Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 14 Read online

  Q: What was the primary difference between Reich's tape loops and your own.

  A: Well I love “It's Gonna Rain,” but my work was always more coherent I think than Steve's stuff. “Frozen Light” was about something, there was a story. You know, John Glenn thought he was seeing flying saucers out there, and those kinds of selections, the recordings I was working with, were just more interesting than what Steve was using. Even when the speech gets out of synch—

  Q: Especially when the speech gets out of synch.

  A: Yeah. I mean there's a transcendent and mysterious quality to the phase-shifting stuff, and I think I worked with that more than Reich did.

  Q: Are you interested in narratives in your work? It's a strange thing for a minimalist to be concerned with.

  A: I'm interested in understanding what makes up a narrative. I've really left a lot of my more minimalist techniques behind. I mean there are still a lot of repetitions, but I'm also stealing more . . . trying to figure out what's behind other musical traditions.

  Q: There's a satiric streak in your latest works. Especially your Operas.

  A: I guess so. I'm just trying to figure out the roots of things. Trying to cut it up so it's not so familiar and take a look at it again.

  Q: Is that what's behind “Chuck Berry and the Magic Flute?"

  A: Yes. I was trying to see the relationship between Johnny B. Good and Mozart.

  Q: And what you came up with was . . . well it's funny stuff really.

  A: Yeah. Well.

  Q: Very quixotic. Why did you choose to juxtapose those particular musicians?

  A: I guess I had to. I was compelled to.

  Q: You had to?

  A: Well they're both on the Voyager probe. Both artists are, at least according to the committee I chaired with the late Carl Sagan, canonical and important to life on Earth. But, really, I can't tell you why I chose those two artists. I'm not supposed to tell you about that.

  Q: Not supposed to tell me?

  A: I'm sorry. I mean, I don't know how it works. The creative process is . . . I don't know.

  Q: What are you working on now?

  A: Another opera.

  Q: Can I ask you what it's about?

  A: You can ask. I'm not sure I can tell you.

  Q: What's it about?

  A: Bees. Mostly bees. And gorillas. Bees and gorillas.

  Q: [laughing] I'll look forward to that.

  A: Yes. Well.

  Q: It's been a pleasure talking to you today.

  A: Thank you.

  Q: Next week on Talking Music we will be visiting with Thomas Lauderdale who will discuss swing music's new resurgence.

  * * * *

  "I don't know the difference, Mom,” Meredith said. She was talking on the phone and trying to rock Jacob to sleep. Jacob reached out, grabbed the portable phone, and dialed at random.

  Sometimes Meredith forgets that our son is no longer an infant.

  "I'm sorry. Are you still there? Let me put Jacob down."

  I was sitting at my desk, and trying out Soundedit on my desktop computer. Meredith had opened the door to my study when she left Jacob's room on her way to the phone. I could keep working, but I was no longer off duty.

  It was a welcome distraction. The new opera was a mess, and I was trying anything and everything in order to fix it. Tape music, synthesizer refrains, stolen excerpts from Pachebel's Canon and even Beethoven's Fifth. I'd pulled out all the stops, all scruples, but what I'd come up with was only one repeating phrase and a few hundred variations on it.

  There was the bee theme and the gorilla theme, but I needed something more. What I needed was some other image to bring these two elements together.

  I pressed play on my computer screen with a point and a click. The music of a human voice squeaked out from the computer's miniature speakers.

  "The discs skipped across the sky like saucers on a lake.” The voice was Kenneth Arnold's, an Air Force pilot who, after encountering UFOs while flying over Mt. Ranier in 1947, coined the term “flying saucers."

  "The discs skipped."

  "The discs skipped across."

  "The discs skipped across the sky."

  Pointing and clicking I flung the words back and forth, scratching up Kenneth Arnold like some sort of Hip Hop artist.

  "The . . . The . . . The . . . The discs . . . The discs skip."

  My son ran down the hall, towards his room, shrieking and laughing as he bumbled along.

  "I don't know. Maybe it's just that the modernists thought they knew the answers and the postmodernists are still looking. Yeah, you can tell Bill that if you want, but . . .” Meredith looks in on me, peeking around the door to my study and smiling. “Yes. Yes. Okay. I'm glad you think so,” Meredith said. She covered the mouth piece of the phone with her hand and turned her head. “Mom's defending your honor at the YWCA. I guess most retirees don't like your work,” she said.

  Eager for an excuse to leave my study, I leapt up to defend myself.

  "But, I'm talking in their language. I mean, remember in my Nixon concerto? I used all those brass instruments and did all that big band stuff,” I tell Meredith.

  "Oh no. Not you too."

  "Who doesn't like my music? Retirees? I'm writing specifically for them!"

  "Hold on a second more, okay?” Meredith asked into the phone. “John, you're talking about thirty seconds in a 45 minute meditation on the bombing of Cambodia."

  "The discs skipped across the sky like saucers on a lake. The discs skipped across the sky like saucers on a lake. The the discs discs skipped skipped across across . . ."

  "Let me talk to Kathy,” I said and reached to take the phone away from her.

  "Ball, ball, ball, ball, ball, ball, ball, ball, ball,” my son came out of his room at full toddle. He was holding a tennis ball over his head.

  "The discs skipped across . . . The discs skipped across . . ."

  "Kathy? You tell that man that I wrote Einstein's Flux Machine specifically for him and that he's just not listening,” I shout into the phone.

  "Ball?” Jacob asks.

  "That's right. It's a tennis ball,” Meredith tells him as she picks him up again.

  "The discs skipped across the sky like saucers . . . like saucers."

  The neighborhood of make believe was rife with aliens. Purple Pandas from the Purple Planet were blipping in and out of sight, appearing and disappearing.

  "Rah-rah?” Jacob asked. “Mo rah-rah?"

  "He'll be back,” I said. “Mr. Rogers will be back on after the make believe is over."

  I sat at the kitchen table trying to scratch out at least an outline while my son sat in his highchair spilling Cheerios onto the floor and waiting for his television friend to come back.

  "They're so big,” Daniel Tiger said.

  "They are big, and purple,” Lady Aberlin replied.

  Daniel Tiger patted his dump truck and anxiously scanned the perimeter of his clock tower. “I could use my super-truck and then I wouldn't be so afraid.” Daniel paused and looked up at Lady Aberlin with his perfectly round glass eyes. “Do you think the Pandas are trying to scare us?"

  Lady Aberlin frowned, “I don't know, Daniel. The Purple Pandas are very big, and very purple. But maybe, do you think, they might be friendly?"

  "I hope so, but they sure are different."

  I looked down at my notebook, and tried to think. If alien beings were directing the life of the protagonist what would that mean? If he was to be depicted as a pawn of their influence, how could I make his actions meaningful? I started jotting down a melody which quickly turned into just another repeating series of notes that had to be fleshed out. I had to give my protagonist, a suburban businessman who secretly communed with E.T.s, an aria. I had to let him respond to what was happening. I had to let him act; had to let him sing.

  "Mo Rah-Rah?” my son asked.

  "Watch the trolley,” I said. “When the trolley rolls by we'll go back to Mr. Rogers’ house."<
br />
  "Rah-rah?"

  "Yes. Here he comes. See the trolley? You know, Jacob, next week Papa is going to visit Mr. Rogers in person. Not just on television but in real life,” I told him.

  Jacob looked perplexed, not sure what the difference was.

  Mister Rogers appeared on the screen.

  "Sometimes people from other places can be scary. They just seem so different from you. But they're just people. Just like I'm a person, and you're a person. I wonder what Daniel Tiger will think when he finds out that the Purple Pandas are friendly. I wonder how he'll feel. We'll pretend more about that tomorrow,” Mr. Rogers said.

  "Papa Rah-Rah?” he asked.

  "Yes, I'm going to go see him in Pittsburgh next week. Later on."

  Mr. Rogers was sitting by the front door of his television house and untying his tennis shoes.

  "But sometimes make-believe things like monsters and aliens and ghosts, those things can really be scary. Even if they are just pretend. And sometimes it helps to talk about those scary things with a parent or teacher who can really listen. And they can help you to know that it's all right even if you do get scared sometimes."

  Mr. Rogers was ready to go, already he was back in his loafers and heading for the closet to fetch his tweed jacket.

  "And that can give you such a good feeling,” Mr. Rogers said.

  "Ge-by, Rah-Rah,” Jacob said.

  "Goodbye, Mister Rogers."

  * * * *

  Source Unknown, Time Unknown:

  A: Why is my wife here?

  Q: I have more questions.

  A: What are you doing to her?

  Q: We must keep track of you. Sometimes it is necessary to do these things.

  A: She's not a musician. She wasn't on the committee. I don't understand.

  Q: We are interested in her. But, I have more questions for you. Why do you separate your sounds?

  A: What are you doing to her?

  Q: Please calm down. Please touch this.

  A: I. . . . I . . . where am I?

  Q: Please tell me why you separate your sounds.

  A: I don't know what you mean.

  Q: You call some sounds speech, others you call song. Some sounds are music, others are not. Please explain.

  A: You don't have music?

  Q: I am less separated from myself than you are. I don't understand what is not music. Please explain.

  A: Music is a way of organizing sounds. It's a way of expressing ideas through composing different pitches, notes, harmonies.

  Q: Different frequencies?

  A: Yes.

  Q: Why is all of your music on the same frequency?

  A: My music?

  Q: Why is Frozen Light on the same frequency as Einstein's Flux Machine?

  A: You're talking about my music?

  Q: We've been working on your music, trying to understand and expand. You keep making the same patterns. Why?

  A: I'm trying to understand.

  Q: Will you pet the dog?

  A: This again?

  Q: Will you pet the doggy dog?

  A: That's not a dog. That's a horse. That's Gumby's horse.

  Q: Please show the dog your love. Pet the dog.

  A: That's just a picture on a screen.

  Q: You can differentiate between the image and the real?

  A: Yes.

  Q: Why do you select between images? Why are some images more real to you than others?

  A: I don't understand.

  Q: Why do you have dandruff? Why do you raise your hand if you're not really sure? Why is everything on the same frequency?

  A: I'm tired.

  Q: Look at the screen. What do you see?

  A: The president of the United States.

  Q: Will you talk to the president of the United States?

  A: Hello, Bill.

  Q: Please pet the dog.

  A: That's not a dog.

  Q: Look at the screen. Look at the waves of red.

  A: What's that sound? What are you doing?

  * * * *

  When I was at Julliard, my roommate, a perpetually stoned jazz musician named Sam, used to take me to the airport. He loved airports. His idea of a relaxing evening out, his way of taking a break from music and school, was to drive out to the La Guardia and drink overpriced martinis while watching the 747s land.

  * * * *

  "I wish you wouldn't go,” Meredith said. We stood at the gate looking out through the Plexiglass at the runway. My plane to Pittsburgh was rolling towards the boarding tunnel. Pachebel's Canon was gently flowing from the loudspeaker until static interrupted and boarding began.

  "I have to go see Mr. Rogers,” I told her. “This is my big break. I'll be reaching a whole new audience."

  "Very new,” Meredith said.

  "Rah-rah?” Jacob asked. He leaned his head against Meredith's chest and she patted his head with her free hand.

  "I'll be back soon,” I told her.

  * * * *

  Sam liked airports because they gave him a sense of anonymity.

  "It's like purgatory here. Nothing really happens. It's safe,” Sam told me once after his fourth dry martini. “Let's go look at other people's baggage."

  * * * *

  "What's that bump on your nose?” I asked Meredith as we stood in line.

  She rubbed at her sinus and shrugged. “I don't know. Why don't you tell me?"

  "How am I supposed to know? It's your nose,” I said.

  "Hose,” Jacob said.

  The flight attendant took my ticket and I gave my wife and child a quick hug.

  "Don't go, John. I've got this bump on my nose and I don't know what's happening and I don't want you to go,” Meredith said.

  "I . . ."

  The attendant looked at me and frowned. I smiled back at her and then stepped out of line.

  "I've got to go,” I told Meredith. “I'll call you from Pittsburgh."

  * * * *

  Sam didn't just smoke pot, he also dropped acid, ate mushrooms, and chewed morning glory seeds. He liked being ‘spaced out,’ and after our first semester I almost never saw him when he was sober.

  "You know why I'm always stoned, John?” Sam asked.

  "Because you're a bum?"

  "It helps me with the groovy little gray dudes. It helps me see them more clearly,” Sam said.

  "The groovy gray dudes?” I asked.

  "Yeah. They come to me, hang out around me, at night,” Sam said.

  "Where do they do this?” I asked.

  "Oh, right here. They hang out by the foot of the bed and talk to me."

  "What do they say?” I asked.

  "Different things,” Sam leaned over in order to fish out his tennis shoes from underneath the dorm's metal cot.

  "What kinds of things,” I asked.

  "Hey! I have an idea. Let's go to the airport,” Sam said as he tightened his laces.

  "What do they tell you, Sam?” I asked.

  * * * *

  The rental car only had an AM radio, and so I listened to pop tunes from the sixties as I drove to Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. John Lennon kept telling me that nothing was real as I left purgatory and found the ramp to the highway.

  And it was there, at the end of the entrance ramp, that I spotted the man in the gorilla suit. He was about seven feet tall, and he was holding the gorilla mask in his hands as he . . . as he floated across the asphalt.

  He was seven feet tall and his mask was off. I drove up the ramp towards him, slamming my foot on the accelerator. His mask was off and his eyes shone out at me; huge almond-shaped eyes that were as black as night. I slammed my foot on the accelerator and then slammed into the gorilla man. Black fur flipped up onto my windshield and I spun the steering wheel and kept pressing the gas.

  * * * *

  Television Program, Mister Roger's Neighborhood, 10/30/98:

  Q: Did you love music when you were a boy?

  A: Sure. Yes. I started playing the violin when I
was four, and I loved going to concerts with my Dad. I've always loved music.

  Q: Well you certainly are a talented musician now. You've grown up to be a person who can really make people happy with music.

  A: Thank you.

  Q: Do you think you could play something for us, maybe show us how you make songs and symphonies, and let us hear what they sound like?

  A: I can do that. I've brought a reel-to-reel tape player with me today, and it has some piano music on it. What I'll do is set this up and if you'll let me play your piano . . .

  Q: Oh, yes. I've got a piano in the living room. But before we go over there, do you want to feed the fish?

  A: Sure.

  Q: They need just a little bit.

  A: Okay.

  Q: There you go, fish. Today you're being fed by John Zuckerman.

  A: Okay, let me get my tape player.

  Q: And the piano is right over here.

  A: So what I'm going to do is start up the tape machine and it's got some piano music on it, and I'm going to play along with it, only I'm going to play out of synch . . . the same notes in the same pattern, but because I'll be playing against the tape machine the music will change around a bit.

  Q: You mean the same notes will change into different notes?

  A: Its difficult to explain. I'll show you. (Playing along with the tape loop.) And you can hear how the same pattern when played at a slightly different time combines into a different pattern . . . and . . . and . . . Christ . . . ohhhh . . .

  Q: Is something the matter, John?

  A: I've got to stop. Can we stop now?

  Q: Sure . . . let's stop for a few minutes.

  A: I just remembered something. I'm sorry. I'll pull myself together.

  Q: There's no hurry. Did you remember something that upset you?

  A: The sounds, the different patterns . . .

  Q: They made you remember something?

  A: I hit somebody, today. In my car on the way here. I think I hit somebody in my car. Only it wasn't a person.

  Q: You hit somebody, in your car?

  A: He wasn't human . . . I hit an ape?

  Q: I think we should take a break. Okay, everybody?