This morning I had coffee with Peter Maxwell Davies. Well, not the real Maxwell Davies, but with his music. Specifically, I had coffee with a brash 19 year old version of him who had the gall (thankfully) to write a compact hard driving Sonata that pushed the bounds of what is possible on the instrument, and has since become a staple of the solo trumpet repertoire.

Lately I have been giving a lot of thought to creating an effective recital program that will feature music from my yet to be released solo CD (exciting news on that coming very soon) while also including some of the high points of the trumpet repertoire. And whenever I think of programming pieces from the trumpet and piano rep, I quickly turn to that brash Sonata by the young Maxwell Davies, the piece he considers to be his opus 1. If you ask me, this piece makes a pretty impressive opus 1! Ironically, as much I have always liked this piece, I have never performed it. I guess there’s no time like the present…

My coffee time this morning was spent with the first movement, and in looking over the piano score I was struck by how unusual (yet critical) some of his choices are. For example, the piece has no time signature, but it is barred. Why? It would be no problem to notate time signatures throughout the piece. Perhaps this is my 21st century eyes looking at it, but why not notate the changing time signatures? The opening bars for instance would be: 4/4 (8/8), 2/4 (4/8), 9/16, 7/16, 2/8, 2/4 (4/8) etc. Perhaps when this was written it was not common practice to use time signatures like 7/16 and 9/16, or perhaps Maxwell Davies found a certain charm in the ambiguity created by omitting them. If the latter was the case, I’m not sure it worked, because I think the only way to actually count it is to break it down into some kind of meter, which means that the soloist then will have to simply supply the meters himself. Besides, it’s not like it can actually be ambiguous. After all, 9/16 is 9/16. It can only be what it is.

Another interesting aspect of the first movement is that he has chosen to have the 8th note get the beat, but he makes no notation to indicate that. He simply marks Allegro moderato at the top with no further indication. If you have never seen the score, it can be quite disarming at first sight. The page full of 16ths with no meter looks more like a black and white Jackson Pollock painting than you might like to admit — the complexity takes a while to process. If he had chosen, however, to have the quarter note to get the beat, then some of those above mentioned “meters” would not have seemed so daunting (if he was even concerned about that at all) and the piece would have had a distinctly friendlier appearance. The opening of the piece would then be rewritten to look like this: Bar 1 becomes two 4/4 bars of one whole note each, Bar 2 = 4/4 with a half note and half rest, bar 3 = 2/4, bar 4 = 9/8, bar 5 = 7/8 and so on… Now don’t get me wrong, I love the decision to give the 8th note the beat and have the 16th be the driving pulse for the piece; it just feels right. But I find this kind of decision making by composers — as they translate the music in their heads to the music on the page — a really fascinating process.

This piece would have a very different look and feel if notated differently. And I think the choice made by the composer to choose a specific notation has a noticeable impact on the way it sounds, even in cases like this where the actual content would be unaltered (all the notes and proportions would remain the same). Why, you may ask? The reason lies in the perception of the piece by the soloist. For instance, 16ths are faster than 8ths, more frantic, more motion and turbulence; 8ths are slower and less frantic, more stable. Of course, I have experienced many 8th note passages with a chip on their shoulder and a point to prove, bearing the turbulence of the world on their shoulders, but even in those cases, when the 16ths join in, that character gets heightened. If Maxwell Davies had chosen to notate the piece with the quarter getting the beat and the 8th notes providing the pulse, then this movement would have looked less frantic, less hair-raising, and it would have sounded that way in performance too. And if you know this movement, then you would understand that that would simply not do. Perhaps that is the rational for the missing meters as well. Maybe he wants to cause the soloist that feeling of disorientation leading to panic, an effort to bring out the frenzied, edgy nature of the movement, and indeed, the piece. Or alternatively, perhaps he wanted to create a sense of freedom on the part of the soloist, a feeling that we are no longer bound by earthly meters, but are free to roam the rhythmic heavens at a whim, in spite of the fact that we remain bound and tied to our rhythmic structure — like one of those hot air balloons at big tourist areas, ascending into the sky while remaining firmly fixed to the ground with a large offending rope or wire. It would be nice to ask him. Maybe a cup of coffee with the actual man, and not just his music, is in order.

But for now, while this exploration of musical notation and interpretation is a fascinating one, I’m afraid further discussion will have to wait. You see, my coffee is done, and I actually have to go and learn how to play this thing! For some reason, it is required that I know how to buzz my lips into a tiny metal cup in order to perform this piece. Go figure…

Given all this discussion, I think it is only appropriate that I include an audio example from the sonata. I have attached a clip of the opening of this movement performed by the inimitable Håkan Hardenberger with Roland Pontinen on piano. This recording is from his CD The Virtuoso Trumpet. If you don’t own this recording, check it out. It’s extraordinary. Perhaps now you will enjoy a morning coffee with Mr. Davies as well.

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I woke this morning to the tragic and shocking news that Fred Mills, former cornerstone of the Canadian Brass and Trumpet Professor at the University of Georgia, was killed last night in a car accident.

I never had the pleasure of meeting Fred. He was one of those people looming in the trumpet community who I hold in the highest esteem, one who leaves a deep impression on those he touches, but one who I had never actually met. I always knew that at some point I would get to meet him as we both journeyed along this narrow, trumpet-filled musical path. Sadly, I was wrong.

I still remember the day I first heard Fred Mills play, though. My Dad came bounding through the front door one afternoon with a gleaming new record (yes, a record) under his arm. “You have to hear this,” he said. So I listened. And I listened some more. In some ways, I feel like I never stopped listening. It was a recording of the Canadian Brass playing the Tocatta and Fugue in D Minor by J.S. Bach, and if ever there was a landmark recording in the brass world, I would say that was it. The recording was sensational; the buzz surrounding the recording was off the charts. Up to that point, I had never heard any brass group play on that level. They seemed to set a new bar for what was possible on a brass instrument. The level of virtuosity, especially in the trumpets, was staggering. The recording inspired me. It made me aware that there was so much more I could do on my instrument than I was doing at the time. I was a good high school trumpet player when I first heard it, but after hearing it, I started to truly understand the limits of simply being a good high school trumpet player. I knew there were bigger mountains to climb and a lot of talented people climbing them; if I was going to be competitive then I would have to raise my game. It was that simple.

That recording opened my eyes both musically and professionally. It inspired me to dig deeper and to try harder. Of course there were reams of fantastic recordings and performances that followed, but for me, that recording was it. It was a defining moment.

So on this day of sadness in our trumpet community, I would like to extend my sincerest condolences to Fred’s family and friends. They have suffered an enormous loss. And to Fred… Well, if there were some way to turn back the clock — watching the paths of our lives retreat into days gone by — I would go back and make a slight detour, just a little jaunt out of the way, to a point where our paths crossed, and to where I could extend a hand and offer the warmest and most sincere thank you I can muster. His work touched people all over the world in ways that he could never have imagined, and I for one, am incredibly grateful.

Rest in Peace Fred Mills. You will be missed.

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Here I am — once again blogging from the airplane, thumbing my way across my tiny virtual keyboard, able now to reflect on what was an unpredictable, edgy, adventurous, and successful music festival, a festival that defies conventional classical music world logic, that challenges its audience and orchestra in unimaginable ways, and in so doing, rewards them in an equally fascinating and unpredictable manner. Cabrillo. Marin Alsop. Santa Cruz. This is where it’s at if you want to know what is actually happening in art music today (or the so-called and woefully named “classical music” if you prefer). For two short weeks in Santa Cruz, some of the best musicians in the world convene for a musical exploration that is unparalleled and truly out of this world, and the 2009 edition certainly did not disappoint.

You may wonder about the basis on which I stake these grandiose claims. If so, pull up a google window and check these names out.

Composers in attendance in 2009: Osvaldo Golijov, Avner Dorman, Brett Dean, David Heath, Enrico Chapela, Joby Talbot, Kevin Puts, Ingram Marshall.

Other notable composers who had pieces featured in 2009: Aaron Jay Kernis, James MacMillan, Magnus Lindberg.

Throw in a fantastic orchestra, an incredibly efficient management team, and an out-of-this-world music director in Marin Alsop — one of the foremost champions of new music, a leader with artistic vision, musical integrity of the highest caliber, and a work ethic that would make Paul Bunyan weep — and the result is a sort of musical perfect storm: a two week Santa Cruzian Nirvana for music and musicians.

In case you can’t tell, I had a pretty good time at Cabrillo. I had intended to write regularly during the festival, but as it continued to unfold before me, it became more and more difficult to find time to even reflect on what was going on, much less write about it. On top of that, my second week of the festival featured a major concerto performance combined with an untimely and completely unexpected lip infection. Got your attention now? I thought maybe. No need to worry though, the concerto performance came off beautifully and received a rousing reception, all thanks to the miracle of antibiotics. Well, that and literally countless hours of preparation, but you probably guessed that part already.

As the festival approaches each year, and as I prepare the unrelenting music, I wonder how we will ever live through it this time. But each year as the festival closes, I am left wondering how we will live without it.

In the next few days I’ll recount some of my experiences from the last two weeks, the same experiences I had planned on communicating while they happened, but which sucked me in to such a degree that they left me unable to write about them as they unfolded.

Perhaps through these writings you will see why I think the Cabrillo Festival of Contemporary Music is such an extraordinary event, and why I think it deserves even more attention than it already gets. But for right now, I’m going to raise my tray table, close my eyes, and rest — the sounds from yesterday’s concert in the Mission San Juan Bautista still soaring through my mind.

CabMuFest 09 has come and gone. I for one, am sad to see it go, but with the 2009 version disappearing in the rear-view mirror, I am already looking forward to the next one emerging on the horizon, curious about all the wonders it may have in store. Bring it on.

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After writing about the spinning tubes used in Brett Dean’s Moments of Bliss and being unable to secure the actual name for the tube, I posted the question to my friends on Facebook. One of them wrote back with a link to a page about the “Bloogle Resonator”, so I visited this page and found that it described pretty accurately what I was talking about. There was also a picture, but this picture seemed to be on about the same level as one my 5 year old would take with his PlaySchool camera, so I was not totally convinced it was the same instrument that I mentioned in We’re Off….

Later that day, I happened upon Ellen Primack, the Executive Director of the Cabrillo Festival. She walked up to me, and with little warning quickly beamed, “Whirly Tubes!”. This caught me off guard at first, but I quickly realized that she had read my previous post and was informing me that those little spinning tubes are in fact called “Whirly Tubes”.

Now to me, this name makes a lot more sense than “Bloogle Resonator”, and a quick Google search reveals plenty of results for Whirly Tubes, but almost nothing for Bloogle Resonator. Certainly, the name “Whirly Tube” much better fits my childhood memories — five years old, standing in front of my grandmother’s house, whirling and twirling the tube as fast as I could, trying to make the highest possible pitch emerge from the spinning blur in front of me…

But in the end, I think the best argument for this name was the instant recognition by David Heath and Avner Dorman (composers featured at this year’s festival) at Ellen’s mention of the name, “Whirly Tubes”. All three of them knew of other pieces that called for them and quickly began discussing the merits of including Whirly Tubes in a piece. As I sat and watched this discussion — two of the world’s most respected living composers discussing the role and musical merits, or lack thereof, of a little plastic toy called a “Whirly Tube” — I couldn’t help but think of what a surreal scene it was, and that really, this conversation simply could not happen anywhere else.

Santa Cruz and Cabrillo. For two jam-packed weeks in August it truly is the place to be for anyone interested in the beautiful but somewhat wacky world of contemporary music. Now, if only they let me play the Whirly Tubes!

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I was listening to the radio this morning –

The radio?
Yes.
Not your iPod or computer?
No, the radio. An actual radio. With a knob
In the car?
No, at home.
They make them for the home?
Yes.
Do you have to pay for it?
No, it’s free.
What’s it like?
It’s like an iPod where someone else picks the music.
Weird.
No, it’s actually pretty cool, because they pick things that I wouldn’t pick on my own.
Don’t they sometimes pick stuff you hate?
Sure, but they also pick things I love, and most importantly, they pick things that I love, but that I would never have picked on my own.
Like what?
Well, that’s what I was trying to write about when you interrupted me.
Oh. Sorry.

Anyway, I turned the radio on this morning and the local classical station was playing Aaron Copland’s Red Pony. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to hear the entire piece, but I really enjoyed what I did catch. It has been a while since I listened to any Copland, but I found myself wondering why, as I listened on the radio this morning. He has such a distinctive style: extraordinary use of color and texture in his orchestration, simple and clear themes… His is a defining voice of American classical music, if not the defining voice. What is perhaps the most extraordinary about his music, though, is how instantly recognizable it is. Whether you are listening to one of his more popular pieces (Appalachian Spring, Rodeo, Billy the Kid) or one of his more obscure (Inscape, Orchestral Variations) you can always tell it is him. This is a trait of a great artist: a voice so clear and strong that it transcends whatever form or technique is used and emerges as a profound and distinctly unique voice amongst a chorus of voices.

That is what I was thinking over coffee this morning. But it’s not all I was thinking: I thought also of Steinbeck, whose novella was the origin of the movie and the inspiration of the music; of my time in the San Francisco Symphony and our recording of the Copland the Populist CD (one of my favorites of all the orchestral recordings I have done); of playing principal trumpet on that recording of Appalachian Spring with (Andrew McCandless playing an incredible second trumpet); of the fire and energy that Michael Tilson Thomas created in the orchestra, especially for that recording. All of this was on my mind because I just happened to turn the radio on and listen while having a cup of coffee. This is not music I would have ever chosen to put on myself this morning, not on any device. But there it was. On the radio. And the fact that it was there is what got me thinking, the fact that it existed without my having chosen it, that it was there for all to hear. I was a musical tourist, bumping shoulders with other musical tourists listening from their homes and cars all around South florida, reflecting on what was being broadcast, each of our thoughts and feelings overlapping here, contrasting there…

As much as I love my iPod, these thoughts and memories would have never flowed from it. Perhaps the radio is not as outdated as some might believe. I’m glad I turned it on.

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