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.

{ fin }

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.

{ fin }

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!

{ fin }

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.

{ fin }

The Cabrillo Festival (which is discussed in more detail in the post, New Trends for New Music) starts in one week, which means I am in the throes of final preparation right now. This year, as every year, I am wondering how I am going to get everything learned in time, especially with a difficult concerto added to the mix. Playing new music is always demanding; composers don’t always have what I would call a perfect grasp on how to write effectively for the trumpet. A couple of composers this year suffer from one of my personal pet peeves — I call it the D Trumpet Disorder. This condition leads to parts like this:

A classic example of DTD

I can see it now, the composer sitting guiltily at his desk, wanting to stretch the range of the trumpet to include that high E, held by the knowledge that it really is not a reasonable thing to write. “I know,” he thinks excitedly, “I’ll write it for D trumpet! It will still have a big sound, but it will be easy to play!” With the guilt now gone, the composer hurriedly transposes the part into D, and voila! problem solved. Right? Not so fast…

The D trumpet is not a panacea for all that ails our beast of an instrument. That high concert E is still a concert E, no matter if it is played on a Bb, C, D, or Eb trumpet. In fact, for me personally, I’d rather play the high E on my C trumpet than on a D. Hakan Hardenberger mentioned something similar when he told me that he plays the Maxwell Davies Sonata on C trumpet (rather than on D trumpet as indicated in the part). He said that he just doesn’t see any reason to use D. I tend to agree, though the piece is not exactly easy no matter what you play it on. On D trumpets I have tried, the upper register gets a bit tight and tends to be even harder to play above concert D than my C trumpet. I do find that playing on one of the small instruments (G or piccolo) does make it noticeably easier, but it is still certainly no walk in the park. Now don’t get me wrong, I love my D trumpet, and I find many great uses for it, especially in the orchestra; I just don’t tend to use it for extreme high register parts.

You may be curious as to what exactly has driven me to write this article. After all, it’s really not that big of a deal. If the composer has written for D trumpet, then you can still transpose it to piccolo, which is what I almost always do without a fuss. This time, though, the part continues past what is indicated in the image above. It goes a few lines, and then changes key — to Db major — and then it continues for a full page after that. Now, this transposition wouldn’t be too bad, except for the fact that the part is loaded with accidentals. So now, I am doing mental acrobatics while playing outrageously high trumpet parts at the end of an intense festival, at the end of a long concert — a concert which, it just so happens, occurs twice on the last day day. Now that makes me cranky.

You see, if the composer had simply left the part in C, then I could choose for myself what kind of wuss-out tool would be best for the job, and then I could quietly go to said tool when the going gets rough, glady accepting the compliments afterward for nailing the screaming high trumpet part. Of course, the composer too, would then have to suffer the indignity of anyone who is familiar with the normal range for the trumpet looking at the score and saying, “What the hell was this idiot thinking here?” Most composers don’t really like to take the chance of such a thing, so the D Trumpet Disorder bails them out. Meanwhile, I am left to pick way through the minefield. Sometimes life just isn’t fair.

{ fin }