And two years ago today, in “I didn’t even see the irony, Officer, honest!”
Watch 1,000 Musicians Play Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall (Part Two)”
— Porridger’s Almanack (Breakfast of Ganglions)
Now, in November 1967, numb with chronic fatigue, I discovered that the spirit of competition may be the needed philosophical foundation for a free-market economy, but for the individual human being the urge to be overly active is, at best, a delusion and at worst a psychological illness. Since I knew myself to be afflicted by it, this was now the time to overhaul my life. As I struggled with the decisions how to do this and that, As I sat up late at night rummaging in the recesses of my mind, I recalled scenes that were filed away but never forgotten.
There was the illness and the death of [Dimitri] Mitropoulos. After finishing one grueling eight-week stint with the New York Philharmonic, he had a heart attack and landed in hospital within two days of the final concert. Having little else to live for he returned too soon to the orchestra and to the Met, for the inevitable second attack and further hospitalization. As if on a suicidal mission he undertook in 1960 to prepare the Third Mahler Symphony with the orchestra of Milan’s La Scala and died during a rehearsal, Perhaps through shock from the proverbial chaotic conditions of Italy’s musical world.
There are always romantic tail spinners who will proclaim this to be an heroic end. To me it is a sorry finale for a distinguished and good man. Even the obituary in the New York Times mentioned, with more accuracy than delicacy, that all the unparalleled kindnesses to players did not obtain for Mitropoulos their best efforts. There is, alas, no relation between human empathy and musical good behavior.
— Erich Leinsdorf, Cadenza: A Musical Career
Well, am I composing again yet? Yes and no. Finding myself, on one hand, with the shades of a question mark hovering over the Ensemble, or at least over its calendar, and on the other a wish to write something, only not for the shelf, please, I took an inspirational cue from my friend Luke Ottevanger and decided to write brief easy piano pieces. Two, thus far.
When Greta & Mike presented the clarinet/bassoon version of Janky Juke Joint, our Todd immediately expressed interest in playing it. So this is not an absolute surprise. Still, I wasn’t expecting Friday’s message from Greta that she & Todd had got together Thursday and that they also read the bass clarinet/bassoon version of the Lamentatio. So, it is for Greta & Todd that I shall compose the Op. 212.
Another alien in another movie who oversimplifies, and gets it wrong. “Everything you [humans] created is used to destroy.” Hello? One word: Music. Do a little homework before off-handedly condemning the race, hunh? — Porridger’s Almanack (Breakfast of Ganglions)
A person who wishes to stay in public life must edit what he says or he must allow others to tone down and rephrase opinions, ideas, and statements, lest a personal truth in unpalatable form make trouble. There arrives a moment in a man’s career — if it has not been wholly inconsequential — when he wants to say what he really feels and thinks. Autobiography is well suited to such a purpose if three principal pitfalls inherent in that genre are avoided. First there is the “Apologia Pro Vita Sua,” then “Get Even with the Bastards,” and finally “Mellow Memories of Overripe Age,” all of which I have aimed to avoid. I feel no need to apologize. If any bastard got the better of me I blamed myself and I have no further need for getting even. Mellow I am not and while some of my memories are bathed in a glow I believe that — in many respects — the Golden age is with us right now, at least for the professional who performs music. If one does not overestimate the significance of the small cabals, my profession is honest. The attempts at “corriger la fortune” lead either nowhere or not very far. Perhaps there is a difference between my definition of success and that of simpler minds to whom money and notoriety spell fulfillment. Ultimately each of us faces only the Self, whom we cannot cheat. — Erich Leinsdorf, Cadenza: A Musical Career
My friend and colleague Aaron Larget-Caplan has selected the Henning Opus 203, Uneasy Sleep to be part of his second Bach & Beer event at the Lilypad in Cambridge next month.
When along came a spider whose backside was wider,
And elbowed Miss Muffet away.
— Postcards From Red Squirrel Trail
“I’m loaded with options” — legend on an apron worn by Peter Falk at a barbecue in The In-Laws
Lawd, but there’s scarcely any Richard Strauss missing here. One notable omission from my standpoint is the Metamorphosen, but overall one gathers that Reiner considered Strauss the most significant composer in his lifetime. There is just the super-saturation of Beethoven and Brahms which one would expect. There are two recordings of the Schumann Piano Concerto, but no symphonies of either Schumann or Mendelssohn. Somehow, no Mendelssohn Violin Concerto. A mild smattering of Haydn and Mozart symphonies. If you asked me. I should probably say I prefer HIP to otherwise for Mozart. However, I just cannot argue with a recording that sounds this good. There are even two Mozart divertimenti (including of course Eine kleine Nachtmusik.) This was well before questions of historical practice arose, so on one hand this is some distance from the composer’s sonic experience. On t’other, one clearly cannot fault a conductor for the wish to present these works. French and Russian music perforce take a back seat, and the only Italian music is Respighi’s Pines and Fountains. Of nineteenth-century Russians, we find the usual suspects. From Reiner’s own century, Audience-friendly Rakhmaninov is represented both by the expected concertante works and Isle of the Dead. The only Stravinsky works are the non-threatening Chant du rossignol and the Divertimento (suite from Le baiser de la fée) the latter is paired with the landmark recording of Hovhaness Magic Mountain Symphony, which is both the first commercially available recording of that composer’s work and the only work by an American composer in the box (pace the expatriate Czech composer Jaromír Weinberger, whose Polka and Fugue from the opera, Švanda Dudák appears. The greatest curiosity in the box, perhaps, is a Concerto for Jazzband and Symphony Orchestra by Swiss composer Rolf Liebermann.
To give you an idea of his character: when he popped the question, the enraged question popped right back. — Porridger’s Almanack (Breakfast of Ganglions)
I am without hope. I am a dispossessed soul tiptoeing in agony across the wasteland of my shattered dreams.... — a despondent guru in Rod Serling's Night Gallery.
This week in “Nobody can tell me this is a Smart Speaker” ... I instructed the Echo device to pause; I asked the device what the track was; asked the device to resume playing; and promptly heard: I am not sure what to resume.
We had some excellent and highly productive Henning Ensemble rehearsals in July. We have not, however, succeeded in finding a date or dates on which to present a program. Furthermore, a misalignment of heavenly bodies has frustrated attempts to find musically productive rehearsal time in August. Merely reporting facts.
Before I understood the degree to which Project Concert was slouching towards Limbo, I adapted the Magnificat from the Op. 87 Evening Service in D (an event which was a particular musical success, I felt, albeit St Paul’s would give me the cold shoulder later) for our Quintet.
The We-Wouldn’t-Dream-of-Making-Trouble Dead — Postcards From Red Squirrel Trail
I was feeling a little disgruntled with the world at the time and had put together about six different plots, each of which ended with the destruction of the world in a different way, and for a different reason. It was to be called “The Ends of the Earth.” While I was filling in the details of the first plot—in which the earth was demolished to make way for a new hyperspace express route—I realized that I needed to have someone from another planet around to tell the reader what was going on, to give the story the context it needed. So I had to work out who he was and what he was doing on the Earth... ...the BBC’s attitude toward the show [the radio production of THE HITCHHIKER’S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY] while it was in production was very similar to that which Macbeth had toward murdering people—initial doubts, followed by cautious enthusiasm and then greater and greater alarm at the sheer scale of the undertaking and still no end in sight. Reports that Geoffrey and I and the sound engineers were buried in a subterranean studio for weeks on end, taking as long to produce a single sound effect as other people took to produce an entire series (and stealing everybody else’s studio time in which to do so) were all vigorously denied but absolutely true. The budget of the series escalated to the point that it could have practically paid for a few seconds of DALLAS ....
— The late, great Douglass Adams
Having been around the block a few times, I know the difference between today and ever after. So yes, this is today.
All in all, pleased with what I have composed in 2026 so far, the Opp. 205-210, albeit less than half an hour of music all told.
Although I have some notions for a new piece/adaptation or two (and an unfinished chamber orchestra piece) the plain fact is that today I feel no particular motivation to creative work, particularly no need to write another large-scale work for the shelf.
This is not despondency, but merely a current report. I could see the situation turning on a dime. I do not, at the moment, see the dime.
I was thinking of a piece for horn and organ, but the response to my suggestion was at best unenthusiastic, and I do not feel like writing another piece no one else actually wants.
Ernest Borgnine playing a Russian (in Ice Station Zebra.) Now I have lived! — Porridger’s Almanack (Breakfast of Ganglions)
A dull, argumentative bigmouth who sets back the art of conversation a thousand years... — Rod Serling (1963)
With the completion of One for Ahmad, Op. 208 for the 1 December troika, and apparently semi-subconsciously reflecting that there is probably room/need for another piece, yesterday I wrapped up the Opus 210. Semi-subconsciously, because a night or two before I dreamt of composing a piece. In my dream the initial conceit of the piece came to me clearly: an ostinato with the two flutes which takes its time, thereby setting up the drama of the bass clarinet entrance. In my dream the piece bore the title The Measure of a Life, which is one of those things which seemed better in the dreamworld than upon waking. But what I felt was the title which suited the piece as it took shape in my waking labors was Gravity Is What Keeps Me Abed at Night.
While it is by no means the chiefest of my quarrels with Peter Jackson’s Tolkien adaptation, the accent in Sméagol is so glaringly obvious, I fail to see any rationale whatsoever for rhyming it with “beagle.” — Porridger’s Almanack (Breakfast of Ganglions)
Gene Wilder: Do you call this tea?
Marty Feldman: No, I call it hot water. I was rinsing out the cup when you grabbed it. — The Adventure of Sherlock Holmes’ Smarter Brother
First thoughts for our December date at King’s Chapel appeared here. However, we shall again be a trio, though a different trio. As a result, I have designated a new scoring and discovered new musical material for One for Ahmad, Op. 208. Dennis Báthory-Kitsz, Frank Warren & Chris Forbes have graciously and gamely consented to compose into the change, as well. And another new piece is sneaking up on me: Gravity Is What Keeps Me Abed at Night.
And we have July rehearsals in the book for the Sextet.
The Sound and the Chewy: A fable of the effable — Postcards From Red Squirrel Trail
Correct is not everything, even if I seem to make that point; rather, in this economically stressed culture, it tends to be an either-or choice. A composer colleague told me about an orchestral work that was commissioned and performed here--an acceptable, well-received, flawed performance. Some years later, he used his life savings to hire a pay-for-play orchestra in eastern Europe to record it. He said it was correct, a good example of his composition, but he was disappointed that it did not have the life and enthusiasm and raw musicality of the local performance. — Dennis Báthory-Kitsz, Soiled Amplitudes
Soiled Amplitudes, Dennis Báthory-Kitsz 2026
Subtitled My Musical Composition and Notational Aesthetic in Five Seasons. The subtitle does much of my work for me, but I shall try not to be lazy. I knew that graphic scores would be a significant part of the book, as I had seen the author call for samples while the book was in preparation. This review should not be about me, yet a word about my background is needed, I think, to put my review into fair perspective. From my days as an undergrad music student, graphic scores puzzled rather than stimulated me, and for the most part those puzzles did not engage me. During the years of my graduate work, I played from non-conventional notation a few times, usually in good faith. One of these occasions stands out as clearly the least musically gratifying performance experience in my life. Here in the Boston area two composers with whom I have collaborated have enjoyed working in graphic notation (worth pointing out that while I simply use “graphic notation” as shorthand, Dennis explains that there is a distinction between “graphical notation” and “performance scores”). I respect their enthusiasm without having felt any inclination as a composer to tread that musical path myself. That will serve as sufficient fair disclosure, though I will add that I saw Dennis’ book (I have collaborated with him and will therefore use his Christian name) as an opportunity to enjoy having what might be considered a musical deficit of mine challenged by a colleague’s expertise. The book is well organized, handsomely printed and well written. As a musical exositio pro vita sua, it was, I found, a thoroughly engaging and enjoyable read. Not only a composer, the author is a poet of the musically lost. Now and again, I’ll read a statement or would-be summation and I think, “Perhaps, or perhaps not.” And part of the value for myself of thst statement hs been the times when I found that I need to reflect, to ensure that if I set that assertion aside, there is deliberation in my process, and not the mere mental twitch that masquerades as so much “thought” in the present day. So although, as noted above, this review should not be about me, part of the book’s value for me was to prompt me to think and reflect on some matters which I had set aside sometime ago. The musician who is engaged by graphic notation, and others such as myself, will in their several ways find this a highly illuming tome and a conversational autobiography worth the resding.
Bubba Valentino stars in "The Last Lascar of NASCAR" — Postcards From Red Squirrel Trail
Sam! My daydream had come all too true! They were here because Sam’s body had been found! And with that thought the dream-like state became even deeper, and I suddenly couldn’t think at all. This is how it is, I thought, when you are on your deathbed: you are helpless, and you can’t think, and you just wait for the end to come, except you never see it coming, because you can't think, and so you just try to breathe one more time, without hope, without any future, and whatever is about to happen to you just happens. You have no control, no willpower to control: you are completely powerless. — Leo Schulte, Dial Emma for Murder
A Diary Found at Lynchburg, Leo Schulte
Potocki Press, 2022
Originally published as three separate titles—Why Begins With W: A Lesson in Murder, Dial Emma for Murder: A Killer’s Hang Up and Hex High School: Our Courses Are Cursed.
Notwithstanding the fact that I am, shall we say, well past the target age of this Young Adult trilogy, I have read the original three books multiple times, finding them both fresh and (by now) well familiar.
At the start of Why Begins With W, we learn of an apparent murder-suicide. However, the narrator (whose name and gender remain unknown throughout) comes to have doubts, and whether those doubts have any basis in the slippery facts is the question running through the three books. The narrator is befriended by two fellow students who, if they are reliable, appear to give reason to doubt the official police assessment of the case. The narrator is smart, though sufficiently self-aware to wonder if they’re as smart as they think. Both the first and second instalments end with cliff-hangers, and indeed my repeated experience has been that, having reached the end of Why Begins With W, I pretty much burn through the second and third books. The writing is witty and stylish, with coy, moderately hip references to pop culture. Also, like Sherlock Holmes (among others) our narrator finds classical music an aid to marshalling one’s thoughts. The narrator finds themself at repeated risk from delinquent schoolmates, is disappointed when making the attempt to interest crime professionals in an alternative view of the crimes (which proliferate over the course of the story.) At some point I shall read it again, so I certainly commend it to others’ reading.
I sometimes wonder, Is there any point to asking myself rhetorical questions? — Porridger’s Almanack (Breakfast of Ganglions)
Sounds are only clothes, garments. But what’s inside a piece of clothing is much more interesting, don’t you agree? — Giacinto Scelsi (1905-1988)
Back when I was still at work on the Opus 169 organ pieces I sent a couple to my friend and erstwhile collaborator, Mark T. Engelhardt. Mark was the Minister of Music at the Episcopal Cathedral Church of St Paul when I first appeared in Boston. And lo! while searching on YouTube this week, what do I find, but that Mark uploaded a performance of the Op. 169 № 1 five year ago. Sure, part of me wishes I'd known sooner but mostly I’m simply and deeply gratified that Mark likes the piece enough to record a performance.
Saw a great bumper sticker on the drive back from jury duty in May of 2010: Knowledge is power. Power corrupts. Study hard—Be evil. — Porridger’s Almanack (Breakfast of Ganglions)
...Prokofiev’s joy is that of a boy who has broken out into freedom, who thinks that everything is permitted, and who knows that he can achieve much. — Leonid Sabanayev
The flute adaptation of the Lamentio pro sorore sua seemed to be a more involved affair than I had mentally budgeted, and indeed I wrote earlier today essentially to the effect that I would punt for a week. However, when I took stock this afternoon, I was further along than I had given myself credit for, so that’s a wrap on the Opus 202c. I am planning on a symphonic band version of Dark Side of the Sun. Will report.
The Beach Boys: “Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older?”
Me: “Just wait a couple of years, boys.”
While the sextet dates are not yet pencilable I’ve been mulling our next King’s Chapel concert as a quartet. On the docket at the outset:
Frank Warren, Quartet # 3, Op. 119 (6'30)
Chris Forbes, Pillars of Creation(9')
Dennis Báthory-Kitsz, new piece t/b/d
Henning, Cape of Good Nope (6')
The concert falls on what would have been my sister’s 62nd birthday, so the temptation to adapt the Lamentatio pro sorore sua (3') for C Flute and Alto Flute was not to be resisted. I’ve also tweaked the scoring of Dark Side of the Sun (8'30, composed before we recruited Greta) essentially swapping Bassoon for the Double-Bass. I began composing One for Ahmad in the spring but pretty much neglected it since. Fresh ideas came a couple of days ago. It would serve as a most suitable close to the program.
Seen on Threads: "The Mayor in Jaws is still the Mayor in Jaws 2. It is so important to vote in your local elections. — Porridger’s Almanack (Breakfast of Ganglions)
You’re not a musician, you’re a nostalgia act. The truth which an Elvis impersonator doesn’t want to hear, in or out of The Twilight Zone.
It is that time of year to do some musical housekeeping. Disclaimer: Not actually a comprehensive list, for a reason too generally uninteresting to spell out.
Music for the Un-Hip Hop, Op. 178 № 1 Two C Flutes, 6:30 First perf. 8 Apr 2025
Surfing an Earthquake, Op. 190 Three C Flutes, 5:30 First perf. 8 Apr 2025
Snootful of Hooch, op. 159a Two C Flutes and Alto Flute, 6:30 First perf. 8 Apr 2025
Amorphous & Forward-Looking, Op. 196 C Flute, Alto Flute, Bass Clarinet, 5:30
First perf. 8 Apr 2025
Fantasy on When Jesus Wept, Op. 162a Piccolo, Alto Flute, B-flat Clarinet, 4:00 First perf. 8 Apr 2025
Dark Side of the Sun, Op. 193 C Flute, Alto Flute, Bass Clarinet, Contrabass 8:00 First perf. 6 Aug 2026
A Dance Floor for the Introverted, Op. 178 № 2 Two C Flutes, 5:30 First perf. 6 Aug 2026
Fantasia on a Theme by Rahsaan Roland Kirk, Op. 197 C Flute, Alto Flute, B-flat Clarinet, Contrabass 8:30 First perf. 6 Aug 2026
Jazz for Nostalgic Squirrels, Op. 117b C Flute, Alto Flute, B-flat Clarinet, Bass Clarinet, Bassoon & Contrabass 5:30 First perf. 5 Sep 2026
Fantasia on a Theme by Rahsaan Roland Kirk, Op. 197a C Flute, Alto Flute, B-flat Clarinet, Bass Clarinet, Bassoon & Contrabass 8:30 First perf. 5 Sep 2026
Lamentatio pro sorore sua, Op. 202a Bass Clarinet & Bassoon 3:00 First perf. 14 Oct 2026
Peace! The Charm’s Wound Up, Op. 204 C Flute, Alto Flute, Bass Clarinet & Bassoon, 3:45 First perf. 14 Oct 2026
Notes:Snootful of Hooch was originally for flute and vibraphone, and I have not despaired of its being thus presented someday.
It turns out that our Fall King’s Chapel date falls on my late sister’s birthday, so I am thinking about adapting the Lamentatio pro sorore sua (originally scored for two bass clarinets) for two flutes for the occasion.
Sir Neville Bartender and the Academy of St-Lemon-in-the-Peels
— Postcards From Red Squirrel Trail
Really don’t mind if you sit this one out.
— Ian Anderson, Jethro Tull’s Thick As a Brick
The two arrangements I posted about here, for clarinet (Mike Roesler) and bassoon (Greta Rosen) will be played as part of a variegated chamber music concert at First Lutheran Church in Malden, Massachusetts tomorrow at 4PM. The program opens with my friends Anne DiSciullo (horn) Paul Carlson (piano) and violinist Ann Irza (violin) playing the Brahms Horn Trio. and closes with a jazz set led by my acquaintance Larry Panzeri, a combo including my great friend Todd Brunel.
I just learnt that the eye of the ostrich is larger than its brain: just like the President! — Porridger’s Almanack (Breakfast of Ganglions)
Of all the artists recording at CBS Columbia Square in Hollywood, the Firesign Theatre understood best of all what it meant to make futuristic records in the context of Vietnam and the setbacks of 1968 in a studio that had been built to broadcast antifascist radio propaganda during World War II. —
Jeremy Braddock, Firesign: The Electromagnetic History of Everything as Told on Nine Comedy Albums (2024) p. 18.
As I may likely have alternately hinted or documented on this blog, I was highly fortunate in my composition instructors, who while doing their best to help me improve my practice of composition and at once to expand and focus my aural attention to gems in the Literature, did not adopt either a Procrustean method nor an inflexible authoritarian air. They treated me as not merely a person but as a colleague-in-training. Very rarely was there sharp critique, and well, that’s just part of the experience. I survived (in the first place) and how much better to receive such a rebuke from a fellow musician with whom one has built a relationship (in the second.) Even Charles Wuorinen, whose stern reputation preceded him such that a colleague at Buffalo breathed a sigh of relief at having been assigned to Louis Andriessen’s studio instead — I found much less “forbidding” to work with than one might expect.
The environment contrasted in an illuming way from our first-year Music Theory sequence, in which there was more of a "this is the way things must be done” tone which both fitted the disciplined study of Theory and (honestly) harmonized, to to speak, with the instructor’s tendency to a dictatorial mien.
Overall, no complaint, as I learnt me my Music Theory but good even as I reserved a sense that the creative practice of Composition would perforce not be any slavish adherence to The Rules.
I’ve now been writing music for some 40 years since my graduation from the College of Wooster. Some thoughts, looking back.
Every artist probably finds inspiration in whatever musical sources he pleases. Others may or may not share his enthusiasm.
If any other artist tells you there is something or other you must do, it may well be their trip, and not yours.
My ears spend time both in listening to music completely new to me, and in revisiting pieces I already love and know well. Those pieces have not changed, but my ears have.
Over time I have generally become more attuned to internal imperatives. The latest external imperative which I obeyed was the need to reorganize the April program at King’s Chapel as a trio.
Preoccupations at home have meant that I have not been composing. In the back of my musical mind I am gearing up to compositional readiness, although I have not absolutely settled on the next project.
The recording assured me that assistance was only a moment away.
— Porridger’s Almanack (Breakfast of Ganglions)
Mysteries conceal a truth, but direct curiosity to unveil it.
— Arnold Schoenberg
In my latter years of High School a friend drew me in to a kind of coffeehouse fellowship at his Episcopal parish. The Sign of the Fish was led by John & Jacquie Levy. On learning, in 2020, of Jacquie’s passing I wrote a small memorial piece, in response to my friend David Bohn’s latest call for scores. Another friend, Carson Cooman recently posted a performance:
My friend David Bohn’s première of Remembering Jacquie Levy is here.
Separately, my friend Aaron Larget-Caplan sent a lovely message t’other day, and he is starting to look at Aaron’s Uneasy Sleep.
This morning, I heard someone use “literally” correctly, but completely superfluously. Quoth Bertie Wooster: O Death, where is thy jolly old sting? — Porridger’s Almanack (Breakfast of Ganglions)
What do you do? How do you do it, how do you create? I find it difficult [...] In truth, you will always find it difficult. The creation of an idea, the following of a story germ, the building up of a plot, the creating of people, of flesh-&-blood character — these are not easy things, they’re extremely difficult. But conversely — don’t be put off by the fact that this month you can’t do it, and next month is maybe even harder. This is, if not a lifetime process, it’s awfully close to it. The writer broadens, becomes deeper, becomes more observant, becomes more tempered, becomes much wiser over a period of time passing. It is not something that is injected into him by a needle, not something which comes on a wave of flashing, explosive light one night, and say, huzzah! Eureka! I’ve got it! And then proceeds to write the Great American Novel in eleven days. It doesn’t work that way, it’s a long, tedious, tough, frustrating process. But never, ever be put aside by the fact that it’s hard. If it weren't hard, everybody would be a writer .... — Rod Serling
As noted here, the first piece I composed after my stroke, at the kind invitation of David Bohn was the brief toy piano piece Penny Candy. And now, after meeting up afresh with both Olivia Kieffer and Carson Cooman, suddenly we have two fresh performances of the piece.
The tablet was not chalky like aspirin and not exactly capsule-slick either. It felt strange in the hand, curiously sensitive to the touch but at the same time giving the impression that it was synthetic, insoluble, elaborately engineered.
...
I watched her sit at the cluttered desk for two or three minutes, slowly rotating the tablet between her thumb and index finger. She licked it and shrugged.
“Certainly doesn’t taste like much.”
“How long will it take to analyze the contents?”
“There’s a dolphin’s brain in my in-box but come see me in forty-eight hours.”
— Don DeLillo, White Noise
A Chamber concert date has arisen at First Lutheran Church in Malden. May the 17th at 4PM. Unfortunately, this doesn’t work for most of the band, so the Henning Ensembleper se will not participate. However, Greta has arranged to play some duets with a clarinetist, so I’ve adapted Janky Juke Joint and one of the Offertories for the twain.
The photo is not First Lutheran in Malden, but First Congregational Church in Woburn.
Dances With Wolves, meet Grooves in Pavement — Porridger’s Almanack (Breakfast of Ganglions)
A man can fail many times, but he isn't a failure until he begins to blame somebody else. — John Burroughs
Thoroughly pleased with yesterday’s concert at King’s Chapel. Excellent guest music, superb, sensitive musicianship, a nice flow to the program. Whether the fault lay with my brain or my eyes (or both together) I got lost during Dennis’ piece (I did hate doing that to a guest and friend) and worked to find myself while trying not to broadcast my being lost. On one hand, I continued to keep time while aware that I was at risk of missing measures of four. On t’other the band knew the piece so well that if/when my pattern was off, nothing went off the rails.
An exchange in Hitchcock’sNotorious, Cary Grant being rather an ass.
In the Before Times, which is to say (I realize I ought to clarify) prior to my stroke. I worked at composition A Lot. I don’t say I worked absolutely every day—which would be a self-flattering exaggeration—but there were in fact substantial stretches of time when I did some composing each and every day. Moreover, it was a comparatively rare time when I was not at work on more than one score. In remarking thus I disregard whole months when I left White Nights in practically complete neglect. Since my stroke in November of 2018 things have been otherwise and far from consistent. So here am I thinking out loud in the latest self-diagnosis/evaluation/discovery which is What Is This Thing Called the Henning Musical Brain?
Since my stroke, my experience has varied from ‘reasonably on-form’ solid productivity to ‘do I even want to compose anymore?’ Even in spells of the latter darkness I did not worry that it was any permanent condition, but I simply accepted the question mark as a welcome guest, so there was no note of aught like despair in the condition. more than once—including recently—I simply did not know what I might want to write. And while that niche genre of Ignorance was something almost completely unknown to me before my stroke, I have learnt that it is simply periodically The Way It Is, and I embrace it as part of myself. Composition has not become in any way ‘more dificult’ for me, indeed I find that if I am ‘in the composing vein,’ more often than not the pieces come to write themselves. There, now: enough about my brain.
I do not yet care enough about the Op. 192 chamber orchestra piece to resume work on it. And although (as remarked earlier) there is already enough Henningmusick for the Grand Sextet, Two thoughts occurred to me between swaths of sleep t’other day, around 05:00. To borrow the passacaglia theme from Plotting for the next piece for the Sextet, The Texas Chainsaw Passacaglia (which won’t be needed until 2027) and basing the concertante piece for clarinet and band on The Mask I Wore Before.
