When Song for a Spirograph was written in June 1999 as a collaborative effort with my dear friend Karen, neither of us had any idea the magic this song would contain, or the role it would play in the life of her family.
Song for a Spirograph started out as a poem Karen had written. One morning, as she was standing on a street corner awaiting the bus that would take her to work, and her children were standing on the opposite corner awaiting the bus that would take them to school, she was struck with how love formed concentric circles that surrounded her life. Her poem captured this love, and the fierce commitment she had for those she loved.
I stand in the center, my sphere of existence; the people I love are encompassed within...
With each one of them similarly encircled; I can't say where mine ends and others begin.
Some time later, as I was leaving the Habitat home she helped build for her family, Karen handed me a stack of poetry she had written. "Do something with these," she said. On my way home, I started humming a melody that had some promise, and at the next stop light, I rummaged through the pages to find words that might fit. Her words became the verses, and I added the chorus.
Around and around the Spirograph navigates; circles of color combine on the page...
Slowly the patterns begin their development; one becomes many precisely arranged.
When I performed the song for her the first time, she was thrilled with how her words came alive. The song became a regular part of my repertoire as a solo artist, and was quickly adopted by the Hussies as one of our standards. Audiences love the simple melody, and the words that capture the true meaning of what it means to love one another.
Our lives coincide with the others around us; we cry all together, together we laugh...
We're interconnected to form a great pattern; one single line of the world's Spirograph.
There were many times Karen was in the audience when this song was performed, and I never tired of watching her listen to the song we had written as a testimony of our friendship. However, little did we know that the real meaning was yet to be revealed.
Around and around the Spirograph navigates; circles of color combine on the page...
Slowly the patterns begin their development; one becomes many precisely arranged.
When Karen remarried in 2004, I had the great privilege of singing Song for a Spirograph at her wedding. And when her life was tragically cut short by cancer in 2006 at the age of 47, Song for a Spirograph was played at her funeral.
And if that wasn't enough, the song was played once again when Karen's daughter was married. The words and melody of this beloved song filled the room as I lit a candle in Karen's memory. At a time when Karen's absence was almost palpable, the words washed over us and allowed us to resurrect Karen's memory in a way that brought us hope once again.
If it's true that love never dies, perhaps it is memories such as these that keep our loved ones alive in our hearts. I am grateful for every time Song for a Spirograph works its magic and returns Karen to us, even for a moment.
For absent friends.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Bright City Lights and Dark Smoky Bars
It never ceases to amaze me. As performers, Barb and I almost always come away from a gig having met interesting people that would not have otherwise crossed our paths.
This was indeed the case the last time we played Bagels and Joe. A lovely young woman, probably about 12, but with the air of being much older, came up to us as we were setting up our equipment. She gracefully engaged us in conversation, after she found out we weren't just the roadies setting up for the "real" performers. When we asked if she would like to stick around to hear the music, she explained that the dress rehearsal for her dance recital was that evening, and that was where she was going after her mother finished ordering food for her and her siblings.
I should have guessed she was a dancer. The ease with which she carried herself; the headband pushing the hair from her face, revealing a high forehead; the earnest way she expressed herself, as if she was trying to connect with the audience sitting at the back of the theatre. It was fun to think about what she might look like in a few years, performing with other dancers on the grand stages of the world, brilliant in the bright city lights.
Later that evening, just as we were taking our break, a tall man rushed in, expressing disappointment that we weren't playing, and excitedly explaining that he wanted to "jam" with us. Now this almost never happens to the Hussies, but as his story unfolded, he told us he was originally from Chicago, working in Lincoln, and playing his harmonica around town. The proof that he was legit came from the belt of harmonicas he wore around his waist, and the sweet hypnotic sounds that came from putting those harmonicas to his lips.
When we came back from break, Barb graciously suggested that he and I play together on one of my original tunes, "Relativity Blues." What fun that was. My mind transported us to a dark smoky bar, playing for the type of audience known to old blues men, all nodding approvingly.
The antithesis of these two performers was what made the evening so special. One of her way up, one already there. I can't wait to see what fate brings us next.
This was indeed the case the last time we played Bagels and Joe. A lovely young woman, probably about 12, but with the air of being much older, came up to us as we were setting up our equipment. She gracefully engaged us in conversation, after she found out we weren't just the roadies setting up for the "real" performers. When we asked if she would like to stick around to hear the music, she explained that the dress rehearsal for her dance recital was that evening, and that was where she was going after her mother finished ordering food for her and her siblings.
I should have guessed she was a dancer. The ease with which she carried herself; the headband pushing the hair from her face, revealing a high forehead; the earnest way she expressed herself, as if she was trying to connect with the audience sitting at the back of the theatre. It was fun to think about what she might look like in a few years, performing with other dancers on the grand stages of the world, brilliant in the bright city lights.
Later that evening, just as we were taking our break, a tall man rushed in, expressing disappointment that we weren't playing, and excitedly explaining that he wanted to "jam" with us. Now this almost never happens to the Hussies, but as his story unfolded, he told us he was originally from Chicago, working in Lincoln, and playing his harmonica around town. The proof that he was legit came from the belt of harmonicas he wore around his waist, and the sweet hypnotic sounds that came from putting those harmonicas to his lips.
When we came back from break, Barb graciously suggested that he and I play together on one of my original tunes, "Relativity Blues." What fun that was. My mind transported us to a dark smoky bar, playing for the type of audience known to old blues men, all nodding approvingly.
The antithesis of these two performers was what made the evening so special. One of her way up, one already there. I can't wait to see what fate brings us next.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
For Those in Peril on the Sea
Eternal Father, strong to save, Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who biddest the mighty ocean deep, It’s own appointed limits keep,
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee, For those in peril on the sea.
If you or someone you love has had the privilege of calling themselves a sailor, no doubt you recognize the words of The Navy Hymn. Written as a gift for a student sailing to the U.S. in 1860 by the Rev. William Whiting, a schoolmaster and clergyman of the Church of England, the poem was originally based on Rev. Whiting's experience of surviving a terrible storm on the Mediterranean. A year later, these words were put to music by the Rev. John B. Dykes. The tune was named “Melita,” for the island now known as Malta, in reference to the place where the Apostle Paul took refuge after his ship capsized (Acts 28:1).
A few years later, the tradition of using The Navy Hymn to close Sunday services at the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis began. It was played at the funeral of President Franklin Roosevelt, who had served as Secretary of the Navy, and when President John F. Kennedy’s body was carried up the steps of the U.S. Capitol in honor of his naval service. Since that time, lyrics have been added to honor the Seabees, the Marines, the Navy SEALs, submariners and divers, the Coast Guard, and even those who wait for loved ones to return home.
As a native of landlocked Nebraska, this hymn never really had much of an effect on me. I had no practical understanding of how vulnerable sailors must feel when faced with oceans vast and treacherous. That all changed about a year ago, when the Hussies played for a group of elderly veterans of World War II. These shipmates had served together aboard the LST 944, a Tank Landing Ship that had participated in the assault and occupation of Iwo Jima in February 1945, and Okinawa Gunto, from April through June of that same year.
We didn’t know when we were hired to play for this reunion that there was a special significance to this particular night. It was to be the final gathering of this group of men and their families. Age had taken its toll on many of them, and few remained healthy enough to travel from around the U.S. to take part. But their sense of joy of being together had not dimmed, and we were able to charm them with our music and humor. We began that evening as strangers, and left as friends, knowing we had been able to minimize the sadness of their final reunion and help them celebrate what they had meant to each other all these years.
It was because of that evening that I have a new appreciation for the sea and for the war these men fought so gallantly. As I looked into the faces of these ordinary men who had gone on to live regular lives, I saw the faces of heroes, living, breathing, real-life heroes. And because of that night, I now have a better understanding and respect for their commitment and their steadfastness.
Who biddest the mighty ocean deep, It’s own appointed limits keep,
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee, For those in peril on the sea.
If you or someone you love has had the privilege of calling themselves a sailor, no doubt you recognize the words of The Navy Hymn. Written as a gift for a student sailing to the U.S. in 1860 by the Rev. William Whiting, a schoolmaster and clergyman of the Church of England, the poem was originally based on Rev. Whiting's experience of surviving a terrible storm on the Mediterranean. A year later, these words were put to music by the Rev. John B. Dykes. The tune was named “Melita,” for the island now known as Malta, in reference to the place where the Apostle Paul took refuge after his ship capsized (Acts 28:1).
A few years later, the tradition of using The Navy Hymn to close Sunday services at the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis began. It was played at the funeral of President Franklin Roosevelt, who had served as Secretary of the Navy, and when President John F. Kennedy’s body was carried up the steps of the U.S. Capitol in honor of his naval service. Since that time, lyrics have been added to honor the Seabees, the Marines, the Navy SEALs, submariners and divers, the Coast Guard, and even those who wait for loved ones to return home.
As a native of landlocked Nebraska, this hymn never really had much of an effect on me. I had no practical understanding of how vulnerable sailors must feel when faced with oceans vast and treacherous. That all changed about a year ago, when the Hussies played for a group of elderly veterans of World War II. These shipmates had served together aboard the LST 944, a Tank Landing Ship that had participated in the assault and occupation of Iwo Jima in February 1945, and Okinawa Gunto, from April through June of that same year.
We didn’t know when we were hired to play for this reunion that there was a special significance to this particular night. It was to be the final gathering of this group of men and their families. Age had taken its toll on many of them, and few remained healthy enough to travel from around the U.S. to take part. But their sense of joy of being together had not dimmed, and we were able to charm them with our music and humor. We began that evening as strangers, and left as friends, knowing we had been able to minimize the sadness of their final reunion and help them celebrate what they had meant to each other all these years.
It was because of that evening that I have a new appreciation for the sea and for the war these men fought so gallantly. As I looked into the faces of these ordinary men who had gone on to live regular lives, I saw the faces of heroes, living, breathing, real-life heroes. And because of that night, I now have a better understanding and respect for their commitment and their steadfastness.
The sight and sound of these men and their families joining together to sing The Navy Hymn will remain with me for a long time. Never again will I hear that song and not think about these men who touched my life with their humility and the gift of freedom they have given us all.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Pass the Folk Music, Please
Music has been an intrinsic part of life since time began. People throughout the centuries have used music to entertain, to memorialize, and to celebrate the events of the day. Higher forms of music have evolved, creating sounds that can only be reproduced in a specific manner, but it is the music of the people that many of us hold dear.
For me, folk music is the sound that is the most easily replicated, vocalized, and remembered. It allows me to explore the lives of people with whom I can identify, it captures feelings that may be too tender or too precious to express, and it can stir an audience to sing along, even if they really don't want to. But most importantly, it's portable. We can take folk music with us wherever we go. We can sing it in our minds or out loud, we can play along by drumming on a table or simply strumming chords to accompany ourselves, or we can join together for an impromptu sing-along, complete with harmonies.
As I was growing up, I gravitated to music, not knowing why. I played piano, I played the clarinet, and I sang in school and church choirs. Exposure to music came from places you would expect, and some that might surprise you. I loved the hymns in church, the descants, the joy and solemnity, and the richness of four-part harmonies. I loved marching band, with its stirring percussion, explosive brass, and soaring woodwinds. And I loved classical music, from the Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart used by my piano teacher to teach technique, to the scores Warner Brothers used behind the likes of Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, and Elmer Fudd. This was where I learned about opera, the symphony, and how classical music could tell a story without any words.
But it’s folk music, and the sound of the instruments used to make that music, that keeps me coming back for more. To sing songs that are centuries old but are still relevant today. To play tunes that remain part of the fabric of our society. And to know that I am part of what keeps this tradition alive for generations to come.
I know that folk music isn’t for everyone. If it were, folk musicians everywhere would be living high on the hog. But if you love the sounds of guitar, banjo, mandolin, and autoharp, if simple harmonies thrill you like nothing else, and if you've ever thought to yourself, "I could do that!" then you’ve been bitten by the folk music bug, for which there is no cure. In the immortal words of Tevye, the Yiddish dairyman from Fiddler on the Roof, “May folk music smite me, and may I never recover!” Okay, I did change the quote a bit, but you get the message. Next time, I'll sing the words and you can hum along.
For me, folk music is the sound that is the most easily replicated, vocalized, and remembered. It allows me to explore the lives of people with whom I can identify, it captures feelings that may be too tender or too precious to express, and it can stir an audience to sing along, even if they really don't want to. But most importantly, it's portable. We can take folk music with us wherever we go. We can sing it in our minds or out loud, we can play along by drumming on a table or simply strumming chords to accompany ourselves, or we can join together for an impromptu sing-along, complete with harmonies.
As I was growing up, I gravitated to music, not knowing why. I played piano, I played the clarinet, and I sang in school and church choirs. Exposure to music came from places you would expect, and some that might surprise you. I loved the hymns in church, the descants, the joy and solemnity, and the richness of four-part harmonies. I loved marching band, with its stirring percussion, explosive brass, and soaring woodwinds. And I loved classical music, from the Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart used by my piano teacher to teach technique, to the scores Warner Brothers used behind the likes of Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, and Elmer Fudd. This was where I learned about opera, the symphony, and how classical music could tell a story without any words.
But it’s folk music, and the sound of the instruments used to make that music, that keeps me coming back for more. To sing songs that are centuries old but are still relevant today. To play tunes that remain part of the fabric of our society. And to know that I am part of what keeps this tradition alive for generations to come.
I know that folk music isn’t for everyone. If it were, folk musicians everywhere would be living high on the hog. But if you love the sounds of guitar, banjo, mandolin, and autoharp, if simple harmonies thrill you like nothing else, and if you've ever thought to yourself, "I could do that!" then you’ve been bitten by the folk music bug, for which there is no cure. In the immortal words of Tevye, the Yiddish dairyman from Fiddler on the Roof, “May folk music smite me, and may I never recover!” Okay, I did change the quote a bit, but you get the message. Next time, I'll sing the words and you can hum along.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Looking Through the Glass Darkly
Because the eyes are the windows of the soul, it is important to know what we look at and what we see. Sometimes the glass is to look through in order to see what is on the other side. Sometimes the glass is to see one’s reflection and to better understand who we are. And sometimes, the glass is simply meant to be looked at and enjoyed.
Such was the case at a recent gig we played at Brownville, Nebraska. The Hussies had been invited to play at the Wine, Writers, and Song Festival at The Lyceum. Brownville is a lovely piece of Americana, nestled next to the Missouri River, with the self-proclaimed purpose of celebrating the arts, and especially literature. A woman explained to me that Brownville was an international Book Town, one of many locations around the world with the express purpose of celebrating the written word. But I digress.
As we set up for the social hour and our performance, Barb and I took our usual places. Barb always sits on the left, and I always sit on the right, which means our positions dictate where we look, and how much of the audience we can see. On this particular occasion, I found myself looking at a beautiful stained glass window. It was an interior window, and since there was no illumination, all I could see was the window and the colors it contained.
Throughout the performance, when my mind would wander, I watched the window and explored the colors. There were muted shades of greens and reds, but the standout color was the amethyst, a deep, rich purple that I found particularly appealing. I was enraptured by its color, watching the hues and the swirls, and as my mind tried to grasp what I saw, I was lead to this thought. If amethyst were a sound, what kind of sound would it be.
To me, if amethyst were sound, it would be a contralto (which is handy since both Barb and I are contraltos). It would be husky, with the slight hint of smokiness. It would be warm, not too warm, but warm enough to be a place where you felt safe. It would be luxurious, like a mink coat or a velvet couch. And it would invite you in and sit you down, and embrace you until you no longer remembered why you came.
And now amethyst has become a symbol to me. A symbol of rich, sweet song, of lilting verse and rich accompaniment, of light and dark, and of being given the gift to make music that I love and others want to hear. Amethyst has come to represent what I love about music, and how much I love getting lost in its sound.
So the next time color beckons you to become lost in its glory, don't be afraid. And when color and music embrace, I invite to become lost in the combined richness, and to reach out and feel the depth of what music means to you. I promise, you won’t be sorry.
Such was the case at a recent gig we played at Brownville, Nebraska. The Hussies had been invited to play at the Wine, Writers, and Song Festival at The Lyceum. Brownville is a lovely piece of Americana, nestled next to the Missouri River, with the self-proclaimed purpose of celebrating the arts, and especially literature. A woman explained to me that Brownville was an international Book Town, one of many locations around the world with the express purpose of celebrating the written word. But I digress.
As we set up for the social hour and our performance, Barb and I took our usual places. Barb always sits on the left, and I always sit on the right, which means our positions dictate where we look, and how much of the audience we can see. On this particular occasion, I found myself looking at a beautiful stained glass window. It was an interior window, and since there was no illumination, all I could see was the window and the colors it contained.
Throughout the performance, when my mind would wander, I watched the window and explored the colors. There were muted shades of greens and reds, but the standout color was the amethyst, a deep, rich purple that I found particularly appealing. I was enraptured by its color, watching the hues and the swirls, and as my mind tried to grasp what I saw, I was lead to this thought. If amethyst were a sound, what kind of sound would it be.
To me, if amethyst were sound, it would be a contralto (which is handy since both Barb and I are contraltos). It would be husky, with the slight hint of smokiness. It would be warm, not too warm, but warm enough to be a place where you felt safe. It would be luxurious, like a mink coat or a velvet couch. And it would invite you in and sit you down, and embrace you until you no longer remembered why you came.
And now amethyst has become a symbol to me. A symbol of rich, sweet song, of lilting verse and rich accompaniment, of light and dark, and of being given the gift to make music that I love and others want to hear. Amethyst has come to represent what I love about music, and how much I love getting lost in its sound.
So the next time color beckons you to become lost in its glory, don't be afraid. And when color and music embrace, I invite to become lost in the combined richness, and to reach out and feel the depth of what music means to you. I promise, you won’t be sorry.
Friday, May 1, 2009
And Still She Danced
One of our St. Patrick’s Day gigs this year was in Junction City, Kansas. The Hussies always love a road trip, and this one was especially important because we were hired by my sister to play at the Good Samaritan Center for the residents and their families. Everyone was decked out in green baubles and rub-on tattoos, and looking forward to the music and the treats to be served after the performance.
The highlight of the day, besides seeing my sister, brother-in-law, and his parents, all of whom are so precious to me, was a young woman for whom life must have been very hard. She wandered in and out of the room several times during our warm-up. The first time she came in, we were playing the Welsh lullaby, All Through the Night. She sang along with great gusto, and it made me smile that the tune was familiar to her.
The next time she came in, I was focused on the music, and not really paying attention to what else was going on. We were playing something sweet, I don’t remember what, and when I looked up, I saw her dancing in the back of the room. I was mesmerized, and grateful to witness such a private moment. Her countenance was transformed and her face glowed with transcendence. Suddenly, the hardships of her life faded away, and even the fact that she was in a wheel chair couldn’t stop her from moving to the music that inspired her.
It is these moments that keeps me making music for others. Music touches our lives in ways nothing else can or does. It brings us to tears and makes us laugh. It fills our hearts and eases our pain. And it gives us moments when we can see the face of God in the here and now.
The highlight of the day, besides seeing my sister, brother-in-law, and his parents, all of whom are so precious to me, was a young woman for whom life must have been very hard. She wandered in and out of the room several times during our warm-up. The first time she came in, we were playing the Welsh lullaby, All Through the Night. She sang along with great gusto, and it made me smile that the tune was familiar to her.
The next time she came in, I was focused on the music, and not really paying attention to what else was going on. We were playing something sweet, I don’t remember what, and when I looked up, I saw her dancing in the back of the room. I was mesmerized, and grateful to witness such a private moment. Her countenance was transformed and her face glowed with transcendence. Suddenly, the hardships of her life faded away, and even the fact that she was in a wheel chair couldn’t stop her from moving to the music that inspired her.
It is these moments that keeps me making music for others. Music touches our lives in ways nothing else can or does. It brings us to tears and makes us laugh. It fills our hearts and eases our pain. And it gives us moments when we can see the face of God in the here and now.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Purpose
You may ask about the purpose of this blog, and my answer is this. I want to share what it's like to be a Wee Brazen Hussie, and capture the wonderful things that happen to us along the way. I want to tell you about the joys of practice and performance, our wonderful audiences, and the energy that happens between performer and listener. It is what keeps me coming back for more.
Writing has been an essential as long as I can remember. It is something I undertake with great purpose. I contemplate the words to be used, the phrasing, the punctuation. I mull over them like a hen with her chicks, and can easily get lost in the process.
So here it is, my opportunity to describe what is more often than not, the indescribable joy of being a Hussie.
Writing has been an essential as long as I can remember. It is something I undertake with great purpose. I contemplate the words to be used, the phrasing, the punctuation. I mull over them like a hen with her chicks, and can easily get lost in the process.
So here it is, my opportunity to describe what is more often than not, the indescribable joy of being a Hussie.
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