Some Critical Advice

 Some of you know I hold a master’s degree in Trumpet Performance from New England Conservatory. While I have not played for years, lessons learned through musical studies still resonate today, almost forty years after leaving the Conservatory.

Most of the day-to-day stuff came from my trumpet teacher, Charles Schlueter. Charlie was Principal Trumpet of the Boston Symphony at the time and he often found ways to relate everyday activities and principles to music; the reverse also works.

My best piece of writing advice also came from my time at NEC, from Benjamin Zander, who was then music director of the Boston Philharmonic. Ben taught a class titled “Chamber Music Interpretation” that was pivotal in how I approached all performances forever after.

The first day of class, Ben congratulated us on having chosen to dedicate our lives to music. He said it was a noble calling (he was right) and mentioned several luminaries whose paths we were following, no matter how remotely. I took the class out of curiosity but by the end of our first session Ben had me hooked.

He spoke of something else that day that stayed with me: being a musician would not be without cost. Among those costs was a discipline we would have to self-impose, of never listening to music solely for entertainment. Not that we couldn’t or shouldn’t enjoy music, but that we must always listen on a deeper level.

What did he mean by that? We could no longer afford just to hear the notes. We needed to look for some understanding of why the composer and/or performer made the choices they made. It didn’t matter if we were on an elevator and subjected to a Muzak version of “Thriller.” We should look for something to take away from it, either good or bad.

Casual musicians and other music lovers have asked if this ruined listening to music for me. The truth is the exact opposite. Listening critically opened new vistas of enjoyment, as I came to better understand which choices were available and which were more, or less, successful. It made listening a delight, though I must admit that I now listen to little music while doing anything that requires concentration, as my mind is too strongly attracted to the music.

How does that affect my writing? It affects my reading. I did not begin writing seriously until I was in my forties. I hadn’t taken an English composition class since freshman year of college, and the experimental “linguistics” education I received in junior high school gave me virtually no knowledge of grammar. I had to catch up in a hurry.

My solution was to adapt Ben Zander’s principle of critical listening to reading. As with music, once I got the hang of it, critical reading enhanced my enjoyment of what I read. I no longer read even a newspaper article without thinking of why the writer made this or that choice, what might have worked better, or what I would have done differently.

To prove this constant analysis of what I read in no way diminishes my enjoyment, I am currently reading Carl Hiaasen’s Bad Monkey. The Beloved Spouse™ will sometimes comment how she can hear me laughing out loud at various times, but I am still looking at the bits between the lines and words. “I see what he did there.” “That could come in handy for me some time.” “I wonder why he made that choice.”

If you want to be a writer, or claim to be one already, this might be the one piece of advice I would most want you to take to heart. If it sounds like too much work, then maybe writing is not for you.

I Got the Music in Me

 You may or may not know (or care) that music was my career of choice. I was a good enough trumpet player to obtain a bachelor’s in music education, play three years in an Army touring band, and earn a Master’s in Performance from New England Conservatory. I wasn’t good enough to earn a living that would support a family, so when The Sole Heir came along, I found real jobs. It was a good trade for me, and, frankly, for music.

 

That doesn’t mean music doesn’t still have a role in my life. While music once  captured at least part of my attention most waking minutes, now it provides mental and psychological comfort zones.

 

Among the benefits of having been a musician was a broadening of my musical interests. My father listened primarily to country music; my  mother was more eclectic. (It was Mom who introduced me to Blood, Sweat, & Tears.) I played in big bands in high school and college, where I was also introduced to classical music. In the Army I played whatever they needed a trumpet for, which included marching band, concert band, jazz big band, brass quintet, Vegas-style review, and Dixieland band.

 

I also learned to appreciate excellence in any form. While I never played in bands that performed these specific kinds of music, I developed an affection for blues, rhythm and blues, roadhouse, zydeco, show tunes, Tom Lehrer, Alan Sherman, and whatever you want to call what Tom Waits does.

 

So what do I listen to?

 

Most often, nothing. The older I get, the harder it is to multi-task, and it’s often difficult to have music around me and not actively listen to it, which detracts from whatever else I’m doing. It’s not a great loss, as I am rarely without an ear worm, so I have music with me virtually every waking moment.

 

What comes to me as ear worms? Anything. In the course of a week the music in my head could range from Mahler to Maynard Ferguson to Merle Haggard to Tower of Power to Beethoven to Delbert McClinton to Big Bad Voodoo Daddy to…you get the picture.

 

There are times when I want, or even need, certain music. Where do I turn when I want to listen to music as my primary activity?

 

Country takes me to a safe place, not unlike waking to the smell of bacon. I’m drawn to the songs that tell stories, and funny or self-satirical is fine with me.

 

For fun it’s either jazz (usually big bands: Buddy Rich, Stan Kenton, Doc Severinsen) or rhythm and blues (TOP, Blues Brothers); Delbert McClinton sometimes serves as a bridge when I can’t make up my mind.

 

If I want to elevate myself, it’s usually classical. Listening to Mahler, Beethoven, Mozart, and their peers takes me back to when I was the happiest in my work, playing in orchestras. This is where I go when I want the rest of the world to fade away.

 

It’s been over twenty years since I played worth mentioning. I take a trumpet out of its case every couple of years, play for five minutes, and put it away. My face hurts and the sound not only doesn’t meet my standard, I know how distant I am from producing an acceptable sound, and it’s not worth the trip.

 

That said, I don’t regret a second of my time as a musician. Nothing except parenthood ever provided me with anything like the personal reward I got from playing. I went places, did things, met people, and learned things I never imagined growing up working class in Western Pennsylvania. I am grateful every day for having those opportunities.

 

Why am I talking about this in a writing blog? Because my life as a musician shaped my writing in ways I am still discovering. I’ll talk about those someday, but that’s a different discussion.

Valuable Lessons Learned

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No education is ever wasted. It’s rare that something learned in one discipline fails to transfer, though it may have to be examined from a different angle. All of my formal education is in music, yet it has served me well in multiple careers, most notably as a writer.

The best teacher I ever had happens to be the best trumpet player I know. Charlie Schlueter was Principal Trumpet of the Boston Symphony when I studied with him. He taught me more about music, and things that sounded like music but weren’t, than anyone I ever met.

What struck me first was the day he said in a lesson, “No one can teach you anything.” He didn’t mean me personally, though it must have seemed like it at times. His point was that everything we learn, we figure out for ourselves. A teacher’s role is to suggest avenues based on their experience and judgment of the student’s gifts, warn against pitfalls, try different methods of explanation, and to encourage when the inevitable roadblocks arise. Everything is learned by the individual through trial and error, perfected by repetition.

Now that he had my attention, anything went. Here are three that stuck with me most, as applied to writing:

Take time off. When asked if he wrote every day, William Golding once said, “Yes, when I’m writing.” Musicians are notorious for practicing until they’re numb; writers count words obsessively.  I became a better player near the end of my career, when my schedule required some time away from the horn. My writing improved when I decided to take off a couple of times a year, as much as was practical over the summer and the holidays. Not only does it recharge my batteries, it keeps my daily routine from becoming flabby, as I had now have self-imposed, if soft, deadlines.

Give yourself permission to miss. Charlie meant notes. Playing to be “correct” precludes beauty. Hitting every note on the page is not music, just as the printed sheet is not music: it’s the map that shows where the music is. Those who try to create a great performance rather than settle for ordinary will sometimes overstep. That’s fine, pick your spots where you have to play safe, and go for it whenever possible. When writing, push the envelope. It won’t always work—that’s what drafts and editors are for—but that’s where the improvements are.

There is such a thing as “good enough.” Charlie and I were working on the first movement of Mahler’s Second Symphony, a big brass climax with repeated high Gs leading up to a high C. This was not in my wheelhouse—I had a nice sound, not much in the way of chops—and I routinely missed the C. We worked it a bit—Charlie “gave me permission” to miss the C, and I nailed it. We both sat there for a few seconds before he gave me one of my two greatest compliments as a musician: “I can’t play it any better than that. Now do it again to lock it in.”

And I shit the bed on the C.

Charlie gave me a look and said, “Couldn’t leave it alone, could you? Had to make it better. You could’ve won auditions playing it like the other time. That was good enough.”

As writers who may redraft, we are all prone to try to over-improve things. Learn when what you have is as good as you can write it. Maybe it’s not as good as James Lee Burke. (It won’t be.) Learn to accept what’s good enough, and learn it well, because no one can teach you.

Bud Herseth

Most of you have not heard of Adolph “Bud” Herseth; you should at least be aware of him. His outlook may be instructive.

Bud Herseth played principal trumpet in the Chicago Symphony from 1948 – 2001. That’s right: fifty-three years. He was 79 years old when he retired, and played a few more seasons as Principal Trumpet Emeritus before stepping down altogether. In that time he cemented a reputation as the standard by which all orchestral trumpet players were measured.

I was fortunate to hear him play several times, and to participate in a master class. (He even took the trumpet section to lunch.) At the end of the session, at which the brass section of a summer festival orchestra read through Mahler’s Fifth Symphony, he took questions. In addition to the students were musicians from the National and Baltimore Symphonies, as well as others who were in town to coach the student orchestra. Virtually all of them came to see Herseth, regardless of their instrument.

It has been said the key to a happy life is to discover what you love to do most and figure out a way to make a living at it. Here’s what Bud Herseth said when asked if he thought about retiring. (He was in his late sixties at the time.):

“Why would I retire? Every day I get to play the greatest music ever written with the greatest musicians in the world. I have the best job in the world.”

Few professions can manage a more jaded façade than orchestral musicians. Even the established pros were choked up at that. I remember it like it happened the other day, not twenty-five years ago. For a man of Herseth’s gifts and accomplishments to view his job the way he did made everyone in the room feel small for any inconsequential griping. We were all lucky, no matter how close to the top of the pyramid we’d come.

Bud Herseth died last month at the age of 91. I didn’t know him; I met him once. I knew his playing. No one other than Charlie Schlueter had a more pronounced influence on me as a musician. The first thing I thought when I learned he was gone was to be glad he’d stayed around for a nice run after retirement. Too many giants suffer from what I call “Bear Bryant Disease,” and die too soon after their retirement to reflect on what they had done, and on their legacy.

From what I know of him through friends who knew him better, I doubt he spent much time doing that. I suspect he was happy to have had the best job in the world for longer than almost anyone else, to have had the opportunity to play the greatest music ever written with the greatest musicians in the world. A lot of people are happy he had that chance.

Too Deep to be Popular? Or Vice Versa?

Crimespace currently has a couple of enthusiastic debates (here and here) about the endless dispute between literary fiction and genre fiction. Sides tend to form pretty quickly in such engagements. The “literary” side goes on about the “limitations” of genre writing, while the genre folks complain about the snobbery of the lits. I’m inclined to come down on the genre side, not solely because I write what would be called genre fiction, were anyone ever to publish it.

I was a musician in a previous life. Played in all my high school’s bands (literally), got a Bachelor’s Degree in Music Education. Spent three years in an Army band before getting a Master’s in Performance from New England Conservatory. Free-lanced around for several years playing in small orchestras, brass quintets, concert bands, whatever needed a trumpet part. This has allowed me to play, and appreciate, a wide range of music, and verify first hand that the same discussion goes on between classical and popular musicians constantly. I can safely say there is a degree of snobbery toward more popular forms of the music from many of those who exist on the more exalted plane; the popular musicians are not imagining it. They have their own blind spots, often citing the inaccessibility of classical music. The musicians’ arguments are too similar to writers’ not to be analogous.

Classical musicians deride “jazzers” for their imprecision and simplicity of structure. Jazz advocates claim classical players don’t swing. This argument moves through musical genres: jazzers often look down on country music, and it’s unusual to hear a young rocker acknowledge his debt to R & B. All of them can improve their own work by paying attention to the other. Jazz players can create tighter ensembles by listening to orchestras; orchestral pops concerts would be much better if the orchestras actually could swing.

Writers who consider themselves either, neither, or both ignore the precepts of either at their peril. The genre writer who fails to appreciate the implications of a more literary approach will find himself describing a rainstorm, instead of, in John Gardner’s words, “evoking the sensation of being rained upon.” The literary writer who looks condescendingly upon genre fiction as having nothing to teach him can evoke plenty of rain, but may have trouble getting his characters to do anything practical or believable once they are wet.

It’s been credited to too many people to be anything other than apocryphal, but everyone benefits if we all accept there are only two kinds of music or writing: good and bad. Subject matter, genre, or style determines neither. Both sides need to learn from the other if each is to remain vital. Literary writers cannot afford to travel the road too many of their musical brethren have, eventually writing only for themselves and those who wish to be considered part of the cognoscenti. Messages and themes, no matter how profound, lose their vitality and importance if the audience that can appreciate them is too small to matter. Popular forms that appeal too often to the least common denominator will find themselves passed over as those fickle tastes inevitably change.

On the other hand, as John Connolly’s experience shows, “literary” writers aren’t always just snobs. Sometimes they’re assholes, too.