Music by Numbers

Jack referred to it as my "knitting."  Although maybe a bit patronizing, he was right.  I'm not a trained musician in any sense of the word.  I lucked into conducting and found out how things were done, made it up as I went along, or did what came naturally.  Arranging came about from necessity.  Parts were too high or a certain passage was too difficult.  When I started directing the gay men's chorus, I noticed there was not a whole lot music for men, so I learned how to re-voice and move parts around.  This was in the Dark Ages.

I didn't mind about the "knitting" dig.  I sat at the computer in the evenings and we'd talk...he'd watch TV or a DVD and I could hear it while working with music on the Finale system.  He was a singer, a soloist; he wasn't particularly interested in my endeavors except when something involved him.  I'm not good at writing melodies, so it's safe to say he wrote more poems about me than I wrote songs for him.  On the other hand, he could dictate a melody and I'd type it in and then work on it until he was happy.  Or I arranged songs he wanted to sing as part of an act.  Then I wasn't knitting.

It is just a tad strange, though, that I am addicted to putting music into the computer either as is or to arrange...and now even to orchestrate.  Part of it has to do with not being able to hear the choral music I like.  The voices aren't human voices, but I can hear the composer's intentions and how the arranger, if not the composer, fleshes it out.  I also love piano music, and playback on my computer now has the piano sound very well approximated.

Calling my music "knitting," as in "a hobby," also compares it correctly to painting by numbers or stitching on patterns already printed on the cloth.  It doesn't demand very much creativity and it's rewarding for the hobbyist who may not have the imagination or the talent to be original.  Painting by numbers and stitching a previously printed design can also serve as training.  Unfortunately, it's training without a teacher, but you can paint those numbers and get a feeling for what the artist had in mind.  If you are interested in painting, some aspects of it can be learned by the numbers.

Minus the teacher, for example, you can assign a different color to a number, make 7 the blue rather than the yellow that 7 is supposed to be.  Your developing artistic mind can start to see different patterns without destroying the original work.  Painting within the lines is good but restrictive. 

And so it is with the music I type into Finale.  It can be note-perfect, but I can also play around with the score because no one is ever going to hear what I'm doing and I want to hear what a change would sound like.  I love to arrange piano music to sound like how I'd play it if I could play piano.  The most fun recently comes from orchestrating a piece.  It can open up a tune to new understanding of the work, a different slant on it, or reconfirm the brilliance of the music and/or text.

When I first started my revue of music in the public domain, I thought I'd use the piano part on the sheet music and maybe gussy it up a bit.  I decided that wasn't sufficient.  Most of these songs would have been heard in a theater or on records.  I toyed with a 2 piano approach, but the novelty of two pianos imitating an orchestra wore off fast...plus it was rough for me to keep coming up with duo piano arrangements to accompany a singer.  That's when I came to the (scary) realization that if a song were performed in public, it would be as a vaudeville act...and vaudeville theaters had pit orchestras.  So I taught myself orchestration.

Lord knows it's not easy.  It does, however, create another dimension for the song.  And there are all sorts of orchestrations.  Mostly, I do a band or small orchestra.  I've also discovered the joy of jazz.  There are a couple of professional arrangers (Kirby Shaw, Steve Zegree, Mark Hayes, Mac Huff) who love jazz and arrange accordingly.  Because choral music comes with a piano accompaniment, I've now tried to rewrite the accompaniment for a small jazz combo or a brass combo (in imitation of Henry Mancini).  I know I'm on the right track if I can imagine people mumbling, the sound of glass and ice, and smell alcohol and tobacco smoke.

It's also become a project from time to time to write out duo piano arrangements from choral sheets.  There will be a piano accompaniment and the chorus, usually soprano-alto-tenor-bass, becomes the second piano, but with some necessary changes and additions.  Almost all choral pieces start out with a solo or one part, usually soprano.  That sounds nice for singing, but that it also sounds as if the pianist has trouble playing more than a melody line.  This looks like a job for Arranger Guy!

As I approach age 73, typing music into the computer for my own private, personal purposes is quite satisfying.  Depending on what I'm doing (and to what), I find great creative possibilities in just playing around with the music.  No one will ever hear it, and that's fine.  Music can be for a wide audience, but it's also intensely personal.  And the more personal, the better.

Patches -- Farewell

Patches didn’t wake up this morning. She was my last living link with Jack. Life just got a little bit harder.

She assumed she was Queen of the Universe; I explained to her several times that she was the Princess, that Jack and I were ahead of her in the Queen category.
She took the catnip talk to heart...she didn't inhale, but she loved to eat it.

She chose us at the rescue shelter. When the associate pulled her out of her cage, Patches leaped onto Jack's chest and howled, "Get me outta here!" She would not let go. I like to think she chose well.

She was abandoned by a couple. Neither wanted her, I guess, and a neighbor saw Patches in the window. The neighbor knew the couple split.

She found hidey holes and lofty heights in our house we didn't know existed. 

After Jack died, she became incredibly important to me and I spoiled her even more than when she had two big two-legged critters catering to her every need. 

One time I was having a check-up and the doctor asked me if I had psoriasis. I didn't understand the question and she pointed to my forearm. "Oh," I said. "That's cat." When I sat at the desk, Patches would hop up for scritches. Because I'm quite fat, the top of my belly made a great, soft ledge for her and, when the scritches and belly rubs really got her off, she'd dig her claws into my arm. I'll be sad when that heals.

She liked sleeping on the bed, but she rarely slept beside me. I woke up to her snuggled up against me. Did she know she was dying and figured that was a way to show her love? I don't know. I think she knew she was loved. I hope so. 

We were quite a trio, her, Jack, and me. Then we became quite a duet.

I don't think I want another cat. Or pet. Or person. But a line from Garth Brooks' "The Dance" keeps coming to mind: "Our lives are better left to chance. I could have missed the pain, but I'd have had to miss the dance."

Love you, Patches.