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Category Archives: piano

Trio Season 6 – Suite #6: Instants

This Trio almost wound up being titled “Primer” because of the following three quotes:

On being primed:
If you’ve ever read an interview with a songwriter … you’ll hear a repeated theme: that you have to constantly be writing, and constantly be revising and playing. It seems sortof counter-intuitive, because at some point you’ve written a certain amount of material, and you feel like you should be playing or rehearsing that material. But … when you have a new idea it’s much more easy to capture that idea.

It’s funny that you can apply any kind of science to songwriting. You spend a lot of years as a songwriter thinking it’s just lightning that strikes you, but there are things you can do to make yourself more of a lightning rod.

All This Time
When the chorus came in my head I literally walked to the piano and played the entire song in one go and wrote the lyrics. It all happened in 30 minutes. … Effectively the whole song came at once. It was because I was primed. That’s the challenge, you know? You have to be working on songs to have other songs that work.

Will It Ever Come?
Much like “All This Time,” it came at this point that I was very primed, in the summer of 2000. I wrote a lot of what are still my favorite songs at that time … songs that I really still play very frequently. And this one was kindof in the middle, and it just got ignored. It was at the very beginning of Crushing Krisis and I blogged the lyrics. [Ed note: Literally; I wrote them out in nine minutes in the Blogger window. They were my 81st post.]

The next year when I went into the recording studio … I can honestly say I don’t know that ever played it before. And we did it in one take.

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Lyrics and chords for “Time Is Running Out” are behind the cut. Read more…


Trio – the original singer-songwriter web session – returns for its sixth season featuring my original music, recorded live and DIY in my bedroom. You can download this Trio, grab the single of “All This Time,” or listen to a previous Trio:

 

The road flows like a river, and pulls me around every bend.

I think that was a sufficient amount of time to bask, uninterrupted, in being a fiancé.

Much stuff is afoot in chez krisis, and not just our impending wedding. I have more to say on that topic than you could ever hope to consume in a single sitting, so I’ll be dragging the whole mess of it through National Blog Posting month, and beyond.

Okay, I’ll say one thing now: I love all the dire wedding warnings that come from every quarter when you first get engaged. I suppose it’s a cultural hazing thing? I just don’t get it. Each of our favorite weddings were relatively lacking in insanity and drama according to the various brides. Also, we’re both OCD project managers with the same taste in everything.

Right. Remind me to come back and read this post in about twelve months and see what I have to say about it.

If that was all that was happening it would be, oh, say, the most exciting time of my entire life. However, chattery on the topic of engagedness tends to eclipse the fact that there are also some other life events in motion, such as the massive behemoth of posts that is NaBloPoMo looming a mere two days away.

You should be comforted to know that I’ve drawn up a comprehensive content grid so I’m never lacking for post topic (see, OCD project managers). The challenge will be finding myself awake and at a computer long enough to do any posting.

Part of that challenge is that Gina and I (AKA Arcati Crisis) are playing a second trio of songs with a rhythm section on November 9th at the Rotunda, followed by multiple holiday performances, and moving through a half-hour set at Doc Watson’s in January (and, possibly another appearance at the Tin Angel), all of which results in plenty of rehearsals, both together and separately.

Oh, and the normal busyness, such as having four of my projects reviewed (and approved!) by our CEO over the last month, learning various exercises and arias for my weekly voice lessons, working up a communications plan for our homegrown music festival, and trying to drag my sorry ass out to East Falls every Thursday to play our favorite open mic.

And, last but certainly not least (though, what could really be least in this list?), I suddenly – and completely out of the blue, I assure you – can play piano. I’m still slow to learn actual pop songs, but I seem to have collected a modest enough palette of rhythms and riffs that I can bang through my own stuff with increasing ease and surprising variation, and I actually prefer some of it on keys to guitar strings. Imagine that!

Anyhow, that’s life, at the moment – full of activity, but paradoxically forcing me to take frequent naps in order to keep up with it.

How have you been?

Or, For Short: I Play Guitar

In the midst of a lengthy conversation over dinner and several bottles of wine I got into a bit of a chat about guitar playing with our friend Geoff.

Being a relative folky (though, i think that’s a bit of a misnomer), i don’t typically venture into those sorts of discussion. Any non-rocker has surely been put in that position – one side of the conversation is about sick speed riffs and crazy gear, leaving you and your acoustic by the wayside.

Over the years I’ve learned to hold my own in those conversations – especially after my lengthy hunt for a perfect acoustic. It doesn’t matter, because Geoff is mostly of the jam-band persuasion – i don’t know that i’ve ever seen him play an electric guitar. So, in this instance i was actually fairly evenly matched (though that’s also a misnomer, since Geoff was a guitar wiz when i was just learning to read sheet music).

In any event, i was whinging about how i need to wear my wrist braces more often because all of my recent keyboard practice is making my hands and wrists a touch sore for guitar playing – a bad sign in the short term and the long term. Geoff, rightfully skeptical of my sometimes exaggerated conversational gambits, asked, “Well, just how much do you play guitar?”

I was stymied. Last summer i know it wasn’t very much because i was counting the hours. That was before i met my beautiful Breedlove, which i truly never get tired of playing. Since i received it this May i feel like i’ve hardly put it down.

I ventured a guess: “If i play at all, i play for two or three hours at a time.”

Geoff clearly thought i was exaggerating, if ever so slightly. Not a surprise, since we had just been talking about my many hours of keyboard rehearsal, and before that about our nightly Netflix habit. On those two accounts i seemed quite sure, so my estimate must be high?

The whole point of this ramble is that i’ve been paying attention since our dinner, and i actually play that much or more. It’s usually one of the first things i do when i get home, and one of the last before bed if i don’t fall asleep watching a movie. It’s probably what i do the most other than sleep and work. This weekend i very nearly put in ten hours.

You’d think that with all that time logged that i would be able to shred with the best of them, but i spend all that time alone, and most of it singing – not an environment to unlead my inner speed demon. And, if maybe i’m now playing more than i ever have before, i’m finally feeling the impact.

The other night at the keyboard i mused that songs always seem to take forever when you’re learning them – a mid-tempo five-minute version of a pop song can seem like an eternity when you’re the one suffering under its weight. I feel like that at the piano all the time, but i can’t remember the last time i felt that way playing guitar, other than maybe while trying to slowly count out the timing of a ridiculous solo.

The short of that incredibly long story? Well, for one, i wasn’t lying to Geoff. More to the point, this whole train of thought made me realize that i finally feel confident when saying “i play guitar” – no disclaimers, no exceptions. Ironic that this came almost half-a-decade after the first time i felt confident saying that i was a singer, since sometimes that’s doubtful, but i’ve arrived, nonetheless.

Pennies

I used to have this dream when i was sick that i entitled “the penny dream.” It would have been more aptly titled “the repetitive stress disorder” dream, or more colloquially “the Chinese water torture” dream, and maybe now you get the idea.

In the dream there was a set of balanced scales, and on one scale would be something improbably heavy, like a refridgerator, or a Buick. On the other scale, its weight would be ticked off by pennies steadily dispensed by some unseen hand. And, though the scales were large, inevitably as we approached the actual weight of the thing, one of the pennies would land just so that it sent dozens of other pennies cascading off of the scale, leaving me even further away from equalling the weight of the elephant or RV on the other side.

Any run of the penny dream that made it to the penny cascade more than twice almost always ended with naseau. Which brings me to today’s topic: the Hanon Exercises. Charles-Louis Hanon, evil genius and bane of piano students everywhere, penned The Virtuoso Pianist in 60 Exercises, a series of repetitive runs, arpeggios, and trills meant to strengthen all of the bits of the hand that are typically weak and lifeless.

Fine in concept, but then you merrily unwrap the book from its swoosh encoded box from Amazon to discover that past the first few exercises, just reading the exercise is going to be an exercise. And, furthermore, what looks like a fairly simple sequence with one or two skipped keys is actually the slow penny-dream-like torture of your pinky finger, until at the end of the first time you make it through four repetitions without hitting a stray note (for me, about forty minutes of warming up) and your pinky stretchs for the last perfect bass C you think, “yes, i will actually vomit on this casio fully weighted, graded, lifelike keyboard if i have to push down that key with my pinky.”

It’s after i reach that point with Hanon that i moved into the Bach, staying to the blessedly non-accidental keys and playing at approximately one eleventh of the speed that a professional player plays the exercises at, because professional players read eleventy times faster than i do. (Actually, i’ve discovered that if i’m allowed one run through a measure to screw it up i can usually do it correctly the second time, which means all of my Bach practices run doubly long, but i’m getting much surer much quicker than i expected to).

And, if i managed to get through the Bach relatively in one piece and with most of my dinner still intact, along with my pinky finger and my sanity then, depending on my mood and level of death-defying counting skills, i either play Tori Amos or Radiohead.

I don’t know if i could have ever really endured these piano-practice pennies as a child – i had a lot of patience, but not a lot of endurance, if that makes any sense. As an adult i realize that, occasionally, something tortorous is in my best interests.

Insufferably Essential (or visa versa)

I think the main reason that i’ve never been a consumer of classical music is that there is no tidy discography for me to steadily consume. Sure, Tori Amos and Ani DiFranco are prolific and untidy, but neither of them are Debussy or Bach – neither woman has every Tom, Schiff, and Gould releasing and re-issuing her major works once or twice a decade, only to have the best of them fall back out of print almost immediately. My inner OCD-completist is doubly stymied by the whole concept – once by the in-and-out-of-printness of it, and again by the idea of having to choose noit only my favorite composers, but also my favorite interpreter(s).

The thing is, i really like classical music. It’s beautiful, moving, rewarding, and very relaxing to listen to. However, for someone as anal as i it’s seemingly impossible to make a solid connection to some small facet of it. I joke with our Masters-in-music friend Anthony that if i ever get put on hold somewhere with good classical music i would three-way him into the call so he could identify the composer for me, as that’s my primary exposure to the medium.

The result has been that i don’t prefer any specific composer, and certainly no specific interpreter, but sometimes a specific work gets knocked into my head and never quite shakes loose. In high school our friend Sara was endlessly practicing a Debussy Prelude or Nocturne or whatever, and in college i picked up a two-disc set of them. At first it felt a bit indulgent – me, sitting in my room, listening to classical music. Now that i know the pieces a little better i actually love them – i sometimes play them quite intentionally, often on a loop at work for days at a time, humming along merrily to my favorite passages.

Recently Elise and I have been learning to play piano, and she has already reached the point of playing some of the simple Bach pieces, including two from the Well-Tempered Clavier. Which, so far as i understand, is to piano music as Superman is to comic books.

Trying to be a sweet boyfriend, i bought the collected Books 1 & 2 – not realizing, perhaps, that aside from providing a handful basic piano studies that these 48 pieces were some of the most highly regarded and difficult works for the keyboard. Of course (surely you can see where this is headed) that just meant that i wanted to learn them too.

I mostly sight-read and largely flailed my way through two preludes in friendly key signatures over the weekend, planning to alternate them regularly with my Hanon exercises. But, f you’ve ever met me, or read my web page, or even looked at its title you know that at this point in my obsession with a newfound interest i absolutely require more things. Collateral, collectibles, delectable trivial knowledge. In this case a recording, or maybe several recordings, of the complete Well-Tempered Clavier.

You might think that with all the powers of the internet at my command i could be recommended one version of one of the most famous collections of piano music with some amount of uniformity in relatively short order. You would, of course, be wrong. The internet is an capricious mistress, and from her the best i could muster was that Glenn Gould’s versions were the quintessial interpretations of a tempo-mangling asshole. Or, as termed by one of Amazon’s more skilled reviewers, “Not for Bach beginners–fair enough?”

[In the interest of aiding other erstwhile searchers on a quest similar to my own, i'll continue this excerpt from the charming wit of one Mr. Sanity Inspector, Top 1,000 Reviewer: From the very first bars, with the flowing ascending theme played partly in a counter-intuitive staccato, the in-the-know listener can tell that this will be a highly idiosyncratic rendering. ... However, a newcomer to this work would do well to begin with a more conventional reading.]

My search continued past the obvious and oft-namedchecked Gould, for the moment. Of use to this endeavor was The J.S. Bach Homepage, which contains a modest but well-kept archive of reviews of major JSB releases. Between this and raptly reading along in our WTC book to 30-second Amazon song samples, i’m least closer to making an informed decision than i was two hours ago.

As of now i am down to Richter (a rather essential interpretation, apparently) or Bernard Roberts (moderate, recent, well-recorded, and affordable), or possibly Angela Hewitt (recent, technically proficient, researched, stellar liner notes). Gould, obviously, was discarded, and I saw Schiff described as “mushy” a few too many times for my taste (haterz always prevail on the internets) (also, check out that album cover; yeesh). A few others i passed on just based on the blah-ness of their C, D, and G passages (i.e., the ones that make the most sense to me) (says the incredibly inexperienced listener brandishing his music minor threateningly).

All that said i will – as always – also submit to the vast and whimsically cultivated knowledge of my readership-at-large. If you have a favorite version of the classic 48 pieces that compose Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier Books 1 AND 2 played on piano and available on compact disc please don’t hesitate to recommend them to me at krisis at the venerable domain of uprush dot org.

Ivory Towering

At some point in an early childhood filled with US history flashcards and learning math from Monopoly my mother realized that i was just as precociously intelligent as she had hoped i would be when she started those Better Baby Institute classes as a pregnant woman just barely having her quarter life crisis.

As much as this development affirmed her tireless educational exercises (starting with painting my room with the B.B.I.’s specified shapes and colors), it also meant she would have to redouble her efforts for the future in making sure she kept me on a strict schedule of constant didacticism. Her two-pronged assault on my four-year old world was a holistic one. By day i was enrolled in a Montessori school, and by night i was intended to begin my instruction on the violin.

This latter initiative turned out to be a spectacular failure. My mother, lacking in any prior musical experience in her entire extended family, just couldn’t grasp what was wrong. She brought me to the lessons in some nice woman’s comfortable living room. She made the violin available to me at the prescribed rehearsal times.

What she could not comprehend is that i had no relationship with this instrument i was supposed to be growing to love. Why a stringed instrument rather than a wind, or why not enroll me in a boy’s choir since i was hopelessly enamored with singing along to Jem tapes in the back seat on long car rides? I didn’t understand why this awful wooden box full of shrillness had been imposed upon me then, and i still don’t. I viewed my lessons as thinly veiled torture for some unknown crime, and at home i would scowl at the instrument tucked away in its case above the china closet.

(Why was it above the china closet? What harm could have come in letting me play around with it (as, i believe, is suggested by current pedagogical theory)? Maybe i might have liked it.)

I remember the whole violin experience as snapshots right up through my last lesson, which i remember in silent 8mm veritĂ©. We arrived in the instructor’s homey living room, and my mother informed the woman that i would no longer be studying violin, and she clucked in disappointment. What to do, then, with this last lesson? She was clucking, but i already knew the answer.

Her piano, upright, against the wall just through the arch into the next room. At every lesson i would stare over the see-sawing of my bow as it squeaked out nursery rhymes at the stately wooden bench and covered keys. On this occasion the keys were uncovered (from a prior lesson?), and as she spoke with my mother i wandered over to the piano. So, my last violin lesson was my first and only piano lesson. As the frames of the memory flicker and fade i can almost hear her words, “and this one is called ‘middle C’. Go on, you can play it.”

The piano subject was oft-pursued with my mother from that day forward, but she always held the party line that it was too expensive a thing to accomodate given the chance that i might just carelessly give up on it, the way i did the violin.

I could be imagining it, but i recall a sort of cruelness beneath this reasoning – as if she was upset at her first failure in the path to rendering me a perfectly rounded child and refused to accept that i had some alternate plan for myself.

(The first in a long line of our stubborn standoffs, which are best exemplified by the time in ninth grade when i locked myself in our car so i couldn’t be taken to get a haircut, as i wanted mine to grow long.)

Playing our new digital piano all day today produced a bittersweet satisfaction. Here, two decades later, and i finally have a full-sized keyboard in my own home. Aged twenty-four and i am playing the same “Mary Had a Little Lamb” exercises i once bowed on my lap on that violin, but finally on the instrument i’ve always coveted and prefered.

Sometimes i wonder: what if somehow my mother conjured up a piano for me to play when i was four years old? Would i have begun lessons and quickly given them up as being too tedious, just as i did for the violin (and, eventually, guitar)? Or, would i have been completey entranced by the instrument, as i was today? Would i have kept at it? Did i have some natural, predisposed love and talent for music that would have ben unlocked then, rather than in some diminished form a decade later when i received my first guitar? Could i have perhaps eventually becoming my own Rufus Wainwright or Tori Amos, effortlessly mingling classical conventions with catchy melodies?

I am upset about that possible lost potential, but that alternate reality is one of my many schrodinger’s cat pasts, equally full of a virtuosic me and one whose skills are simply dead in the box.

As much as i like to think the best of myself, maybe it’s better not to glimpse into that world. Better to just believe in what i want to do, and to learn it the best that i can.

We spoke about it intermittently, about how after next June my life splits into a dizzying kaleidoscope of shape and color, with each alternate option representing it’s own crystallized shard of possibility. There are very few common themes between them, save for music, which i refuse to give up after it took me this long to acquire it.

Turning off of Wall Street, Rabi said, “Well, at least yours aren’t entirely fantastical,” which struck me as ironic, because the image of me – emancipated from family and school … having a real life – is fantastical in and of itself. She was apparently comparing my options to her favorite from this Spring, which was to be a rag picker in 17th century France.

“At least yours,” she remarked, “do not require time travel.”

Implicitly they do, though, because i can never make a decision without a chance for a second guess. The second chance is always best, but we choose the first, so we’re fucked. I sang the line so convincingly the next morning, walking down a Brooklyn street strumming my guitar, that she giggled amidst the little old ladies and all the men with their yamacas. I laughed to, and the next line was lost on me for a moment, And we assume the worst and hope the best, but it always turns out in the end, but i think if i could keep it in mind this would all be a lot easier.

The Waverly was too perfect to end the day, Rabi and Hillary and i singing “Frank Mills” under our breaths the whole way there, then sipping too-sweet sangria and watching me eat my incongruous bacon veggieburger. I turned to Rabi with a mischeivous glance at some point before 2am, grinning. “So, we’re finally having our drink.”

Central Park was all about acting, or lying, or maybe how i always thought i’d be a good actor just by lying, but really that it’s more about telling the truth. I’m not sure that i’m good enough at either anymore. The impromptu jazz band that greeted us on Park West seemed to be playing an improvisational version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” sloppy but with a sort of irrepresible joy hidden underneath. They were definitely telling the truth

I wondered out loud at the lack of buskers as she bounced down the stairs to another muggy MTA platform, but we found them as soon as we came up nearer to the Village — like South Street with all manner of sundry cute little shops amended to its edges in a snowflake cutout of hip. I ogled ties, aprons, and chess pieces, but the wood shop was my favorite, with its weathered dark wood (oak?) piano just inside the stoop for $750 dollars.

Slipping my fingers beneath the lid to tickle the keys, i was surprised at the tuneful noise that emerged from the antique. “I could buy that.” I turned back to Rabi. “That’s an amount of money that i could spend on a piano.”

It was then that i found a new tiny pearl of resolve. That, barring circumstances that involving a passport or a raft, a piano would be chief amongst my post-graduation plans. A sort of anchor to my future, a small point on which i can focus while the bigger ones are too blurred to make out.

Although i was sure before, now i am convinced that i could never live in New York, no matter how cute their hardwood floor and yellow walls are. Last night Elise earnestly reminded me of the yearly Baldwin Piano sale in the theatre. Maybe i should take a look? But, no, i laughed, because you pick up one thing and the next comes right to you, no matter if you took the first or second chance.

That is why it always turns out in the end.

I just spent 12 more hours in the recording studio, interrupted only by a short lunch break where Bill and i debated the merits of Britney and Christina again those of Motown girl groups. Before lunch we finally nailed down Bill’s awe-inspiring all-vocal rendition of Rusted Root’s “Send Me On My Way” in all of its glory, and afterwards we started to play with my stuff.


First on the agenda was sorting through the “Under My Skin” backing vocals from last night, which was not easy. I had to go through each set of vocals to see what parts were keepers, then decide if any of the keeper parts would interfere with each other, then mix the keeps down to a separate tape. Next came the bass, which was all fuzzy and un-bass-like. We separated it into a clean acoustic bass (which it is) and the fuzzy electric sound and mixed the two versions to separate tracks on the mixdown tape. Finally, my vocals and the guitar were mixed down as is. So, the mixdown tape now is in possession of all of the right parts, but at none of the right volumes. I made a wan attempt before leaving the studio at getting all the volumes correct into a final mix for cd, but my vocals were too low and some of Laurel’s backing parts were fuzzed over. However, the rough draft mix might be the one that gets debuted on here… we shall see.


After much UMS foolery, we moved on to recording some other things. We decided the “Bridge” from last night sucked and tried it again once before giving up. Then we recorded (mostly in a single take) “Never Say Goodbye,” “Deadweight,” “Relief,” and an obscure new song “will it ever come.” “Never Say Goodbye” was a simple thing to do, whereas “Relief” was awful. It just sounds bad. My guitar has way to much treble for the sound i like from the song, and all of my vocals sounded disinterested. Nevertheless, i finished it and recorded a second take of vocals, and then mixed the song down with the best parts from each vocal. Yummy.


“Will It Ever Come” was weird. Bill was just waiting for me to do something, so i told him i was going to attempt something new and launched into it. What’s hard for me about the song is that there’s lots of little fills on the lower strings of my guitar which i tend to be rather random about, but the vocals must follow the guitar, so i have to duet on the fly with whatever i’m playing. I somehow made it through in one take, and as we started playing it back i found myself singing along in the next octave, so we recorded that too, and now i’m starting to think the octave version is going to be the lead vocal.


Our final endeavor of the night was overdubbing on “Never Say Goodbye,” which right now features two of me, a guitar, Bill, and two pianos. I was planning on just adding my own backups, but Bill seemed to have lots of good ideas that weren’t ever going to be coming out of my mouth, so we got him behind a mic a recorded. Bill’s harmonies were too-perfect at points – pulling me into that dreaded adult-contemporary sound that i am desperately avoiding, so i’m not going to use all of them. My backgrounds mostly involved me singing non-existant harmony and cursing, but there were several pretty bits that i saved. As for the pianos… i was just fiddling with our keyboard while Bill listened to his harmony mix, and he (almost without telling me) patched my fiddling into the tape. After my first pass through we made one more just to be safe, and then called it a night (the song is in “B,” so i basically just played B and all of the sharp keys. Lovely and simple…).

Anyhow, Bill’s off on his Spring Break now, but i’ve got sole possession of the studio until Monday morning, so i’m sure i’ll be spending all of my free time within it. Which means i’ll either starve to death or have my own cd by Monday. Aww yeah.

I hate the fucking theatre. I should have trusted my first instinct and stayed away from this play. I should always trust my first instincts, and i seldom do. I did this play not because i wanted to act, but because i would get a chance to play guitar on stage and sing. Singing was secondary to the arrangement of my own song and singing it to my own accompaniment, and i just had that taken away from me. One week before the show and the director decided the song wasn’t “working” with the guitar, so he brought in a pianist. I have never in my life had to sing for/with a pianist before, i don’t know the song for the rhythm of the piano arrangement, and i hate theatre. And it’s got to work in the next 9 days because then the show opens. Except, i don’t care. The minute my director told me to put down my guitar, however apologetic he might have sounded, he flicked a switch in my brain from on to off. On was enjoying the show, coming to rehearsal ready to try new things, practicing my song every day on my own time so it would sound good that night. I have none of that now, and it might seem unprofessional, but isn’t it a bit more unprofessional to totally change my song leaving me only a week to learn it again? Yeah, i thought so too…