Graduation, May 7, 2011

(If you want, you may skip my history and go straight to the "life lessons.") 

In the continuing bad judgment of Webster University (Webster Groves, MO), they allowed me to graduate with a degree of Bachelors of Music in Composition. Not just that, but with university honors Cum Laude and Music Department Honors, as if I achieved something. The most unbelievable thing is that I began school here in August 2007. I seem to remember it. . .

Since I was to live in an on-campus apartment my freshman year, my parents and I put many of my worldly possessions in the back of the truck and took off for move-in day. In one of life's many set pieces, we passed by the three schools I had been through up to that point: St. Jacob Elementary, Triad Middle School, and Triad High School; coincidence can be dreadfully sincere at times. It was just like August to be hot and muggy, which are not the conditions you want when you're lugging things around outside. Thankfully, my apartment was right next to a circle drive, so we were able to pull up and move things quickly. I had my own bedroom and my own bathroom! I met my lone roommate a bit later. We never really hit it off, but we also did not have any problems with each other, so no complaints. The rest of the year is mostly not there in my memory. Having an apartment was, I think, actually a hindrance to socializing, since I had a place on campus I could retreat to after class was done. I watched a lot of movies I never had access to previously.

During my second semester, my parents sold the one house I had lived in for my entire 18 years of existence (in St. Jacob, IL), and over my spring break we moved to Collinsville, IL and a much nicer house. This was much closer to Webster, and this allowed me to become a commuter in my sophomore year. It was during this time that I finally began socializing, as much of my free time was spent in the music lounge with other people. Sophomore year was also a blur (or a bore; I am starting to just skim now).

Junior year, much like high school, was probably the best. I was working in the Music Office with a bunch of lovely ladies. I wrote music for the play Cloud 9, which was produced by the Webster University Conservatory of Theatre (or whatever their official title is). Friendships were deepened. I began voice lessons and participated in Opera Studio, to my delight. It was the first time I felt my compositional abilities were reaching a significant quality. 

I came back for my senior year 40 pounds lighter, after fixing my diet. For No-Shave November (and to annoy my girlfriend) I grew facial hair, much to my aesthetic improvement. It was the first time in my life that I felt good about my looks.

From this. . .

. . . to this.

(The nose remained just as large.)

However, it was also my busiest and, in a way, most harrowing year. My senior composition recital, which I had planned for November, was pushed back to March; I had financial troubles; during the second attempt at a recital, I was also composing and rehearsing music for another Conservatory show, The Wonderful World of Dissocia; applied lessons for piano, voice, and composition; regular school work; a relationship: all this made for a crowded year, which didn't end until the very last day of finals (yesterday, the day before graduation). I am very much relieved.

(Start here if you skipped.)

My first lesson from college is that it is too expensive. I urge you, reader, to find a different route if it is possible, or find whatever free money you can. Just avoid loans. They will be a millstone around my neck for some time coming. There is much I could have learned elsewhere for much less. This does not mean that I regret going to Webster, specifically, but if I knew now what I knew during senior year of high school, I likely would have opted out of college.

It would be improper to say that I met amazing people in college. One meets astounding figures in history, where they have no chance to change anymore. Rather, I now know some of the most dynamic and promising people I have ever been privileged to meet. Even a long life is much too short to get to know people, but in overview, these past four years are crowded with vitalistic individuals, and I can't help but be awed by the greatest gift they have given me, a future to look forward to with impatient earnestness, both for myself and them. It may well be that we founder in seas of misfortune; it may well be that we achieve Fame; but whatever will be, I will not take it in with an apathetic heart. The promise of my peers is exceedingly promising.

The world and I are much different now than in 2007. It has not been made safe for anything, let alone democracy. I feel much more out of touch with the way things are, and where they are heading. Now that I am a full blown anarchist (anarcho-capitalist, to be exact), my hopes for the world at large have darkened considerably, as the people rush headfirst into totalitarianism. I run to freedom. Liberty has replaced art as my raison d'etre, and as an artist, I will forever seek freedom in my works (I will delve into "protest art" or the like; I am too pure an Aesthete for that). Yet, all is not bleak, and a considerable amount of people are realizing the truth, as well as The Truth. Events in the Middle East bring hope that individuals of the world will, one day, find true freedom.

Finally, I feel very much a composer. I can now say that every ladder up that I discover reveals another ladder up, and so. I do not know where I will go, but I do perceive a way forward, and that is good enough right now. After much schooling, I am eager to put it to use. Discovering one's passion is a favorite goal of Modern Person, but it is rather hollow if one doesn't realize that the best pleasures are the difficult ones, the ones that cause initial grief but eventually provide sublime fulfillment. For me, a difficult pleasure is something that continuously leads you to ever greater but also more difficult accomplishments, where every height reveals an even greater height. So one's passion in life must be or be filled with difficult pleasure.

At graduation, I sat in the presence of some of my favorite people, and I can only hope that at least one of them think the same of me. All I can say is, it is done. And now it starts.

Now for a thing of beauty:

Befitting the bright dawn of hopeful future, here is my absolutely favorite bit of music, the second act finale of Mozart's The Magic Flute.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

A Decade of Music, Part 3a

In Part 1, I wrote about my piano exploits; in Part 2, voice. This part is for composition, which is for me my whole musical experience. I am a composer, and that is why I am a musician. It is not that I am a pianist or singer who dabbles in composing, but, as I am finding, a singing composer who is well-skilled in playing piano. Performance never was and currently is not my goal in music, and quite frankly, I dislike performing. There is something about it that, instead of allowing me to open up, causes me to implode. With composing, the wall of the musical score frees me from this. (A similar thing with opera/musical singing: like Carol Burnett, I do not like singing as myself, but as a character, I feel liberated). The game of composing is also more enjoyable than the physical exploits of playing or singing (I don't like practicing all too much, in other words). And I like to listen to and enjoy music as I am involved with it, which solo performing rarely allows me to do, so involved am I in the physicality of it.

I began composing almost before I began learning the piano. In the interim between dropping the saxophone and taking up the keyboard, my mind was awhirl with music winding about and coming out in humming. Then I saw an infomercial for a set of Classical CD's; I loved the music instantly, and I thought to myself that I could write music like that. At the time, the only thing of music I had was an instruction book for saxophone, which had a little music theory inside. Barely understanding what was going on, I created my own staff paper using notebook paper and tried to think through the notes; this is difficult when you don't have an instrument nor perfect pitch. Luckily, I had started tinkering with a friend's piano, so I had some help. My first piece was quite ambitious: a multi-movement suite for piano called Egyptian Sunrise (inspired by those dinky exercises one sees in beginners piano books). It was unfinished and ungodly, since a.) I knew nothing about Egyptian music beyond the stereotypical harmonic minor scale, and b.) I still composed most of it away from the piano (in my head). But it was a start, and I at least had the good sense to abandon this hopeless project.

A year or two went by with what amounted to experimenting; the only thing I can remember writing in that time was a little march for piano inspired by the spring, which I would reuse for a string quartet. During my freshman year, I saw a production of Side by Side by Sondheim, and this led to two things: a desire to write musicals, and an attempt to pick out one of the songs that I really liked, "You Must Meet My Wife." Though I failed at figuring it out, the resulting melody led to my first truly worthwhile piece, "Morning Suite" (what was it with me and suites?), an impressionistic work before I really knew anything about Impressionism. Then, in the summer between freshman and sophomore year, I composed a three movement piano sonata, which I was really proud of. Looking back on it, it has several lovely melodies, but as whole . . . it is juvenile. Around this time, I was also learning how to use Finale (Notepad), and being able to have more legible scores. One day, I timidly played for my choir teacher my sonata, and she suggested that I submit it to the Illinois All-State Composition Competition. Encouraged, I worked on getting it into ready form, but time was running short, and I was beginning to think that "Morning Suite" would be a more suitable option, so I submitted that instead. I was astounded when I was awarded third place in the keyboard category. Repeating this success next year "The Inspired Rag," the lack of compositional self-esteem flitted away, and from junior year on, I was determined to become a composer. 

A Decade of Music, Part 2

I have been singing for almost as long as I have been playing the piano. In 7th grade, I joined my first choir, a standard group, and soon thereafter the school's show choir. I was also involved in musicals, though I never had a major (singing) role. My singing voice didn't develop the same way my friends' voices did, and though I got solos, they were rarely the leading ones. This began changing during high school, though even then, I was relied on more as a section leader (partly because of my piano skills, which allowed me to help people learn parts). What those who got the bigger/better parts had that I didn't was voice lessons. My parents simply could not afford to pay for both piano AND voice lessons, I didn't have a job, so I just didn't bother. Nevertheless, I had a very good choir teacher who helped me learn the basics of good vocal technique.

When I arrived in college, I could sing quite decently. Up to then I had been singing baritone, which was a compromise for the fact that I just didn't know which way my voice would go, tenor or true baritone/bass. By my fourth semester, I had changed to the tenor section, for the low notes were starting to hurt.

As mentioned above, I had been in musicals all throughout public school; then I had two years during college when I was involved in no shows. The only opportunity at Webster for a non-theatre major to be in a musical production was to join the Opera Studio. I love opera, and, as I will discuss in the next part, want to write them, so this was a perfect thing for me. I avoided the Studio for two years because I wasn't taking voice lessons and lacked confidence in myself; enough people convinced me that I had a good enough voice for it, so I auditioned at the beginning of my junior year. We had to have two pieces, and wanting to show my versatility (and thinking I might still be a baritone), I learned "It is enough" from Mendelssohn's Elijah and "Blow, Gabriel, Blow" from Cole Porter's Anything Goes. Since I gave my earlier spot to someone who needed it, I was last to go, and the judges were tired, enough so that I only got to sing the first one. It was enough, apparently, because the judges were blown away, it seems. I was asked if I took lessons, I replied in the negative, and Professor Gaspar, the head of the voice department at Webster, worked on changing that. However, the problem then was the same as it was before: I just couldn't afford to take two lessons. Thankfully, higher ups worked their magic and I received a scholarship that allowed me to pursue voice.

My teacher, who was one of the judges, was pretty much certain from the start that I should be a tenor. He told me that, though I sang the Mendelssohn wonderfully, it was both too advanced for me (which I was afraid of) and didn't fit my voice quite well. I had to retrain myself to accept that what I heard was not what others heard, and that what I thought was a rich sound was actually dying before leaving the mouth. There was also some nasality. To fix both problems, I learned to focus my sound in a very forward place; though this has led to some negative comments on my juries, my teacher tells me that it is but a step in a process. The way forward is up, literally.

Since the field of vocal music is so far-flung, I'll spare myself the effort of compiling a list of favorites (yes, lazy talk), and just give you what is for me, at the moment, the perfect song, Franz Schubert's "Gretchen am Spinnrade" ("Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel"). What will forever abide in my mind is the move, towards the end, to iv7 (subdominant) after a steady buildup.

Anarchy is Not Mayhem

Note: I wrote this in January 10, 2011 with the intention of submitting it to my university's newspaper. The following is an exact copy of a Facebook note I posted for people to comment on. After taking their suggestions, I decided against sending it, for various reasons (laziness being one of them).

This is an editorial I plan to submit to the Webster newspaper, the Journal.  Please let me know of any faults with grammar and such.  And please keep in mind, I believe the maximum word count is 750, which I kept under, so condensing was required.

Anarchy is Not Mayhem

"Blood will have blood."

-Macbeth

    Force is to be understood here as aggression, the outright disregard of another's will and property.  Several of the Ten Commandments could be summed up thus: Thou shalt not use force.  Murder, rape, vandalism, theft: these are all force; included also are the denial of rights, really a form of theft, and the enforcement of one's decrees on another, which is truly a form of rape.  In essence, force is the transgression of property, whether it is a person's own self or things outside himself but under his control.  When you have someone who seeks to deny you the right to use your property peacefully, they are declaring force; when you have others who claim violence as a means to retrieve this right, they too are declaring force.  I shall be blunt: the former is the instance of government, and the latter is the instance of the popular concept of the anarchist.  Yet, here is a paradox, for one cannot be one or its opposite if they are in truth the same (this dilemma arises with Democrats and Republicans).  If, as I believe, government is the monopolizing agent of force, then how can an anarchist, one who is anti-government, also employ force?

    I came to write this because, as a professed anarchist, I was dismayed by recent events that have made the news.  First, there was the shooting at a school board meeting in Florida on December 15, 2010, at which the gunman had spray-painted an encircled "V," possibly alluding to V for Vendetta.  Then there was the recent massacre in Arizona involving Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords, in which six were murdered by an unstable fellow.  In this case, those who knew him personally say he was quite liberal, but the media, such as the New York Times, are trying to make him an example of the recent resurgence of the right-wingers.  A case closer to home: on a brick retaining wall near the new pathway at our university, someone spray-painted an encircled "A," supposedly emulating the anarchy symbol.  Though these are supposedly the  actions of anarchists or far right-wing nuts, they are examples of force.  These people are not fundamentally anti-government, only disturbed and mislead individuals who used the same measures the government does. [In addition to these, I add the recent summary assassination of Osama bin Laden.]

    Which brings me to what initially inspired the first notion to write this article.  I was given an anarchy magazine that one can find in the basement of the Pearson House (English building of Webster University).  The things I read were repellent.  In the name of anarchy, these hedonists were committing acts of trespassing, vandalism, theft, physical harm; they supported Marxist ideals, which in actuality are only possible by means of the most despotic government; and were otherwise faux-intellectuals.  These detestable people do not despise the government because they hate its use of force, but because they are jealous of its monopoly on it, just as it is itself.

    For one to truly be an anarchist, one must not fight fire with fire: "Government is not reason, it is not eloquence, it is force; like fire, a troublesome servant and a fearful master," to quote George Washington.  One must renounce the fire itself, to remove the mantle of force.  Though I am against government, I deplore the violence visited upon its members, such as Congresswoman Giffords, because it only perpetuates the problem, because "blood will have blood"; to use force would make me that which I abhor.  Therefore, just as surely as government is aggression, anarchy is peace; do not let upset, deranged, or narcissistic people let you think otherwise.    

The Death of an Enemy

America's relation with Osama is a stinking history. In Obama's speech, he conveniently left out that before Osama was our enemy, he was our ally, that the weapons we gave him and his cohorts to combat the Soviets were later to be used against us. Then we invade the Middle East, fight for ten years, slaughter thousands, to find one miserable wretch. He will be replaced, and the American government will continue its endless war to repeatedly eliminate the top man. Warmongers thrive on bogeymen, or, as George Orwell so named him, Emmanuel Goldsteins, the man concocted by Big Brother to give a center of hate for the masses in order to control them.

Now, they have buried Osama at sea. My suspicions concerning the veracity of this kill are even greater now. The American government has been wrong (i.e. lied) before about the deaths of targets, and I wouldn't put them above doing it this time. The number one proof that THE Osama bin Laden is no more is now residing in Davy Jones' Locker.

This is, again, a rank history of events. The terrorists (rather, those foreign terrorists) do not, for the most part, want to destroy us because of our liberty and prosperity. Osama may have particularly nihilistic reasons for his actions, but the only way he was able to recruit common people was to entice them with solid, pragmatic reasons for the U.S. is the enemy. Most of these can be boiled down to this: our government meddles, violently or otherwise, in their affairs. Just as we would never tolerate some other entity fixing and even controlling our business, so to do they not appreciate it. Our impossible War against Terrorism (rather, foreign terrorists) is the most meddlesome affair yet, and the only thing it has accomplished is a deepening of resentment and destruction-lusting hatred among peoples who otherwise would, most likely, like us.

I do not rejoice the death of Osama bin Laden. It will not end anything. As the American government has been dealt blow after blow, this will be used to give it some momentary reprieve, a curtain of success to hide the wretched fraud hiding behind it. He will be replaced with some other Public Enemy #1; the blogger Lew Rockwell posted some comments from a Darien Sumner on a blog, one of which was that the invasion of Libya made a little more sense, since Gadhafi can now be the new Osama for a while. I will be ecstatic when the American Empire recedes to its own shores and, at least, resumes being the American Republic.

Now for a thing of (relevant) beauty. In my last concert at Webster University, the choirs and orchestra performed Ralph Vaughan Williams' Dona Nobis Pacem, which was written between the World Wars. It was quite a bizarre experience singing this piece, then coming home to learn that Osama was dead. Anyway, this is the gorgeous third movement, "Reconciliation," with text by Walt Whitman.