals did a better job while practicing medicine. What are we to expect next, perhaps certain orchestra musicians and conductors blowing each other up? That might not be counted as a terrorist act, some would argue.

I’m celebrating two personal anniversaries. The first one is not a happy one, marking a year when I suddenly lost sensation in my feet. By now I’ve become used to the numbness and the pain that is there with every step, and I am able to walk the three-mile loop in my favorite location in Seattle, Discovery Park. All it takes is refusing to pay attention to the burning sensation, and instead letting my soul be filled by the magnificent views and almost magical trees surrounding the paths in the forest. Observing nature’s wonderful creatures, from all varieties of birds (I have seen both pheasants and bald eagles there) to the busy mountain beavers, certainly helps to forget.

This date also marks three decades since I emigrated here from Europe. I had spent time here as a student and met my first wife in my late teens in the Heifetz Masterclass. We had lived in both Finland and Sweden. She had promised to her dying father to return to Los Angeles, and there was little I could do other than accept it. We had two little girls, aged seven and three (more magic numbers!) and this was supposed to be for their best as well. I knew from the beginning that for me the move was a mistake, at least artistically. I went from having a rather busy solo career to becoming a studio musician, eventually joining a chamber group on the side.

Although there were fabulous musicians playing the studio circuit, nobody really cared about music as an art form. The era of great film scores was nearing its end and much of the well-paying work felt like prostitution. We were compensated for our time, not talent. Females, especially the younger ones, were expected to do favors in order to be hired, or at least this was the impression people had. I remember a certain violinist actually sucking the concertmaster’s ear during a session at Warner Bros. Another musician gave birth to a composer’s baby. During breaks players talked about investments and restaurants, never music. One recording session late at night stays in my memory. The contractor who had hired us knew from the onset that neither the composer nor the music would be arriving on time. This sadistic old man made us tune and sit quietly for the hour, then gave us a ten-minute break, to start this bizarre silent ritual again for two more hours. We were paid to be there and he didn’t tolerate any conversation or reading, no matter how discreet. At the end of the three hours we were excused.

The little orchestra was hardly a great source of inspiration. The conductor seemed more interested in having an affair with one of the young married violinists than creating an engaging musical atmosphere. Hollywood and its crazy values weren’t good for my marriage either, and it soon became obvious that it was approaching its end. Luckily I found a soul mate in that little group; or rather she decided to rescue me. Eventually we got married and left town for Seattle which at least had fresh air in beautiful setting between the Puget Sound and the Cascades. With its large Scandinavian population the area reminded me of home. Musically it was even less sophisticated than Los Angeles and very provincial, still true today. There were some truly wonderful and colorful old-timers, though, and that made up for the “Wild West” atmosphere. Politically Seattle was liberal enough which felt good after the L.A. scene. We found a comfortable house with a big back yard for our three Boston terriers, and soon were busy raising two daughters.

So, do I have regrets? Definitely I do, as I sacrificed my career for meaningless work, but at the same time I am grateful for my second family. I guess it all was meant to happen. Presently I am content with life. Although many people have told us that certain malicious individuals tried their hardest to make us leave here a few years ago, I manage to be busier than ever. Life has gone a full circle for me: like in my youth I’m playing with the nicest people and doing what I like best, teaching, and performing enough to keep my chops in top form. Sure, the present situation in this country is scary, but then I grew up having the Soviet Union right next door. Living with threats and fear is something I’m used to.

Will I ever move back? It is a possibility and of course depends on how this country’s domestic and foreign problems are solved, if at all. My girls seem to have an interest in their other home country. Both my younger daughters will travel there this summer. The youngest is leaving tomorrow to spend time with her Finnish girlfriend, and my college senior will fly there next month to study the European Union in the University of Helsinki’s summer school. They are lucky to have dual citizenship and to have access to any EU country, residing and working where ever they desire.

Time will tell whether 07.07.07 was a good day, perhaps the beginning of something great for us and mankind. It could also as well have been the start of something quite the opposite, such as a catalyst for a new World War. Often during a pessimistic moment I feel as if it is already taking place and that we are not exactly innocent in causing it.

I want to give my best wishes to all those married today, in hopes of a happier tomorrow.

Photos © Ilkka Talvi:
Discovery Park
Anna & Sarah Talvi

High and Low School

The day inevitably comes in every family when little children, our pride and joy, reach their adolescence. This usually happens in middle school, or junior high, an older term but still used in many areas. The sweet darlings seem to turn into little monsters almost overnight; a necessary step in life to prepare for separation from the safety of the home. For a first-time parent this time can be frightening, but by the fourth one it is more easily understood and taken with a grain of salt.

For many decades we lumped together all these hormone factories under the same roof in large middle /junior high schools and prayed for the best. With my two eldest, they were lucky to get into a magnet program for the gifted in Los Angeles early on and didn’t have to suffer terribly. My second one, Sonja, bused daily for almost an hour to go a middle school near Pasadena where she was one of two white kids in otherwise all Asian student class, mainly Chinese. With my second set of daughters here in Seattle, we sent them to a small K-8 school, just a couple miles from home. This was probably a smart move, as they were constantly exposed to younger children, having to interact with them in many ways, such as helping them in class. Our Anna was able to teach a transfer student, an ‘army brat’, to read, something the teacher couldn’t do. Seeing former teachers in the hallways or after school must have had a soothing effect, as at a younger age children and their teacher often can have a trusting and loving relationship. It comes as no surprise that in many states there is talk about getting rid of the mammoth middle schools, which often are the turning points in a youngster’s life as in that pressure cooker environment interest in learning is easily destroyed and the long downhill begins, especially for girls.

Next comes the transformation to high school, an odd mix of near-adults and some still-little-children. In principle, I would not send my offspring to a private school, as many of those are filled with rich kids who get away with anything as long as the school gets its high tuition. Of course there are excellent ones as well which truly care about education. Those are far from us and carry a hefty price tag; we pay for public schools in our taxes. Teenagers are supposed to learn what life really is like and their school experience should give them a slice of that. My now college-senior daughter opted for a new small experimental high school at the Seattle Center which started out as 9th and 10th grade that year, both having 75 students each. The faculty was generally handpicked and very enthusiastic, and the principal, Ms. Peterson, a true visionary. During the second year Anna felt that her eagerness to learn wasn’t quite met by the teaching. She tested for our Running Start program and got into the Seattle Central Community College for her last two years, earning an A.A. degree at the same time she graduated from high school. She would have been finished with her B.A. this spring at 19 but decided to double major and will take an additional year. Far from being a ‘nerd’, she loves people, learning and her school. She was elected president for both Hillel and Habitat for Humanity for next year at WWU in Bellingham.

Now came the next big issue: our ‘baby’ had all of a sudden become a teenager, with mood swings and strong opinions of course, but her sweetness and bright mind were omnipresent. Sarah had pretty much followed in her sister’s footsteps but showed interest in a rather new big high school in Ballard, about the same distance from us as the Center School. Off to an orientation we went more than a year ago. Our guide was a tall, model-like African American, a senior. “I’m a cheerleader”, she introduced herself. We started the tour. The first thing she was eager to show was the gym and all the boys lifting weights, all of whom she seemed to know well. We watched a volley ball game being played, and granted, for someone mainly interested in P.E., this all would have been impressive. Some of the parents wanted to visit the school’s auditorium as they had heard about the first-rate shows being produced there. Our guide finally found her way there; a nice little theater which we were already familiar with, as some of our girls’ arts programs had held their performances there. “How many seats are there?” asked a parent. The cheerleader looked a little puzzled and came up with 1,500. “It doesn’t look that big” murmured another parent, and from experience we knew that the real number was a third of it. Then our attention was pointed at the library, safely from a distance. Next to it was the highlight of our tour, the Teen Pregnancy Center, and we heard what a wonderful thing it was to have on campus. Many of us wanted to see actual classrooms but our guide appeared uncomfortable with this request. She pointed in a direction, saying “there they are”, and seemed relieved when the bell rang and the tour had to come to a close. We practically ran out of the orientation, and Sarah started her high school experience at the same little Center School as her sister, Anna.

Now Sarah has been complaining about missing the ‘real’ high school experience and talks about wanting to transfer. Last week I went to the completely rebuilt Roosevelt HS to hear a couple of our students play their concertos with the orchestra and I better understand what our little one is talking about. That school is a dream facility and the students I met in the hallways acted ever-so-nicely. It is also one of the two high schools in Seattle with a decent orchestra program. The beautiful theater is like an ideal concert hall, sounding better than most halls built for that purpose. I also attended the Center School’s Art Night the following evening and listened to a highly charged Open Slam poetry event. No wonder the school has an ‘artsy’ label attached to it. There young poets showed a lot of incredible raw talent, and the support by peers (and parents) in the crowded large conference room was remarkable. In another room student films were shown and art work in various forms covered all the walls. It was like visiting California Institute of the Arts in Valencia, California during its prime, but in a high school version. Those two schools I visited in consecutive days couldn’t have been more different. We want to keep our little one happy and will support her in her choice, whatever it will be.

Lately I have been talking to a number of high school students, juniors and seniors, about their own experiences with school. Most of them have liked the social aspect, but just about everyone agrees that academically too much time is wasted and teaching is dummied down, to accommodate the ‘sloths’. An American high school graduate ranks near the bottom in the table comparing industrialized nations. One of the top ones is my home country, Finland, where everyone has to pass difficult nationally administered exams before graduating. A student has to be proficient in advanced math, at least two foreign languages, geography and sciences (physics, chemistry, biology). School there really isn’t for social interaction and perhaps the Finns lack some social skills compared to Americans, although I think that is more of a cultural issue. Only speak when you have something to say.

The idea of making everyone advance at the same rate is ridiculous. Each person is gifted differently and needs to progress at their own pace. In music, a nine-year-old may be learning the same piece as someone else at sixteen, yet both are advancing and enjoying their improving skills. Sometimes the slower learner will be more successful in the long run as the highly gifted often will burn out. Our society has always loved child prodigies and exploited them, in a ‘freak show’ fashion. I have known so many who have ended up with miserable lives, having nothing but bitter memories of their young stardom.

Our President has been pushing for his “No Child Left Behind” program, citing the excellent results in Houston, his home turf. We now know those scores were artificially inflated and that city is no better than any other. The slogan could as well read “No Smartie Given A Chance.”

Life Is a Competition

It is time to forget the nagging headache and try to return to writing. My partner for almost 30 years seems to be convinced that I’m suffering from early Alzheimer’s, a terrible condition that has plagued my family on my mother’s side. I don’t think my wife could cope with it and would be shipping me off back to Finland in a hurry if that happened. However, I feel mentally fine and my memory has returned for the most part, so she needn’t panic. I also have almost memorized the “Final Exit”, and contacting the Hemlock Society is a mouse click away, should the need arise. Life is full of the unexpected: perhaps being the caregiver will fall on my shoulders one day. My mother used to tell me when I was young that she expected to live alone at the end of her life, as my father was six years her senior. Statistics can be deceiving as she has been gone almost a decade and my dad seems to be still going relatively strong, turning 96 in a few days time.

My topic today is music competitions. Although a relatively recent phenomena in a large scale, we know that even Paganini took part in musical duels. I guess a few fiddlers of his day thought that the Little Pagan was all fingers but lacked a beautiful tone. Based on writings from those days the opinions of the audiences were split: other violinists obviously couldn’t reproduce the pyrotechnics of the Italian, but many listeners preferred the beauty of sound and musicality of the others. This already indicates how difficult it is to judge musical skills, or those in any other art form. Today’s audiences often go wild after a soloist plays a virtuoso piece at a breakneck speed. I have taught the Sibelius violin concerto to quite a few during this past year. That work was not at all popular after its creation, and it took the much-faster-than-intended tempi of Jascha Heifetz to turn the concerto into the popular choice it is today. Sibelius was quite upset by this reinterpretation and told Heifetz this to his face when the two men finally met a few years before the composer’s death. When asked whose recording he liked the best, Sibelius without any hesitation answered “Oistrakh”. And what was the reason? He played the last movement the slowest, but even then too fast. If music only could be judged as simply as an athletic event, then one would only need a stopwatch and perhaps penalty seconds would be added for wrong notes.

There was a time when mature artists would compete against each other. In one such contest Ginette Neveu beat David Oistrakh. He in turn won the next time and Ricardo Odnoposoff got the second prize. In that last match Oistrakh wanted to shake hands with the silver medalist, but the latter felt so strongly that he should have won and turned his back to the winner on the stage. This move is said to have destroyed Odnoposoff’s career. Of course he played all over the globe but many of those engagements were in smaller and less important cities. Yet his playing was as good as anyone’s and never ceased to amaze me with its perfection and beauty when I studied with him. After the 1950s and -60s the number of competitions mushroomed and winning one was no longer an automatic ticket to a career, although in short term it meant quite a few solo opportunities. Doing well in one usually required at least one teacher sitting in the jury; this is still the case today, unfortunately.

Just a few days ago another piano competition, the Maj Lind, was held in Finland. Originally meant as a domestic affair, it was transformed into an international one some years ago. I didn’t hear any of the performances over the Internet as the Finnish Radio Co. had to stop broadcasting music in this manner, due to excessive royalty demands. However, I understand that the Russian winner Sofya Gulyak was quite impressive, especially in the final round with her Rachmaninov third concerto. Based on the photo, Ms. Gulyak may not be in the “eye candy” category but her inner beauty must have impressed both the judges and audience members. Aforementioned Ms. Neveu was supposedly so unglamorous that people in the hall laughed out loud when she first appeared, yet everybody was quickly spellbound as soon as she started playing.

Music competitions come in many forms and seem to be especially popular with Asian students and/or their parents. Reading about the fierce competing in the final school exams in China makes one understand this trait better, as scoring higher than others is essential to be able to enter one of the better universities and thus a key to a successful life. Tutors have been busy all year and often no expense has been spared. Students have been given oxygen treatments and placed in fancy hotels to improve their chances. Even high tech cheating has been discovered, with communication devices hidden in shoes or clothing. Here in the States many competitions are more low key and often also unfair. I had a student submit a required compact disc to a community orchestra and he was selected as one of the finalists. On the day of the finals Mother Nature was playing one of her tricks and the event had to be postponed due to adverse weather. A new date was to be announced shortly. However, the hopeful finalists ended up getting a letter saying that the orchestra’s conductor had decided to select a winner based on the recordings. Surprise, surprise: the first prize and the solo opportunity went to an offspring of another baton-wielder in town. One will never know if this young instrumentalist deserved to win; perhaps in this case the most money was spent on editing the recording to be note-perfect, or if this was just a blatant case of brown-nosing. For that matter I could have played for my student, but might have been pitted against a Yo-Yo Ma. Had the orchestra just hired this youngster to play, there would have been none of the hurt feelings and question marks.

Running for an office is a political competition, and an unfair one since it is intended only for the rich. No matter how brilliantly someone thinks and how fabulous his/her ideas are, all that is meaningless unless there are big bucks involved. It would be sad indeed if this form of our “free democratic system” finds its way into the politics of music and the arts.

Photo of Sofya Gulyak
© Sami Kero / Helsingin Sanomat

A Musician's Life

A true to to life cartoon by Kari Suomalainen ©
From Yrjö Suomalainen's Musical Essays, Otava 1978
(see May 4 2007 post)

Memories

Our life spans have increased to nearly double in the last hundred years. Today's average American can expect to reach 78 years, a remarkable number when we realize that the U.S. is only number 45 on the list. Countries with universal access to health care do much better: a woman in tiny Andorra is expected to reach 87 and in Japan, a large country with high stomach cancer rate, just a year less.

With aging we face new problems, least of which is not what to do with people suffering from all forms of dementia. In my youth, when someone started displaying signs of forgetfulness, they usually died within a couple years, although I do remember an aunt of my father's who lived like that for almost two decades. In her case, perhaps her brain chose not to remember as she lost her two children in their youth or early adulthood, followed by the death of her husband, probably from a broken heart.

In today's society it is difficult to care for an aging parent, aunt or uncle at home. Sooner or later we all have to turn to the help of an assisted living program, or a nursing home. At that point many of us feel that the elderly person is now taken care of and that physically being with them in form of visits are not necessary, at least not frequently. Being old often equals being lonely. For a little while my mother was in a large old-fashioned hospital room with three other elderly ladies. At that time the hospital had visiting hours and I remember how sad many of those patients looked when nobody came, except rarely. They were carefully listening to every discussion I had with my mom, often even commenting on something said. Yet all of them had families, some living too far for frequents visits, but others just too busy with their own lives to be bothered. If I brought my then-little children along, everyone in the room became excited. It is as if the elderly need the company of children, and I firmly believe it is also good the other way around.

A few weeks back my wife and I went to play at a retirement home, at a request by the daughter of a lady whose life has always been surrounded in music. Although her memory is quite problematic, it was a delight to see the smile on her face as the music we performed took her back to the past, to happy memories. Just because present-day matters are quickly forgotten, there is a lifetime of events stored in one's mind. Until a couple years ago, my father would regularly attend concerts as long as someone could take care of his transportation. Just because his mind preferred living in another era didn't affect his taste in music. Of all his senses his hearing is remarkable even today, and an out-of-tune note or an ugly vibrato still bothers him as much as decades ago. That morning of our visit, there were others in the audience that we recognized as regular concertgoers from years past; they no longer can attend because of physical limitations. Such a simple effort from our part, donating a little time and talent, made a lot of people happy, us included.

I have new insight to what people go through when their memory starts playing tricks. About a month ago I suffered a concussion, as a result of an accident in the house I don't really remember happening. Initially I thought it just another bump on the forehead, but then all these students started walking in when I least expected them. At other times I would be emailing them asking why they had forgotten to come, getting replies that we had just rescheduled their lesson times. In other words, as a result of my brain swelling, my own short term memory was just like that of a person suffering from dementia. My daughter was a bit upset that I forgot to pick her up from school on a day when she was in a hurry to get to her guitar lesson, but when I explained she immediately understood. Unlike the elderly I know that every day is a better one; the scan showed no bleeding. The head still feels like it's about to explode and it is hard to remember what day it is when waking up, but at least I know to check my online calendar the first thing in the morning. An accident can turn into a blessing: I can sympathize with people suffering from memory loss like never before and the understanding feels like a gift.

And important things do seem to stick in the memory, like the visit to play a short concert for the wonderful seniors. On behalf of them and all the others living mainly in the past: please don't forget us. Our world may not be exactly like yours, but it is a world and a life nevertheless. One day, probably sooner that you realize, you will be one of us. The Golden Rule in all religions says, in different variations: "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

picture: Shaolin Studios Publishing

Shining

Although some of the scenes are disturbingly bloody, Kubrick’s “The Shining” is an incredibly well done horror film, considered by many the best ever. Even twenty-seven years later watching the movie sends chills up one’s spine. Hearing “Heeeere is JOHNNY!” and seeing the word ‘REDRUM’ still manage to evoke fear and anxiety in most of us. At the end, Jack Nicholson’s terrifying image blends in with the beauty of the frozen maze. ‘Frozen’ is a good example of the fact that things seldom are as they seem. In this case the studio decided to use crushed Styrofoam and salt, but all of us viewers sensed it as icy cold.

We in this country seem to like shiny things, even though we should know that not everything that glitters is gold. In movies where one is whisked back many decades, every old automobile looks like it has just been painstakingly carefully polished. Even after a chase scene the gangster’s car is so shiny one could use it as a mirror to comb his hair. I guess dirt and dust didn’t exist in the 1930s. American women love their big and bold golden ornaments, something most Europeans might see as tasteless and outright ugly. I myself have trouble finding gifts for any of my female family members in mainstream jewelry stores, whereas I would have plenty to choose from in any such shop abroad. Of course tastes and styles differ, and I can always do my shopping while traveling on the other side of the ocean.

I can’t think of a concert hall where they have a beautiful grand piano of any other finish than shiny black. Yet underneath that impressive paint job one might find material of vastly inferior quality, compared to a piano displaying beautifully selected wood, a true piece of art. I have often heard people admiring the magnificently beautiful ‘black wood’ of a Steinway concert grand! —One ‘shining’ I have trouble understanding is the common practice of making old string instruments, particularly violins, look like they have just been manufactured by a Chinese furniture factory, and polished to the max. Such glittering simply didn’t exist in the 17th and 18th centuries, and would have been impossible to achieve with oil-based varnishes. When we visit a museum that has furniture and other articles from two and three centuries ago, those items appear old and worn looking. It would be odd indeed to see an old chair resembling something in a modern showroom, or an El Greco painting glowing in modern, almost fluorescent colors.

One of the oddest chapters of old shiny violins continues to be the New Jersey Symphony’s decision to purchase a convicted tax evader’s instrument collection for 17 million dollars, but supposedly at a fraction of its real value. Now this orchestra is in financial trouble and wants to have the instruments sold. The problem is that many of them have forged or questionable papers, coming from the same source in New York. Also, these string instruments have received enough negative publicity in the press for them to be an easy sell. There is a web site by Fritz Reuter & Sons, originating in Chicago, in which a number of dealers of violins and their questionable selling practices are exposed. Few of us realize that there are a number of convicted felons doing big business with old instruments. And what is the background of these experts who are asking millions for some of their treasures? There is a lot of information on the site and it will take time to skim through it all, but it is quite eye-opening. You’ll learn that many of my colleagues, violin teachers, are in a business relationship with the dealers, and naturally push for expensive instruments to their pupils as it will mean more money in their bank accounts. How many students are brave enough to ask their respected mentor if and how much he or she is profiting from the sale of a violin that will put them or their parents in debt for a long time?

In principle, I couldn’t accept money resulting from recommending a certain instrument. There are plenty of excellent, relatively inexpensive instruments for even the best students. They sound just as good, and are often in healthier condition than others costing ten or twenty times as much. During this past year we helped more than ten students acquire new violins. All the buyers have been pleased and not a dime has ended up in our pockets as a result of these transactions. We did recieve a few bottles of wine but I don’t think that really counts as a commission. Are we stupid and without the famous American business sense? Perhaps, but we sleep well at night and hopefully so do our students and their parents.

Gold has fascinated people since the birth of civilization. For almost that long there have been alchemists trying to turn ordinary matter into that shiny metal, unsuccessfully of course. It is Mother’s Day and a good time to remember that like gold, a precious metal, there are precious people. In fact, the same word, kulta, is used for both gold and Darling, or Sweetheart, in my native Finnish. A majority of these golden people probably fall in the category of mothers. Then there are others, pretending to belong in the same class, but their glitter is like that of fool’s gold. Human nature is what it is. As the late wonderful Mr. Rogers once quoted someone is his beloved show: “Some people are fancy on the outside, some are fancy in the inside.”

photos:
gonemovies.com
ilkka talvi

Brecht and Lebrecht

A summer before I was born my parents bought land for their summer home from a rather famous Marlebäck manor in Iitti, Finland. Today the place is an ordinary farm, but at the time it still had a large and beautiful manor house, and over 100 cows. The previous owner had been an Estonian-born communist party sympathizer and well-known writer Hella Wuolijoki. She had a lot of notable visitors during the country's long summer days, with outdoor parties lasting through the night. One of the guests who stayed a long time was the famed German author Bertolt Brecht (think the Threepenny Opera). As an anti-fascist, he had left Nazi Germany in 1933 for Denmark and after the invasion of that country moved on to Sweden and Finland before immigrating to the United States. Although he had never himself been a member of the communist party, our House Anti-American Activities Committee regarded him as a sympathizer and soon Brecht was back in Europe, living in East Germany but not fitting well into that system either. It was at Marlebäck where during 1940 he wrote his books and even co-authored one with Ms. Wuolijoki, based on the local village characters.

After the war communism was allowed and even encouraged as a result with the peace agreement with the Soviet Union. Ms. Wuolijoki had hidden a Russian spy on the farm and had been sentenced to life in prison. This situation changed overnight and she became the head of the Finnish Radio Corporation. The manor was sold to a well-to-do evacuee from Soviet-occupied Karelia who was famous for raising race horses. There was a large sauna by the lake, and it was said that on Saturdays the men went first to get clean in the hot steam, then the horses (they sweat), and after that women and children. It was from that owner that my parents bought their land. A few years later the manor was sold again, and this time the owner, being short of cash, decided to burn the beautiful mansion down to get his insurance money. People rushing to help in the wee hours were surprised to see all valuable books, paintings and other items neatly packed; all they had to do was to lift them away to safety. An investigation followed, but since there were no eye witnesses other than a young woman walking home from a Saturday night dance (she had seen the light on in the kitchen before the fire), the owner ended up receiving his money. My father was called as a character witness and he would never suspect anyone, let alone a man who had served with him on the war front. With subsequent owners the place went downhill, an ugly farmhouse was erected where the mighty mansion had once stood and the last farmer I knew supposedly went crazy, claiming that the European Union was after him. First he barricaded the road so that people couldn't get to their summer homes and a new road through the forest had to be built; later he used his hunting rifle to end his life.

I usually stay away from books that are about music. With this art form, reading is not sufficient; one has to experience music, either by listening to it or playing. At least a book with good reproductions of great paintings is almost like visiting an art museum. Most biographies of composers or musicians from the past are either products of fantasy or make the main character seem much larger than life. Even the most common form of writing on this topic, music reviews, proves how incompetent people are at it. But there have been exceptions. My father's longtime violin teacher Yrjö Suomalainen, whose son Kari was Finland's most famous political cartoonists and as such quite influential a person, wrote reviews that were masterpieces. He also was often on the radio reading his music-related essays. As a young child I was fascinated by them and never missed one. Mr. Suomalainen also wrote a book about the violin and violinists in which every sentence on this seemingly dry and boring subject was vibrant and alive. I must have read it over a thousand times and probably knew it by heart.

Just recently I read a book by Norman Lebrecht titled "The Life and Death of Classical Music" and found the writing so engaging I couldn't put it down. It's original British title is "Maestros, Masterpieces and Madness" but that probably was considered too sophisticated for American audiences, although it better describes what the book is about. Mr. Lebrecht has more knowledge than any music encyclopedia and he certainly knows how to write. The book is, as the original title says it, a history of the classical music recording industry, its zenith and present low point, or as some see it, death. The author must have heard a lot of first-hand accounts of what really happened behind the scenes, and on a number of occasions he was there in person. After the history part Mr. Lebrecht lists 100 classical recordings that he considers milestones in history and then 20 recordings that never should have been made. Naturally, I read the last section first, then the history and finally the writer's favorites. I'm not going to ruin a prospective reader's fun and tell about the details. What I will say is that most of us will be shocked by some of the entries on the "worst" list, and also that many of the one hundred also happen to be on my list of favorites.

The writing is better and more entertaining in my opinion than in Mr. Lebrecht's other popular book "The Maestro Myth" in which he seems to have a point to prove (and with which I wholeheartedly agree for the most part). Yesterday my wife picked up the author's fictional work "The Song of Names" from the library and claims it is fabulous. I have learned to take her opinion very seriously after almost 30 years, thus I'll probably find the time to read it myself.

All things in life are interconnected, even Brecht and Lebrecht via horses enjoying a sauna and burnt mansions.

Good-Bye Time

Knowing when to politely bow out is a difficult thing to know, especially for performing artists. Dancers usually have enough physical problems preventing them from continuing a daily routine at an early age, so they gracefully exit, either to start a second career as a teacher of dance, or graduate to a completely different field. Singers normally know when their vocal chords no longer function as they once did, or their reduced lung capacity cannot sustain the high notes as long as before. Sometimes they continue singing past their retirement point, having become celebrities like the trio of men we all know; only one of them being in decent vocal shape. Conductors can become respected and honored sources of knowledge and tradition, or they burn out like a dwarf star, and have little or nothing to give. Even in the first case they are seldom a true inspiration to an orchestra, although an ensemble can play wonderfully well for someone whose knowledge and style the players admire. With instrumentalists aging is a touchy subject, and although there have been some wonderful pianists up there in years, most other seniors playing should have waved good-bye to their audiences long ago. Yet the last two decades has seen woodwind and string players enjoying their star status but torturing true music lovers by their performances, hardly reminiscent of the playing in their prime.

Today's New York Times has a review of a famed chamber ensemble giving their farewell performances. The Vermeer Quartet has been in the spotlight for almost forty years, and instead of an individual bowing out and being replaced by another, a common scenario, they decided to end while still on top. The Vermeer has left enough wonderful recordings behind for us to enjoy them for decades to come, and their concerts surely will live on listeners' memories. The sound and style of a quartet is usually a product of years of hard labor, ironing out stylistic differences and reaching a common understanding of how music should be interpreted; no easy task. Keeping the name but having different personnel is controversial. I personally feel that if one person in a piano trio or two in a quartet, sometimes one (in case of the first violinist), are new, the group should adopt a different name. Keeping a well-known and established trade mark is great for marketing but fooling the audience. Many would disagree with my opinion.

Regrettably some incredible artists perish while still young. This past week I have been listening to recordings of two such violinists. Ginette Neveu was only 30 years old when the plane carrying her and her brother (her accompanist), crashed into a mountain in the Azores. What an amazing musician she was! She played with more balls than most male violinists, especially today. Her Ravel Tzigane is surprisingly slow, yet in complete accordance with the composer's wishes; today we seem to think that the fastest performance is the best. A real find was to listen to Viennese-born Ossy Renardy's early recordings of Sarasate's gems, performed at the age of 18. This violinist would have become a household name and as great an anyone, had he not been killed in a car accident in 1953. Both violinists died on their way to work: Neveu on her way to a tour in the U.S. and Renardy (originally Reich) driving a car to play a concert.

Today's news tells us about the death of a great Russian musician, Mstislav Rostropovich, at the age of 80. There had been rumors for many months that his health problems had become unmanageable, but nevertheless such news makes one sad. A genuine product of the Soviet Union's music training machine, he represented both the good and bad of that system. The first performances I heard in my youth were not exactly to my liking. The harsh attacks on the then-not-so-common steel strings were a far cry from the refined sound of Pablo Casals and others. One heard complaints that Slava prevented other Soviet cellists from achieving his star status, and the cellist was eager to push his wife, Galina Vishnevskaya, into the same international fame he was enjoying. Westerners always admired the top Soviet instrumentalists, but singing was a different story: being compared to a Russian soprano was hardly a compliment. Times changed, as did both Mr. Rostropovich's style and my taste. I no longer had trouble enjoying his playing and, while working with him on numerous occasions, his tremendous creative energy. Even if one didn't agree with his interpretation, it never left anyone cold. In his later years a new Rostropovich gradually emerged: gone was all the harshness of the Soviet era and instead one was allowed to peek inside this artist's tender soul. As a result of the Cold War, our government rushed to place him in charge of the National Symphony, after the Soviets kicked him out. It served well as a political move, even if he didn't fulfill all the expectations with his baton. I had a nickname for him: the 'National Semiconductor'. He himself admitted that when he played the cello, he suffered but the audience enjoyed; when conducting he enjoyed and the listeners suffered. Yet he was able to make many orchestras sound great in Russian repertoire as a guest conductor, especially where people weren't used to such radiating musical energy and know-how on the podium. I miss his dogs: a little pooch would follow him on the stage for rehearsals. At least one of them knew all the repertoire and would get up when the piece was nearing its end.

Life continues and great personalities live on in people's memories. Of course I will always remember fondly this extraordinary man and musician who kissed me many times on the cheeks in front of a packed audience. May he enjoy making music for and with the angels.

Mass Killings

People are still feeling numb about yesterday's shooting on a Virginia college campus. 32 victims before a suicide is a large number, yet unfortunately everyday news in certain parts of the world. I am somewhat surprised that there has been less written about this incident resembling a suicide bombing in many ways. In both cases an individual knows that he will not survive but wants to take as many innocent lives as possible with him. In this writer's eyes a human life has absolutely the same value in Iraq or Darfur as it does in this country, although it is easier to pretend that the distant horror exists only on the television screen.

We love our guns, and even after yesterday's bloodbath some prominent politicians, not to mention the firearm lobbyists, tout gun ownership as a way to increase safety. According to them, if faculty and other students had carried handguns with them, the shooter might have been killed before he shot so many; never mind the bullet proof vest he was wearing. This is one type of logic, but the world's opinion doesn't agree with it. Even the Australian PM John Howard, usually sympathetic to anything we Americans do, blames our lax gun laws and easy access to firearms for this tragedy and the overall shockingly high number of gun-related deaths in the United States. The laws in Britain regarding weapons are so strict that the country's Olympic pistol shooting team is barred from practicing in its own country. The British published some interesting statistics: the population of England and Wales is 55 million, yet the number of deaths from shootings was just 46 last year. In New York City proper, with a population of 8 million, at least 579 victims died from the same cause. Doing a little bit of math tells us that the likelihood of any of us dying as a victim of a shooting is 83 times higher on this side of the Atlantic. Let these politicians explain this fact; while they are at it, perhaps they will also tell us why matters in Iraq are going so well.

Other than target practice in sports, the sole purpose of firearms is to kill. Yes, hunting is killing, too. Some consider it a sport, and sometimes it is done to curb an animal population that the ecosystem is not able to support (although it hasn't been offered as a solution to this planet's human population crisis). Mainly weapons are used as a means to threaten other people, and to pull the trigger if necessary, or sometimes just for the thrill of it. This applies to the military, law enforcement, criminals, and just ordinary citizens who feel threatened or are in a rage. A flying frying pan might be replaced by a different kind of a projectile, a bullet. In the troubled Middle East people have found it easier to use plastic or other explosives in car bombs or suicide belts. An Iraqi person, wanting to cause similar destruction as the Korean student in Virginia, doesn't even have to know how to load or aim a gun or disable the safety latch in a pistol. Pulling a string or pressing a button is all it takes. What makes them terrorists and the student in Virginia not? The intention in both cases is the same: take as many lives as possible along with your own. If suicide vests were on display at a local gun dealer, perhaps Cho Seung-Hui would have opted to purchase one and march to a crowded dining hall.

Australia used to have similar gun laws to ours, but after a madman went on a terrible shooting spree in Tasmania little over a decade ago, resulting in 35 deaths, they were changed, to the vocal opposition of many. If people down under have seen the light, and our closest neighbors in Canada have done the same, how many more tragedies is it going to take for the tide to turn here? We are too obsessed by our war against drugs (which is going about as well as the 'the other' war in Iraq and Afghanistan) to see the real threats to us and the generations following. Finally people are beginning to understand that the warming climate is a reality, and it doesn't just mean more pleasant winters but rather extreme weather events all over the globe. Scientists have warned us about this for decades but we seem to hear only what we want to.

As I mentioned the war on drugs, would someone be able to explain why cannabis (including marijuana) is a Schedule I drug, but PCP, cocaine and meth are listed as Schedule II, together with oxycodone and morphine, according the 1970 Controlled Substances Act? I have witnessed crazed behavior by people on PCP and can't understand why it would have any medical use. Marijuana is proven to bring relief to pain, as has another Schedule I drug, heroin. The latter is widely used in the rest of the world, to successfully alleviate the often horrendous pain cancer patients suffer from. You might ask what the difference between the two classifications is. In the eyes of the law, it is a lesser crime in this country to be in possession of PCP or meth than cannabis. No wonder our prisons are bulging. Killers are often treated more leniently by our legal system than those poor souls who are substance abusers and in need of help, not punishment. Go figure.

Clearly No Wire

Earthlink did it again, now having been Earth-No-Link for five days. The company also provides us with one phone line, which went dead five days ago and obviously the dsl connection with it. I have been on the phone to India and the Philippines again, trying to understand sometimes very heavy accents. It seems to me that with the increased demand for outsourcing customer and tech support, language skill requirements have been lowered. Normally I teach students whose parents come from many different countries and I'm comfortable communicating with them even when a native might have trouble. Being a foreigner has its benefits: understanding other immigrants is easy.

So, after telling the first two people (in different countries, based on the accents) that the problem was local in origin, and that they would have to contact their contractor here in Seattle, Washington, the United States, the phone came back to life after 12 hours. No dsl though, and I was back on the phone between students and playing. At some point on Friday the dsl light on the modem lit up and the activity light blinked, both to disappear then altogether. This would happen again repeatedly. I had seen this problem earlier when Earthlink first became our phone/long distance/internet provider and knew the reason: our house is too far from the central office to handle the kind of speed (6 mbps) they had initially promised. I told the tech rep to contact their people here (Covad?) to have it lowered. This was on Friday and the person on the phone said that this problem would be taken care of on Saturday morning. Of course this didn't happen and due to the busy weekend, and knowing that nothing would happen on Sunday, I called back this morning, Monday, to inquire how the issue was progressing. Again, the representatives seemed more interested about my father's middle name and my mother's maiden name than in solving the problem. I have been promised now that I should have a dsl connection in two days, making it an interruption of a week.

For a while I was able to connect to a neighbor's unsecured wireless network, but then got kicked out, probably by their firewall. I had to come up with another solution and was able to establish a connection using my Cingular 3G phone as a wireless broadband modem (it isn't quite as straight forward as it sounds). Early in the weekend, while my daughter was having her guitar lesson, I quickly drove to the nearest shopping mall where I had seen a Clearwire booth. When the company initially started service in Seattle I had been interested, but due to our location on the 'wrong' side of the big Queen Anne hill, their signal didn't reach us. Sure enough they've adding antennas and I found out that our address is now being served by no less than three transmitters. I quickly took care of the paperwork, got the rather big but lightweight antenna and was on time to pick my little one up from her lesson.

Back at home I set up the antenna (it requires to be powered) and connected it to a computer and – bingo – I was online. My wireless router was set to connect with Earthlink's PPPOE settings and I didn't want to alter them, so we were down to two computers, one using Clearwire and the other my cell phone. Printing and other network problems existed, however, so after this morning's call I reset the Linksys router, connected the Clearwire cable, renamed the wireless network and gave it a strong password, and we are back in business. When I hear back from the Earthlink people, I'm going to find out if we are stuck in a long term contract or if we can terminate the account. However, getting a second phone line with unlimited long distance would cost almost as much, so we might for the time being keep things as they are but not use the dsl, unless we decide to hook it up to a single non-essential computer, as a backup.

I have read a lot of pro and con opinions regarding Clearwire. Obviously many people have had trouble, but equally many have loved the service. I belong in the second group. At least in my case nothing could have been easier to set up. I get a download speed of over 1600 kbps; upload speed is slow, around 300, but since I'm not running a business server, it will do. What they have managed to do is to provide the first truly simple broadband connection. There is no software to install, no settings to worry about; in other words anybody could set it up. That can't be said of any dsl or cable provider. Also, although I haven't done the actual math, they seem to be priced lower than the competition, especially if you stick with the slower connection offered, plenty fast enough for most needs.

And I didn't forget to ask them about an important issue: their customer service and support. They used to be overseas but now they are located back here, in Las Vegas. It didn't hurt that the sales person at Northgate mall was as pleasant and helpful as I've ever encountered.

Look Ma, no wires!

Diamonds from the Deep

We all know that life doesn't treat people in a fair manner. In the arts and in music particularly, this is quite evident. Those who shamelessly promote themselves often get noticed when the quiet and modest ones remain hidden, even if they are more able than the exhibitionists.

Every so often I go and hear a school, other youth or community-based orchestra play, to keep track of what is taking place locally. Although the level of groups varies greatly, they have one thing in common: the musicians, young and old, seem to enjoy what they are doing. It is easy to forgive a slightly messy passage or not-quite-perfect intonation if behind it there is a warm smile and an effort coming from the heart. It is a stark contrast to the often dour expression of a burnt-out professional whose technical execution may be closer to perfection but whose soul is not in it.

The reason for my 50-mile excursion this afternoon was to hear a native Seattleite violinist play the Vaughan Williams "Lark Ascending" with a community group in one of our more distant 'burbs'. Adrianna Hulscher can normally be found deep in the pit, playing in the Pacific Northwest Ballet's capable orchestra. I brought my fourteen-year-old nightingale of a daughter, and a gifted violinist herself, along to have a young pair of ears listening, in addition to my dinosaur ones. Miss Hulscher is the total opposite of her "look-at-me, ain't I sexy" colleagues, with their tight outfits aimed at seducing some members of an audience. Refreshingly, she has no need to focus attention to anything but her playing. It is hard to name many local violinists who could match her intonation and beauty of tone. Granted, she could come out a little bit more and play as if the audience was part of the performance, but hopefully this will develop with more solo opportunities. It is a pleasure to hear natural and musical phrasing, not having to witness a bizarre dance act in front of listeners.

A bit more than a week ago I helped out a few times in PNB's "Carmina Burana", every measure of which I know by heart. Orff was an interesting composer: his music is never too deep but full of catchy tunes and unexpected rhythms which are hard to get out of one's mind. The company has presented the work often, so it is no wonder everything went smoothly with minimal rehearsal time with the orchestra. Stewart Kershaw did a decent job conducting; the only thing missing were the children in the third part. Women's voices can never duplicate the sound of young singers, but logistics dictate that children cannot be working night after night.

A major problem arose with the sudden illness of the soprano soloist. Help was closer than anyone could imagine: a young pianist from the pit got ready with a few hours notice and brought the house down with her glorious singing. People might have known that Christina Siemens sings in addition to her job as a rehearsal pianist, but I don't think many had an idea how fabulous she is. A beautiful young woman, she has a voice to match her looks, with faultless intonation. Every one of her colleagues in the pit seemed to be anxiously awaiting her appearance, towards the end of the lengthy work. The following week the regular soprano, a fine singer, was well enough to return and Ms. Siemens was back in the pit, this time a heroine.

Sometimes one discovers the finest diamonds unexpectedly. Who would have thought that a pit orchestra was hiding such treasures! Perhaps there are more that will be discovered in due time.

About a month ago I played the same Burana (they sell ibuprofen by that name in Europe!) downtown with my own group, Rainier Symphony, in a fine concert and to an enthusiastic response. We also performed the Saint-Saëns Organ Symphony in that program. It has some notoriously tricky passages which almost never go faultlessly. I've come home from many performances unhappy, shaking my head. It is ironic that it took a group of dedicated and enthusiastic music lovers to get it right, perhaps not a 100% but 99% will do fine.

In photos: Ralph Vaughan Williams and Carl Orff

Plagued

The Jewish Passover (Pesach) and the Christian Easter are interconnected, although due to the different calendar system they don’t always fall during the same time period. The Last Supper is generally thought to have been a Passover Seder, although some scholars place it a night before. Nevertheless, this year we are celebrating both festivals during the same week. Every Christian ought to either experience the Seder, an increasingly common practice, or at least study all the meaningful symbolism behind it. We had quite a few of our non-Jewish friends over and had the most wonderful Seder ever, enjoyed by all of those present. It was a pleasure seeing our two young daughters splitting the duties of a ceremonial leader: there is a difference when something is forced upon our children or when they want to discover it on their own as part of their heritage.

Typical to the Jewish people, there is a variety of interpretations of the words and symbolism, and even the restrictions on foods allowed differ greatly between the two main groups, the Sephardim and Ashkenazim. In addition to that, even some truly orthodox groups in Israel differ from the mainstream. No wonder Israel has such a large number of political parties, as interestingly do the Finns.

The ten plagues inflicted upon the Pharaoh and his Egyptians, in order to let the Hebrews leave with their families and possessions, are also subject to many interpretations. Usually they are listed as Blood, Frogs, Lice, Beasts, Blight, Boils, Hail, Locusts, Darkness and Striking of the First-Born. Some of these sound very benign in today’s world and we have to find a more fitting meaning for the present time. The river of blood could be a senseless war where the blood of innocent victims flows like a river. Today’s Iraq would well be an example of that. Frogs or amphibians can have an easily understood meaning as the enclosed picture exhibits. Lice, in some translations fleas or gnats, are symbolic to anything parasitic, such as people. Blight in this context refers to disease and death of cattle; mad cow? Boils could be an indication of an incurable disease, perhaps a pox during ancient times and AIDS today. Hail with fire can be an indication of an environmental disasters, caused by global warming. An attack by swarms of locusts still cause a complete loss of crops, and even leaves from trees are eaten by these insects, yet it is easy to see as symbol for famine, all too common with our overpopulated world. Darkness today would mean terribly polluted skies that plague much of the heavily populated areas of Asia, not to mention the Los Angeles smog. It could also be a warning about a nuclear winter or a large meteorite hitting the Earth. The final terrifying plague could, at least in my mind, be a promise of a new fatal disease that could overwhelm the world. In ancient times the firstborn child had special privileges and was considered more important than other children, thus the wording. In today’s world all children are equally important and such a horrifying disease would not choose its victims as selectively as the Haggadah story tells.

But of course the main idea behind the Passover story is freedom from slavery, which for each of us can have a different meaning. We can be suffering in a hostile workplace, a bad relationship, poverty or sickness. The story teaches us not to give up hope, even when odds seem against us. We have to watch out for the Pharaoh or Laban the Aramean, supposedly even more evil. They may well be hiding among us, pretending to be one of the Hebrews.

Today is Good Friday, a dark day for Christians (Finns call it Long Friday). Like the Jews found freedom, Christians did also, although in a slightly different manner, just two days later, on Easter. But this quest to be free from slavery is not the property of those religions, it is universal and applies to all people. Let us hope we don’t have to go through our ten plagues before we and our leaders see the truth. We have suffered enough.