And in other sad news

Debbie Friedman, Jewish singer-songwriter, responsible for quite a lot of the music used in Reform synagogues these days, has died of pneumonia. She was in her mid-50s, and it seems she's been taken too soon.

Everyone else is posting her Mi Sheberach, the healing prayer. I'm posting something else.

Miriam's Song

Rough weekend

May the memories of Christina Greene, Dorothy Murray, John Roll, Phyllis Schneck, Dorwin Stoddard and Gabriel Zimmerman be a blessing, and may healing come to their families and loved ones, as well as to Congresswoman Giffords, of course.

A note received

Earlier in the year, when I was still busking outside, I received the following note in my case:

"I became homeless a month ago when I ran away from my partner and don't have any money to give you. I just wanted you to know that your music gave me so much enjoyment this morning, at a time I needed it so much."

He did sign his name and his e-mail address; I never wrote to him. But I'm glad to have helped, even a little.

Why I hope the Orange Line never automates announcements

"Next stop, Forest Hills...what am I talking about, 'Forest Hills'. Next stop, Back Bay station."

Close enough for jazz...wait

Me (pointing to treble clef): What's this called?
12-year-old student: A clef.
Me: Right, what kind of clef?
Student: Um...the big fancy clef?

I'd so much rather have students come up with this kind of answer than stare blankly for what seems like hours.

Why is it that...

...every time I see one of my colleagues/families/someone who can get me gigs, I'm invariably a) playing something I'm not entirely secure with, b) having mechanical difficulties, c) attacked by a sudden onset of nerves, or d) all of the above?

C'est la guerre, I suppose.

Quotable

From a fourth-grade student, whom I am forever hassling to play louder: I'm gonna play it so loud, my butt will go crazy!

(No, I don't know exactly what she meant, nor do I want to.)

Same student, different lesson, re: Gossec Gavotte: They should call it the Gothic Gavotte and I could wear all black except then I'd have to go out and buy black nail polish and black lipstick.

Where DOES the time go?

How is it almost Thanksgiving? I'm not done with August...or 2009...yet.

I regularly play a fiddle tune called Red Wing, which is also the tune of Union Maid. I think Davis Square may be the only station at which two separate people would burst into the song when they heard it.

QotD

Well, it's two quotes from different days, but the same student.

1) (A low-flying plane passes overhead, loudly) "It wasn't me!"

2) *while staring at tip of bow moving in circles* "I'm hypnotizing myself so I can eat candy."

I'll take it!

I have one family in which I'm teaching a nine-year-old violist, a five-year-old violinist and Mom. Mom's learning some bluegrass fiddle. I suggested that she get a certain book so she and the violist could play together, and she said, "I'd like that, but he insists on only playing classical music. I suppose there are worse things he could be a stickler about."

Ah, how well I remember being a classical-only snob and missing out on a whole lot of music from the '80s. And my parents were more into folk music and light rock. Now I have to listen to classic rock stations to supplement my education.

Teaching fun

(N.B. "Amy" is not this student's real name.)

Me: Did you loosen your bow?...Did you loosen your bow? Amy? Amy? AMY?
Amy, startled: What?
Me: What did I just say twice?
Amy: Um...my name?
Me and her mom: *hysterical laughter*

Yes, dear, but...

The power of thought

I was just thinking the other day how long it had been since I'd been hit on while busking by someone totally unsuited to me.

Yesterday at Park Street, a guy asked how long I'd been playing violin.

"Since fourth grade, so quite a while."

"Do you chase the men, or do men chase you?"

"...(oh). I'm married."

"Aw. I was totally about to ask you out."

"Heh, sorry."

"Do you know anyone who's single? Seeing a beautiful woman with a stringed instrument just does something to me."

"(I don't want to know what.) No, sorry. Don't miss your train."

"Huh? Oh, oh yeah."

"Bye! (Oy.)"

Seasonal difficulties

A student of mine was complaining about having to go to religious school in the fall. Her mother calmly explained that attending religious school is part of being Jewish.

Later, on the way out...

Mom, to me: Happy New Year!
Student: What do you mean, Happy New Year? It's nowhere near January.
Me, to student: That is why you have to go to religious school.

I'm not sure what you're king of, sir...

OK, I don't care how well-phrased and polite your "I need a dollar for public transportation" speech is, you lose all credibility the second you're a grown man wearing a Burger King crown, especially when you're alone and nowhere near a Burger King. And if you really need to catch the #1 bus, you're not going to have much luck at Roxbury Crossing. I realize that walking to Dudley in the rain would have made your crown soggy, sir, but that still won't make the #1 bus stop at Roxbury Crossing.

Should I be offended?

So yesterday, a youngish guy came up to me and handed me his business card and told me he teaches musicians about nutrition because his mother died of cancer. (That's a summary; he was slightly more coherent than that.) Seems to have something to do with wheatgrass juice.

I mean, I know I'm fat, but do I really look that bad? (That's rhetorical, son.)

Reminder to self...

...do not greet the news from a parent that their child has been practicing by breaking into a rousing chorus of "Miracle of Miracles".

Cuteness and quackery

Two children, a boy around 8 and a girl around 4 came up to watch me play. When I paused, the little girl asked me my name. I told her, asked her hers, got an answer, after which she buried her face in her brother's shoulder (in a cute-shy way, not a scared-shy way). Brother said, "She wants to know if she can pet the duck."

I should probably introduce y'all to the duck at some point.

Anyway, I said yes, and she patted its little stuffed head and scampered off, happy as could be.

Under where?

I'm contemplating how to institute a no-underpants policy in my in-home teaching.

No, no, it's not like that. Good Lord, what do you people think???

What I mean is:

1) I do not want to see anybody's underpants on the floor, even if it is their own room.

2) I would vastly prefer it if every member of the household over diaper age wore pants or some other underwear-covering garment while I'm there.

3) I do not ever want to hear an adult member of the household calling down the stairs about how he needs to get himself more underwear. (Note: This was funny, not creepy, but still.)

Thank you.

Almost, but not quite, I think

I had a conversation the other day with a saxophonist in the Public Garden. Well, in honesty, it was less of a conversation and more of a monologue on his part, but that's OK. He has a lot of opinions about music, which is well and good, except I'm of the mindset that when a topic is introduced with which you are unfamiliar, it's really just fine to admit your unfamiliarity and move on.

To wit: Bluegrass, while certainly influenced by jazz and blues, is not "just white people trying to play the blues"; there's a bunch of other stuff in there. In the words of Bill Monroe, bluegrass is "Scottish bagpipes and ole-time fiddlin'. It's Methodist and Holiness and Baptist. It's blues and jazz, and it has a high lonesome sound. It's plain music that tells a good story. It's played from my heart to your heart, and it will touch you. Bluegrass is music that matters."

Also, yes, the musical Oliver! is based on a novel by Charles Dickens, but Dickens was long gone by the time of the musical. Oliver! premiered in London in 1960, was written by Lionel Bart, and had little to do with Rogers and Hammerstein and even less to do with Currier and Ives.

(As a side note, I just learned that Nathaniel Currier was born in Roxbury. That's pretty cool.)

I mean, the saxophonist might have been drawing some kind of parallel between Dickensian culture and modern theatre, but if he was, it got lost somewhere along the way.

He was also trying to explain jazz progressions to me, which is fine, but as deeply steeped in classical training as I am, I think I would need to start with My First Jazz Chart by Kenner.

Freude!

A girl, probably around eight years old, came up and said, "You know what would be a good song for you to play? Beethoven."

I asked if there was anything in particular by Beethoven she wanted.

"Oh, I don't know the names of anything. Just, you know, Beethoven."

So I played Ode to Joy, and she seemed happy.