Mysterious Barricades

I’ve tried my best not to rant about the lack of arts community and audience in my area, but it’s kind of come to a head this week. No, this is not very professional of me, but I’m ranting and venting and I’m not wrong. 

I’ll preface by saying that I, unlike some of my colleagues from my academic days, do not believe that there is such a thing as throwing pearls before swine. As a classical musicians, I do not refuse to play in pedestrian settings. Anyone can enjoy classical music and be engaged by it. I will admit, however, that it does take some effort on the part of the listener. Still, if someone told me that I wasn’t intelligent enough to enjoy art, I’d be pretty angry. Interestingly, that’s what television and recording executives tell their audience all the time by programming their swill. Marx said that religion is the opium of the masses, but I say it’s really prime time television. 

I contacted a coffee shop near me last week about playing for them one evening. I never set a price or a time or anything. I merely contacted them for an opportunity to play for tips. Yes, things are pretty tough for me right now. I’m playing for tips again. I mentioned in my email that a friend of mine was an employer of theirs and they could ask him about my ability. I also said I could provide them with a resume and/or references. 

Five days later I got sick of waiting. I’m really too desperate and full of hubris to take no for answer, so I emailed them again. This time, they responded. Their response, however, was not satisfactory. They began first with a less than half-hearted excuse for such a late response. Professionalism dictates a reply in less than twenty-four hours. I was then asked whether or not my music had any words as the have not had much luck with purely instrumental performances. Let’s ponder that for a moment.

“Not much luck” is understandable, but I’m still not sure what they mean by that. If by “not much luck” they mean that their previous performers that performed sans lyrics did not bring in many customers, that is understandable. I could rebut by providing them with names and numbers for several former clients that were pleased with not only my turn-out, but asked me back for more performances. If by “not much luck” they mean that they just didn’t like the music, that’s fine. I don’t know who these other performers were, but they’re not me. I’m really good. The two tracks I attached to the THIRD email I sent them (We currently have a 3 to 1 ratio going. See above note on professionalism.) should absolve them of their fears of booking an amateur. Those tracks were from my GRADUATE RECITAL, and I was sure to highlight that fact. 

We’re now two days out from that last email with the free music attached. Yeah, I had to give them free music as an audition for a tip gig. Again with the professionalism. If they don’t get back to me, I’ll take it as a “not gonna happen because you no sing pretty like John Mayer.” I’ve thanked my friend that works for them for his GLOWING RECOMMENDATION which just apparently meant very little to his employers. 

I’ve heard Dave Grohl of the Foo Fighters, Nirvana, Queens of the Stone Age, and my beloved Probot say that white people dance to lyrics. He was kind of joking at the time, but he’s kind of right anyway. I don’t mind people saying that they prefer music with lyrics, because that’s understandable. Instrumental music is an abstract art. It takes effort to really understand. Lyrics are easy to hold onto. But wouldn’t it suck if The Ramone’s I Wanna Be Sedated was considered a greater work of musical art than Brahm’s Fourth Symphony because it has lyrics and the Brahm’s doesn’t? I don’t see what’s wrong with assuming the intelligence of the audience. In my previous experience, the audience usually has plenty of intellectual capacity to enjoy instrumental music in some level while they drink their coffee or beer. 

Email people on time!

I have some big news. Correction: I have a HUGE announcement, and I hope everyone reads it. I really need some support here, and a kind word or phone call or monetary gift would be appreciated if you’re feeling generous. Read on.

Friday afternoon Ashley came over and smiled as she walked up to me. I went up to her expecting a hug and a kiss, but she whispered in my ear, “We need to talk.” 

So we did. We went to a private place and she told me that she was pregnant. It was that quick. At least it felt that quick. I’m sure that it felt like years to her. I can actually feel the same kind of nervousness right now that I felt then. The most immediate emotion I had was fright. There’s a certain amount of mystery with the P word. Are you sure? How do you know? How are we going to afford this? 

I had to sit down, so we sat down and held each other and cried. More emotions started pouring into me. The most of which was shame. We knew we messed up. Both of us sat through who knows how many sermons in which the preacher told us not to do what we did, but we did it anyway. For two smart people, really smart people, we were pretty stupid. Now what are we going to do?

First thing we did was tell my mom. Dad wouldn’t be around for another few hours, but there was no point in keeping secrets at that point. We told her, and we all cried for a while. She did reassure us that we would not be alone, but that doesn’t make the worry go away. 

On the drive to her parent’s house, I said, “We used to say in youth group that God will never throw anything at you that you can’t handle,” and, “I heard that God is like a GPS navigation system. He shows you how to get to him, but when you take a wrong turn He recalculates.”

Then we told her parents, who thought it was a joke at first. They were much more optimistic than my mom and, later, my dad. Her parents shared jokes and reassurance with us, and there were considerably fewer tears.

Then we saw The Three Stooges. There’s a whole scene in that movie in a hospital room full of babies. Scariest movie I’ve ever seen.

Than we told my dad. Dad looked at me and said, “I love you,” and then he couldn’t say anything else. He cried a lot and we hugged and he tried to tell me that we would make it work somehow. All I could think to do was ask Ashley to get me a glass of water and ibuprofen, which she did. I walked her to her car, and she told me that we would be okay. I did a load of laundry and went to bed to sleep fitfully. 

The next day had the potential to be just as bad as the last. I had to wake up early to go to work. I teach guitar and my students are mostly kids. I had no intention of telling any of my students and that has not changed. The South is a great place, but sometimes people are more likely to see the sin and not the redemption, and I need their money. I jokingly asked the boss for a hug and was rightfully denied. (Aaron, I know you’re reading this. Please keep this on the down low.) Anyway, you try recording a ukulele rendition of “Your Cheatin’ Heart” in good spirits and then teach for three hours while you’re in the inner turmoil of worry and fear and shame and guilt. I dare you. Oddly enough, I feel that my teaching that day was better than most other days. 

When I was done, I gathered my things and went to my favorite coffee shop with the excuse of working on a paper focused on the nationalistic elements of Grieg’s Peer Gynt incidental music verses it’s cosmopolitan elements…and name it Sammy and give it its bottle and change its diapers and teach it how to throw a yoyo and ride a bike. Ashley met me at the coffee shop and we shared small talk and exchanged looks conveying any number of things from fear to love to expectation and excitement. She had responded to my statements in the car the previous day via Facebook. “He gives us more than we can handle to show us how human we are and how much we need Him.” And she’s right.

I have to interrupt myself here to express just how beautiful Ashley has been these past few days. She has been my angel and a light when I am in my darkest places. I look forward to watching her be a mother for the rest of my life. I cannot put into words how in love I feel in the thick of this adversity. 

Throughout Saturday she made it a point to reassure that we would be fine, but she got a headache at the coffee shop. I suggested she go home and sleep it off. That was stupid of me. She needed me, and I was too scared to figure that out. She left and I called my buddy Tim that I used to play with in a church band in Suwannee. He didn’t answer, so I left a message and sent a private message to his wife on Facebook asking that one them call me as soon as possible. I was in a panic state. Without hearing from Tim or Jodi in the space of a half-hour, I drove to their house. They weren’t home, so I shared some curse words with their front door step and drove to Chik-fil-a for a nausea sandwich and a near car accident in the drive through. 

I went home and broke down completely. No lie. I’ve never felt more desperate in my life. The strength I’d had the previous day had completely left. I couldn’t stand. I threw myself on the floor and told God this through my tears: “I’ve made a mistake and I can’t handle the consequences.” 

This is when things start to change. I’m not one that desires to misquote the Father, so I’ll try to be as accurate as I can. I felt like God was speaking to me directly and through Ashley. He was saying that I was going to get closer to Him, and this baby is how we’re going to do it. He said that I did make a mistake, but I was forgiven. He said that I really couldn’t handle the consequences, or rather I couldn’t handle them alone. He gave me Ashley and our parents and many supportive friends and an understanding Christian family. “This is going to get tough, but you are being given opportunities to grow in wisdom and faith.” The changes in myself that I can see now had begun the day before really. Now I see the strength and grace that is freely available for those willing to take it. 

I went back to the coffee shop and called Ashley, who was on the phone with a friend that had been through the exact same thing that we are going to experience. Tim called me back, and we set up a time to meet the next day. Ashley pulled up in her car as I was getting off the phone with Tim. I went to her and felt compelled to apologize. “It’s my job to be strong right now, and I haven’t done that for you today. I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen again.” This is how good she is at reacting to my stupidity. She said, “You were strong for me yesterday. There are going to be times when I’ll lean on you, but maybe today you’re going to lean on me.” And then we went inside and began to talk about being new parents. The change was incredible though. We were excited and happy and very much in love. I am so blessed that she is the mother. None of those feelings have gone away. We’re still nervous and scared, but mostly happy and excited.

The next day, I went to her house and she made us eggs and crepes (those really thin pancakes) for breakfast. Later we met with Tim at Starbuck’s. That was probably the best meeting of my life. We told him together that we were having a baby. His eyes got wide and he nearly shouted, “Well I think congratulations are in order! You guys wanna come over for dinner?!” We went to Bible study later and told the preacher, who gave us some practical advice about starting a family so soon, but mostly just listened to us and reassured me that the congregation would be supportive and that he would be available to us as well. Then we went to her house and we talked with her parents excitedly about the kind of plans we’re going to make.

Yesterday we found out officially that were going to be parents, and we both couldn’t be happier about it, though I’ll admit that I would have preferred to talk about it in person rather than on the phone while I was in a University practice room with so-so phone reception.

Here’s where we stand: I’m getting a Master’s degree in less than a month which gives us something of an edge on the situation. As much as I’ve hated school, it’s good to have an ace up your sleeve. This summer we’ll find a place to live as a family and get married, not just because of the baby, but because we’re in love and want to be a family. We’re going to continue to pray for God’s guidance and take opportunities and make choices as He presents them.

Here’s what we need: I would be lying if I said that we aren’t nervous and scared. We need some emotional support. Having a kind word every now and then certainly couldn’t hurt. I want my friends to know I love them and that I want them in my life through this. I should also apologize. As it seems I’m going to be a family leader, I’ve found myself kind of overcompensating for that leadership role and being a bit short and bossy. Sorry about that. 

It takes a village. I would love for all of you to be part of that village. 

If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’m going to rant a bit about graduate school. Yes, again. And if you don’t mind, I think I’ll speak directly to grad school itself, but I’m going to call him Fred.

Dear Fred,

Let’s get this over with: I hate you and the horse you rode in on.

Thanks for letting me know that all of the jobs with benefits were taken before I even started my first semester. Thanks for telling me that I can make an average of eleventy-billion more dollars a year by dressing up like Klaus Nomi and singing about poker faces and paparazzi and penises. Thanks for letting me know that there is no reward for knowledge and that my tuition was wasted in the most efficient manner possible. You are not good people. CS Lewis, a.k.a. The Velociraptor of The Mind, was right about you when he wrote That Hideous Strength. (Dear Clive, I love you, and I’m sorry if I’m misquoting.)

However, seeing as how we’re ending our relationship for the time being, let’s get a few things straight.

For one thing, there is nothing good in the snack machine in the second floor lobby. I spent a year and a half at a community college with cupcakes in the snack machine. Your animal crackers are okay, but unless you can trump cupcakes, you’re simply second-rate.

I’m still really mad about the undergrad thing. They aren’t smart people. All they ever talk about is Family Guy and marching band, the synchronized swimming of the arts. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen Metropolis, the Fritz Lang silent sci-fi flick, but if you watch that movie backwards then you should be able to observe the correct order of things. Keep the undergrads underground shoveling coal into the pipe organ or something. I need ample, uncluttered, unpeopled space to roam and feel important.

Unless I’ve mistaken for four semesters in a row, I signed up for a Master’s of Music in Performance and not in paper writing. If you took all the hours I’ve spent writing papers that make no original point (because there is none to be made, with the exception of what is collected here in my lovingly ignored tumblr) and turned those hours into practice time, I could be touring the world play a collection of virtuoso concertos by now. That would serve me and the university much better.

We need to discuss some of these course expectations. I don’t know if you’ve ever taken a music history test, but the listening section can be a bit trivial (Seeing a pattern?). Let me impress upon you my experiences. There are some pockets of time in which all of the important works, important by your definition that is, sound eerily similar. So a professor, knowing this, constructs a set of listening examples made up of tracks each fifteen minutes long and with the same general affect. Then this professor will take all of the tricky, ambiguous sections of these fifteen minute long excerpts and make you identify them for a grade. Do you see my dilemma? I can’t remember four hours of music note for note. That in itself is bad enough, but then this professor will ask vague questions about each passage, again for a grade.

Q: “Why is this passage important?” A: Because you said so, and because I have blind faith in the academic system.

(This one is one of my favorites.) Q: “Briefly discuss the innovations in harmony, orchestration, and process of this composer as exemplified in this passage and give the composer’s pant size and a summary of your summer vacation all in the next line and a half of the paper. This message will self-destruct in five…four…three..two…

Love,

Greg

PS: I’m the one that bashed in your mailbox with a baseball bat. I have no regrets.

Because I have officially passed my Master’s Orals, I see fit to list a number of things wrong with the world and demand that you change them because I, armed with a mighty certificate, am obviously smarter than you. (If this offends you, then keep reading.)

1. .gifs are no longer allowed on the internet at all. If I catch you posting .gifs, I will wave my degree in front of you and demand that you take it down in the name of academia. Motion does not amplify the impact of the pictures and captions, but instead it takes an annoyingly long time to load on my netbook (the choice of true academics everywhere). 

2. No one may question my logik, spellinging, grammer, Capitalization, biography (I was born a poor black child.), punctuation or taste any longer because I was smart enough to pass my Master’s exams? (See what I did there? It’s like blog slapstick!)

3. Those are not man boobs. Those are study muscles. 

4. If I am ever stranded on a desert island with other sundry people that didn’t pass their Master’s Orals, I will be the one everyone turns to for sage advice and guidance. I deserve it for my two extra years in school.

5. All politicians should now be required by law to consult with me on the way that I believe the country should be run. I’ll have a Master’s degree and therefore, I am qualified to run things. Ron Paul is exempt since he has, like, a doctorate. I recognize that other politicians have Master’s degrees, but they’re in things like business and economics and not in real subjects like Music, the most real of all the subjects. 

6. Give me paycheck now. Greg no want work; only want paycheck. 

7. If I’m auditioning for a college position against someone with only a filthy bachelor’s degree, but he can play scales cleanly at  metronome speed of eight million, I demand the job. He can play better than I can, but I have a Master’s and demand to be rewarded for my two year bad decision. Let him starve in the real world while we, the educated, nestle in the busom of the all mighty institution. TO THE CURB, YOU UNWASHED UNDERGRADUATE!

I certainly hope that everyone is catching my sarcasm. Perhaps now it would be appropriate to admit for the first time that I, here it goes, am fallible. Yes, despite my magic Master’s degree. The point of the rant is this: overthrow the academic bourgeois. Frankly, I don’t see it as all that radical, especially when you break down qualifications into sets of skills and knowledge. The idea that these skills can only be attained at a university or some other institution (funny that they’re called institutions) is wrong. What these institutions have that you don’t is resources. Why aren’t these resources available to those without a student ID? Well, I don’t know, but I’m working on it. I think it has something to do with money. If it’s a tax issue, then I won’t expound with my opinion because that really will offend people.

Some people don’t like organized religion. Well, I don’t like organized academia. I don’t think it works. I think it produces stagnation and distraction and wrong answers. University academics are the kind that will tell you that H.P. Lovecraft’s Cthulu is a product of an obsession with the female anatomy of the, you know, the thing, that is down, that thing I don’t want to say or type because I’m too embarrassed. Well, good ol’ Neil Gaiman, AN AUTHOR IN THE SAME GENRE will tell you it is probably wrong. Good ol’ Neil Gaiman understands the creation of characters of like big bad Cthulu the tentacle-faced and that [good] authors have this uncanny ability to separate themselves from their creations sometimes. Crazy.

Now I’m skating on thin ice with that last bit because I actually have a friend that has her advanced degrees in literature, and she may or may not read his and hate me. That’s okay. I’ve been called a lot of bad things, and I’m prepared to be called worse.

Are we courting these advanced degrees from a position of practicality and job security? If so that’s (PREPARE FOR NAUGHTY LANGUAGE) horse patootie. Skills and knowledge. A degree or certificate does not necessarily equate skills ad knowledge. In retail, there are these things called customers. In other fields, they call them clients. You get them by being good at what you do, and they are a reasonable measure of your quality at what you do. Funny how colleges and universities have the perfect business model. You buy their product or service and you can never get a refund for it if you’re unhappy with it. As responsible consumers, it’s time we start questioning the usefulness of their product and demand a better one.

I need to stop. Today was supposed to be a good day, and I’m starting to get my dander up. Let the criticism [of me] begin!       

So I have this professor that likes to tell people about the time he asked his psychologist friend about the human brain. “The human brain will always take the path of least resistance.” And that explains Augustus McCrae’s proclamation that a man can do just about anything, but he just doesn’t really realize it and will give up. It’s been a while since I read Lonesome Dove though, so I could be wrong. Good book. 

Anyway, my brain has decided that writing something, anything, on tumblr is easier than rediscovering the origins of the sonata and concerto or analyzing core-repetition models of developments in Classical period, you guessed it, sonatas.

And I just want to reiterate that as a grad student, I should have the full consent of the law to run over undergrads that don’t use the crosswalk. And shouldn’t a degree in performance include more than one institution sanctioned performance? And donuts. I want donuts everyday. And I want the undergrads, the filth of the world, to watch me eat my fill of them everyday while they starve. I got bullied into this degree program by former professors and society. I demand the world cower in the presence of the mighty and mighty angry grad student.