The end of high school was my Gershwin phase.

It all started with his three Preludes for Piano. Since the jazziest piece I’d studied up to that point was probably Debussy’s Golliwog’s Cake Walk, getting assigned these pieces was like discovering chocolate.

The preludes incited interest in the rest of Gershwin’s repertoire — the Concerto in F, Porgy and Bess, An American in Paris, Summertime. And of course, Rhapsody in Blue.

Undoubtedly I’d heard Rhapsody dozens of times throughout childhood; but at that particular time, the piece attacked me from all sides. First, Fantasia 2000. Then one of my brothers bought Leonard Bernstein’s recording and started playing it constantly. Then a kid in one of my youth symphonies soloed with it; and I’d often catch bits of the rehearsals. Even in its early stages, the piece infected everyone — the soloist, conductor, and orchestra — with joyful energy.

Toward the end of senior year, with auditions over and graduation in sight, I told my teacher I wanted to learn Rhapsody in Blue. This was audacious for me; I’m fairly shy, and at that age was more than a little afraid of asserting myself with authorities. But loving a piece will drive you to do strange things.

We worked on it for the remainder of my time in his studio. I never got the chance to perform it; but by the end I could play the whole thing decently; and that was enough.

Part of the reason I’m fond of this piece is that it’s like a musical representation of how my mind works. Rhapsody in Blue is basically a bunch of melodies strung together. Some say the piece lacks form; but I disagree. It’s a rhapsody. It’s supposed to be free-flowing and improvisatory. But it has a highly distinct beginning and ending; and it communicates its point even if it rambles in places. I completely understand this mode. I’m a daydreamer. My thoughts resemble spirals more than lines. There are usually a bunch going on at once. Half of my writing process involves cutting out words; and I often rearrange my sentences. But hopefully, the points get across — even if some are rough around the edges.

And the other reason I love this piece? Listening to it just makes me smile. Kind of like chocolate.

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This has been an unusually happening week in the arts world, technologically speaking, so I’m including a lot of video today. Happy Friday!

• 20 Things I Learned About Browsers and the Web: A rather delightful crash course in geek-speak (and a not-so-subtle plea to update your browser). Recommended as a follow-up to Teach Parents Tech.
• Sovereign Grace Sale: Great discounts on CDs, sheet music, and books for the month of February.
• New York Philharmonic Digital Archives: So, yesterday I was looking for a copy of a score for Bartok’s Concerto for Orchestra. Turns out I can look at Leonard Bernstein’s marked copy, thanks to this fancy new project.
• Google Art Project: If you haven’t heard about this yet, well . . .
• Musical subway map: Clever audio representation of New York public transportation.
• Creative Stopmotion: After slaving away to make a very short and not too good stopmotion project for a class, I really appreciate and admire examples like this:

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Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings, Op. 11 easily ranks among the most popular classical works of the twentieth century.

Often when a piece reaches this level of recognition (a certain canon comes to mind) , professional musicians love to loathe it. Too many performances, too many butchered renditions . . .

Über-popularity hasn’t squelched my love for the Barber Adagio.

It’s one of those pieces that, should it come on the radio, will make me stop whatever I’m doing to listen. Through simple harmonies, rhythms, and structure, the Adagio powerfully distills the essence of hopeful yearning; and I am moved every time I hear a good performance of it. Former NY Times critic Olin Downes describes this piece well: “We have here honest music, by an honest musician, not striving for pretentious effect, not behaving as a writer would who, having a clear, short, popular word handy for his purpose, got the dictionary and fished out a long one.”

Music doesn’t usually conjure images or stories in my mind, but this piece is an exception. I imagine someone alone in an expansive place, trying to deal with a difficult reality. At the point of the cathartic climax (around 6:35-7:10 in the recording below), he decides to accept whatever it is; but instead of the utter despair he expected he finds hope. At the end, he turns around to find that he is not alone — and that, in fact, he never was.

Perhaps that’s one of the greatest beauties of this music. While our reaction to it may seem intensely personal, we need only watch what happens when a roomful of people hear it. We aren’t as alone as we think we are.

More info via NPR:

• NPR: Barber’s ‘Adagio’: Naked Expression of Emotion
• The Impact of Barber’s ‘Adagio for Strings’ (includes a recording of the original performance under Toscanini)

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Punctuality is important to me. I hate keeping people waiting; and few things invoke more personal stress than arriving late.

But when it comes to music and TV shows, I’ve a habit of “discovering” things about five years after the rest of the world.

For example, the show Lost. I didn’t start watching until, oh, maybe 2 episodes into Season 6. The most logical explanation I can come up with for this lapse is that the show started when I was in college and had a TV with exactly two channels. (Hulu wasn’t around then.)

My story’s the same for Friday Night Lights and Damages, and musicians like Ben Folds and Regina Spektor.

(I’m usually a little more timely with music, if you ignore this next example.)

My latest “discovery” is the Icelandic band Sigur Ros, which apparently I’ve stumbled upon only 17 years after they started (and a year after they’ve gone on hiatus). I’m thinking it’s the foreign name that kept me in the dark . . .

Anyways, if you’re the one other person in the world that hasn’t heard of Sigur Ros, you should check them out. They’re kind of amazing. This video is what hooked me:

Have you ever been “late to the party”? What’s your favorite “after-the-fact” discovery?

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Deciding to play the harp was not one of my more calculated decisions in life. It’s probably best described as a teenager’s whim. I was 13, wanted to try something new, and having seen a celtic harp at a friend’s house, thought the harp seemed cool.

At any rate, upon entering the harp world, I harbored no childhood dream of playing “Waltz of the Flowers.” I didn’t even own any harp CD’s. So one of the first things I did after starting lessons was head down to Silver Platters to raid their (tiny) harp music collection. The first couple of CD’s were interesting, though nothing particularly grabbed my attention.

Then the Tournier Sonatine came on. The piece basically knocked my socks off. After hearing it, two thoughts swirled in my mind. First, “I had no idea a harp could sound like that.” Second, “One day, I will play that piece.” About six years later, I realized that dream.

Now, I know the piece doesn’t rank among the greatest musical compositions. Some people think it’s too bombastic (as harp pieces go); I’ll admit it borders on self-indulgent and sentimental. But it’s a great harp piece. Tournier was a harpist; he composed in a way that puts the instrument in its best light. Though I couldn’t have articulated it at the time, I think that’s what captivated me as a very ignorant beginning harpist — I was hearing colors and sonorities unique to the harp. And it was a piece I couldn’t imagine on any other instrument.

Playing and performing the piece only added to my enjoyment of it. Some of it, especially the last movement, is pure pyrotechnic fun. But my personal favorite is the second movement. I remember life being particularly stressful at the time of learning this piece; and I would often get back to my apartment at night feeling agitated. I would sit at my instrument and play the second movement over and over, which always helped calm me down.

On the other hand, playing this same movement in a huge, vibrant space inspires a completely different feeling that I’m not sure I can fully describe. It’s sensing the pleasure of creating something beautiful, but at the same time feeling that you are part of something far beyond yourself. You feel at once both big and small; in the moment but outside time.

(Apologies: The videography is a little dizzying.)

My longtime piano teacher loved the German Romantics. Though everyone studied Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, and Chopin, one had to earn the right to play Schumann and Brahms.

My first excursion into that privileged world came in mid-high school, when I was assigned one of the Brahms Rhapsodies. I guess I did a passable job with it, because the next year brought two works — one being Brahms’ Intermezzo Op. 116, No. 4.

“This is a special one,” he remarked as he passed over the music for the first time. Translation: you will work harder than you can imagine on these three pages of music.

We spent significant chunks of lesson time on getting the right sound for a single chord: “No, that’s not it. No, no, not quite, try again…” Transitions and the turn of nearly every phrase received similar painstaking treatment.

Only the profound beauty of the piece kept me from giving up out of frustration. (I still think it’s some of the most gorgeous music ever written.) I remember sitting at home listening to Richard Goode’s rendition, then sitting at the piano and trying to produce something even remotely similar. This created a whole new level of despair, but something else was happening.

I began learning how to listen.

I started hearing what I wanted even if I couldn’t produce it. I was grasping for the sounds in my ear, not just my teacher’s ear.

In retrospect, this was a huge turning point in my musical development. No, scratch that.

This was the new beginning.

An ongoing goal of mine is to expand my classical listening library. School made this practically a matter of osmosis thanks to listening exams, seminars, ensembles, and student recitals.

Nowadays, I have to work more intentionally to regularly discover new music. (By “new” I mean music I haven’t heard before, not strictly contemporary fare.) I’ve tried several methods, with varying success:

Internet/Social Radio

I regularly use sites like Pandora and Last.fm while at the office. Every once in awhile something will catch my ear; though most of the time regular work interruptions make serious listening unrealistic. I suppose I could try using this more at home, though I tend to want to control my playlist a bit more.

Browsing Concert Programs

One of my most memorable college assignments was to pick 10 concert programs from two orchestras anywhere in the world, find the music, listen to them straight through, and journal the experience. Yes, it was as time-consuming as it sounds; but it was also the most effective way, outside attending live concerts, that I discovered new music in college. (Plus, it was a great lesson in concert programming.) I haven’t had the discipline to repeat the process exactly, but buying music I see featured by world-famous ensembles has yielded some new favorites. (This is how I first came across Golijov and Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde.)

Attending Concerts

This is extremely effective — when I actually do it. My first experiences with some of my favorite composers — Josquin des Prez and Gabriel Faure come to mind — were in live concerts. You would think I would do a better job at attending concerts regularly, but I’m ashamed to say I’m terrible at it — lack of planning, more than anything else. Yep, definitely need some improvement here…

I’m curious — how do you discover new music? Do you have any recommendations? (Self-promotion is perfectly acceptable!)

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I was not one of those kids who happily sat down at the piano every day. Until I reached my early teens, my parents made me practice more often than I’d like to admit. My youthful opinion of classical music, broadly speaking, was that it was fine for car rides or background study noise — but not fun.

That was before I discovered Victor Borge.

Somehow, our family ended up with the VHS version of this concert featuring the Danish comedian/pianist.

Watching this video was the first time I remember laughing at something related to classical music; and the first time the concepts of “classical music” and “fun” connected in my mind. I don’t remember how many times my brothers and I watched the Clown Prince of Denmark over the next several years, but I’m pretty sure we wore out the tape.

I don’t think that all classical concerts need a humor element or that the majority of us should attempt comedy routines in our recitals (please, no). But I do think the ability to have and appreciate fun and, occasionally, to laugh at ourselves in this profession is necessary for survival.

Oh, and happy birthday, Victor Borge. (He would be 102 today.)

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Today I’m starting a series of weekly posts highlighting sources of personal artistic inspiration and influence — mostly musical works and people, but also experiences, habits, etc.

Two main reasons for this series: first, it’s a more art-focused spin-off of the gratitude posts. Second, I hope it’ll encourage you to recognize that everyday encounters who we are as artists. The majority of my list items are more ordinary than epic. A lot of the music wouldn’t make any “top 100″ lists. Some of the people are unfamiliar to the masses. But for whatever reason, each work, person, or thing on this list affected the way I approached or understood art.

Sometimes I think I need to travel to the other side of the world for a dose of inspiration. Then again — perhaps I just need to take a second glance at what’s sitting on my music stand.

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For many people, myself included, New Year’s Eve is a day filled with anticipation and hope. No matter how good or bad the previous year was, the symbolic date change represents the chance for improvement, new experiences, and a fresh start.

Will next year be the year that I ___________? I really hope that I can _________________. Maybe I’ll finally do _______________.

Perhaps, circumstantially, 2011 will be my best year yet. Or perhaps it will be a year of difficulties. Of course I hope for the former, but I don’t know.

One thing I do know, however, is that no matter what 2011 brings,

Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

I am grateful today that it is well with my soul, and I pray the same for you. Happy New Year!

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

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