It had been a full week, musically speaking, four week days of work 1:00 to 7:00 at a music school. A band practice. An open mic night. An extra concert at which I worked the door on my usual Friday night off. So, naturally, when I finished playing the piano at the French restaurant that morning, I was in need of a little refilling of the creative vessel. A little relaxation. After a quick lunch, I pulled myself up to the piano and knocked out a few vintage pop torch songs, singing as I played. I grabbed the guitar and accompanied my voice, I taught a couple piano lessons. I was exhausted and hungry, so I walked myself over to the historic Diamond Belle saloon for dinner knowing it is now ragtime season and I might glean a bit of entertainment and inspiration from a good old upright piano player. It is a six-block walk to the Diamond Belle. In blocks one and two I was buffeted by the remains of a rain/hail shower and I turned my collar to the cold and damp. In block three as I passed the DAC I was greeted by name by a bicyclist whom I know through Stillwater Music. In block four someone called my name from the sidewalk in front of the popular Steamworks restaurant. It was a mother and students from Stillwater. At block six I stopped at the billboard to see if Adam Swanson was playing tonight. Hands down, Adam is my favorite old-tymey piano player. Actually Daryl Kuntz was playing and so I slipped on in, seated myself single and ordered up my usual Straiter burger. Daryl plays one other morning of the week at Jean-Pierre, so I felt I was among friends. He delivered a great (inspirational and informative) ragtime performance for the next 50 minutes. I took notes. I let my ear enjoy and take in all the nuances. I finished a portion of my burger, boxed the remainder for tomorrow’s lunch and declined dessert, whereupon the server said, “You’re all finished then, someone already paid for your meal.” What? But I don’t know anyone here. “No. It was just somebody who wanted to do it!” I don’t even know their name. They probably don’t know mine. But I do know that I love living in a music town – a town full of piano players and history and music students and people who support the arts – whether they know your name or not.
Category Archives: Music and Theatre
In a Music Town: The Side-Hustle
It is more truth than myth, the idea that struggling musicians, actors, and opera aspirants work in a deli while waiting for a big break. It is vintage legend and it is just as true today in any music city as it was 100 years ago. New York, New Orleans, L.A. Durango. Yes, Durango. I heard the tourists talking as I sat at the piano at Jean-Pierre French Bakery during the recent Blue-Grass Meltdown. They were talking about the prolific amount of musical talent in such a small town – especially the pianists. Very true. The Strater Hotel anchors the other end of the same block as Jean-Pierre and boasts two restaurants and one saloon. The Diamond Belle Saloon is historic and famous and houses a grand old upright piano. During the season – May through October – there is a continuous line-up of ragtime pianists playing every night of the week. The most famous is Adam Swanson – four-time World Champion Old-Time piano player. Another piano man appearing regularly at the Diamond Belle is Daryl Kuntz. He and his brother have been in the movies. Daryl also plays piano one morning a week at Jean-Pierre. I cover Saturday and Sunday mornings.
For my side-hustle, I administer the private lessons schedule at Stillwater Music.
So I get to meet them, 25 or 30 of these aspiring and practicing professional musicians, as they carry out another traditional side-hustle of musicians – private lesson teacher.
She is a musical theater major, an opera singer headed to graduate school, and she gives voice lessons three days a week to students of all ages, five-year-old Disney princesses to 65-year-old choral singers. She also cleans houses to supplement her living – and walks dogs – and works evenings in a liquor store.
He is a coffee barista who manages one of the many, many hip coffee shops in Durango. He also is an accomplished fingerstyle guitarist who plays, bass, mandolin, and uke. Other musicians refer to him with the nickname Prophet of Jazz. He has not always been in Durango, but he always comes back.
He is a much revered, most veteran of piano teachers; so laid back he could be a bass player. He has toured with his guitar, finished his piano degree as a young adult and married man, and sometimes takes time off to attend his son’s soccer games. His son also plays cello. His daughter; piano. He used to take time off to tour with Chevel Shepherd on keys and guitar. I am not sure whether being a sought after gigging musician and recording studio staple is his side hustle or weather teaching 32 students a week is his side hustle. But either way, he is making a full-time living in music.
She will ride in the Iron Horse Bicycle Classic tomorrow – all the way to Silverton – on a bicycle – racing the train. She only graduated college a year or so ago – with a double major. She has 30 piano students and is dedicated to giving them her best. As a side hustle she accompanies for the local middle school and works mornings at the golf-course. She will leave for graduate school in the fall, but she will keep as many of her students as possible online, because even in graduate school, you’ve got to have a side-hustle.
In A Music Town; part II, adult musicians
Eight musicians, count them. All well over the age of 21. Four in their sixties. Four GenXers. All lifetime musicians. All proficient and experienced and talented enough to have made a career of music, yet their daytime jobs are thus: The drummer is an emergency room doctor; the horn section consists of a nurse, a counselor, and a dentist. The guitarist is an engineer. At the keys, a non-profit administrator with experience as a music teacher. Singing vocals and playing every auxiliary instrument one can think of is a classically trained musician turned marketing and design agent. The instructor possesses a music doctorate and spends his days wallowing in music education and arranging music for students of all ages.
They participated recently in an adult band showcase – four adult bands sampled from the twelve possible adult bands of differing skill levels at a music school boasting 800 students. Comments overheard at the showcase included such nuggets as, “hard to tell there for a minute if that wasn’t Kansas on Carry On My Wayward Son.” “These bands are ready to be gigging fulltime.” “I had no idea….”
Seriously! Who would have thought? Adults. With careers. Working professional jobs every weekday and rehearsing weeknights. Grownups who never gave up on their music. Students in a music school of 800 students. In an – anything but sleepy – little town of about 20,000.
And she – one of the multitude of graying baby-boomers – she is so fortunate to live in a music town; a town musical and savvy and bohemian enough to support a music school; a school that reveres rock and jazz and classical excellence. A school that has rehearsal studio space and instructors and arrangers and gear and instruments and show contacts and a gig trailer and a roster of better musicians to play with.
In a Music Town
Sunday was a good day. Do you know what makes it a good day? Music. Music makes it a good day. I had to work. But for the first three and a half hours I had the privilege of working from the piano. Yes. It IS a pretty sweet gig as the banjo player pointed out. We had a nice discussion, the banjo player and I, about the love of getting to work in music rather than the drudgery of having to go to work. Any job, even music, can grow tarnished until one remembers the absolute joy of earning a living doing what you love to do.
That Sunday was a record day for me at the piano – not just in compliments (it is hard not to get better when you play more than 10 hours a week), but a record day in the bread in the jar factor as well. I live and work in a music town and when music events are in town the vibe is superb.
Bluegrass Meltdown brings world class headliners to the stage. They lodge in town. They have to eat somewhere. I play at an historic French bakery. Extra travelers are in town. They come here for the music. They lodge in Durango hotels. They, too, put bread in my jar.
Sometime after 11:00 am a young man clad in plaid and blue jeans with a fashionably absent back pocket entered the restaurant. The host apologized profusely that the kitchen was down. “I just want to chill a bit,” responded the newcomer. He seated himself at a bistro table – the one with a direct view of the piano. He snapped a couple photos, maybe a video, sipped coffee, savored a croissant, and conducted business from his cell phone. At 12:06 I began to pack up – to close the piano. He hurried over to compliment on the sustained energy of my delivery and the depth of repertoire. I said he had too much youth on him to enjoy my repertoire. He responded that everyone knows the classics. He said his name was Chris. I introduced myself as Cherry. He said I should drop by the Wild Horse Saloon late that afternoon where he was playing. He turned to leave and I swung my gig bag to my shoulder.
“He’s famous,” said the woman sitting at the nearest table. She whipped out her handheld data. “Yes. Right there,” she said, showing me the screen. “Banjo player with Chain Station.”
And did I go to the Wild Horse Saloon? I slipped in much later for the last song, without a wristband and under the watchful eye and nod of the gatekeeper. Later. After the private lesson student recital at 2:00 pm.
Because you know what makes it a good day? Music. Music makes it a good day.
In a Music House part 4: Soundtrack for a road trip
After all, what is a road trip without music? She was the driver so she got to chose the playlist. It was a multi-generational girls trip for spring break and I was not driving. The playlist was not babyboomer – not from the 70s. The playlist was millennial and included a hearty dose of driving drumbeat intros (so far, so good), but also some raspy sounding screamo.
I sat in the backseat feverishly editing the manuscript for Precious Journey. My (almost) 15-year-old granddaughter occupied the front passenger seat and my daughter of 33 years was driving. The trip was her idea. The music was her music. Suddenly, the timbre of the male voice grabbed my attention. There was something familiar about the vocal placement, even the enunciation of the lyrics. This was a clean professional recording I had not heard before. I thumped the back of the driver’s seat. “Is this Philip?” I called. “Nope,” she answered, “Project 86.”
We rode on. We heard some millennial classics. We listened to soundtracks. A solid, hard, rock drumbeat laid an extended intro to a song. “This is my favorite band,” quipped my daughter from the driver’s seat. “You really like the drummer?” I queried. “Nope. Crush on the guitar player. This is the last thing they ever recorded.” It was, without question, a professional studio recording – not a rough take. And now I knew; she was the drummer. Three different band incarnations, same three musicians. They met in high school marching band. The first rock band formed in my basement at a homecoming party. They morphed into hardcore rock, then post hardcore. They lived for a time in the same house in Ft. Collins. They have now gone separate ways.
Fire Extinguisher – the first album my oldest son ever produced, toured, recorded, merchandised, released as a cassette and CD and personally presented me a T-shirt for. SMA – good old Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego from out of the past (think 1997) came wafting into my mind as I listened to the male voice, now more mature, judiciously trained, skilled and versatile. The driver turned to her niece. “That’s your dad,” she said.
Friends, I am not musically illiterate and I am not going deaf. Yet, I could not tell the difference between the national best sellers and billboard names and my own children. When you have lived in a music house for over 60 years yourself, when you have been exposed to recording studios and stages of every genre, when you have spent a good deal of time on study and practice of vocal production, when you work daily in music, you notice things. My children have arrived. Whether the world ever recognizes them – or not – I do. These are children who grew up in a music house.
The rules of independence
There’s been a noticeable uptick in creative output at her house. A flurry of lyric writing. Sheets of ragged edged parchment stacked against the music shelf. It is contagious. The rise in rehearsal and songwriting is not limited to one person and one wooden piano bench. Voices sing spontaneously again. A mandolin is pulled from a gig bag and strummed. The electric piano and headphones are in use before dawn, the acoustic and authentic strings at midday, the electric bass at high noon. Collaboration happens. All this. All this because a rule was broken and she had to ask for help.
She has a life-long rule of independence. It stems partially from an inherent abhorrence of asking for help. She chokes on the words. She would rather do it herself than outright ask for helpers. When one recruits helpers there is risk. Risk of rejection. The potential helpers may say no. The potential helpers may be balky and grumble the entire time they are assisting. The helpers may resist instruction and insist on doing it their way. After all, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself! For the most part, independence is a good thing. One needs to self-actuate, to take responsibility for one’s own future, not to expect others to make all decisions and take care of you. Independence can be the opposite of unhealthy co-dependence. So yes, let’s hear it for independence. But what of community? What of interdependence? Fiercely, fiercely, because she is not perfect and she has scars, she insists on independence.
She is 5’4”and she is 67 years old and she has rules. She must be able to move all her possessions by herself. That way she is not beholden to anyone. The bed frames fold up. The table folds down. The chairs fold up. The bookshelves look classy, but they are compact, collapsible. No matter how many trips or steps she has to take, she can move them herself. She has been successful at keeping this rule for 14 years – with one exception. Her beloved piano. It has wheels. It is of moderate size. She can move it all around the living room and all around the house by herself, but she cannot move it across the threshold and into a transport vehicle without help. So last weekend, she had to capitulate. In order to bring that one final treasure into her house, she had to ask for help – nay, beg for help. Some helpers are more willing than others. Some parts of the project are easier than others. Loading the piano was a challenge. Driving the truck was normal. Unloading the piano at destination was carried out with ease. You see? That’s the trouble with asking for help. One never knows how the thing is going to turn out. Everyone who asks has to weigh the risks. Everyone who agrees to participate has to weigh the risks. Even when moving a piano, the risks are not always physical. The first emotional risk is rejection, the second is that of not being in control, and the big one for her is loss of her prized feeling of independence. But do the risks outweigh the positive outcome? You be the judge. The piano makes the house a home. Guests and residents linger in the warmth of the living room. Solitary rehearsals are long and satisfying. Once again the confining, inhibiting, restricting rule-laden lid has been pried from the roof of creativity.
Play it again Sam – People Watching
Anniversary Waltz I finished Tennessee Waltz with a flourish and segued into Moon River as she turned from the cash register to follow her husband out the door. But instead, she came to the piano and said, “will you play it again, please, that song you just finished?” She stepped out the door and grabbed him, pulling him back into the French bakery lobby and into dance hold. She was radiant in a beribboned straw hat, capris and a pressed blouse. She held him close, her cheek resting on his chest. At the end of the reprised refrain she placed a tip in the jar and thanked me again and again – all smiles, saying it was their 50th anniversary this very day! – And what a wonderful time they were having!
Secular anointing I was raised in church and I was raised to be a camp-meeting pianist. It is still somewhat of a surprise to me how many customs cross over from the church world to the secular performance world. Giving, for example. What child among us didn’t first learn the idea of giving when the offering plate was passed? We held out our hand to mom or dad or grandma or grandpa and received in our hot little palm a tuppence or a quarter or a dime. Immediately we placed the change in the plate, feeling very grownup that we had been allowed to participate in the act of giving. I see it happen weekend after weekend at the French Bakery and it never ceases to warm my heart. Jean-Pierre, the French, French Baker makes the croissants and macarons and exquisite pastries and I play the restored grand piano. Families come in. Their ears perk up the minute they hear the sound of live music. Those who were thinking of checking out a restaurant further down the street are lured inside. I smile and nod. The children start clamoring for something to put in the jar. And parents oblige. They are teaching their children at a young age to give, to share, to tip those who render a service to make our lives better. Some of them are intentionally teaching their children that you can make money in music – that regular practice pays!
There are a couple dozen one dollar bills in my tip jar, a few fives, one ten. Oh, and there are two pennies. There is a story here, I am sure, and I bet it involves a child. Two children put tips in my jar today. I wonder which it was?
When the previous piano man retired and I took on the job at the keyboard, I asked what were the most requested song titles? Requests? Said the retiring piano man. Requests? Said the proprietor with surprise. Probably just Happy Birthday to You. I had six requests in the first four mornings I played. My repertoire has increased accordingly. I made a playlist so I don’t draw a blank and fumble around, but sometimes I play on the inspiration of the moment. Such was the time a Texan sort of woman came in sporting a gold tone Hobby Lobbyesque T-shirt with the first verse of It Is Well With My Soul printed on the front. That’s pretty irresistible to a piano player with my background. Last Saturday I was letting my mind wander for a few moments. My fingers were sort of noodling about some familiar melodies and I ended up playing Waltzing Matilda. The woman at the counter paid for her pastry and turned to me. “I’m from Australia. How did you know? I’m tearing up!”
Veterans and people who just flat out love America stand a little taller when I play an armed forces tribute or America the Beautiful. Tourists love La vie en rose, tenors and vacationers like to try their voices at show tunes prompting my daughter to ask, “what do they think it is, a piano karaoke bar?”
One Sunday a couple saw me head to the restroom at the end of my four-hour set. They waited, waited just to say how much the music meant to them. Actually, that happens frequently. A thumbs up, a mouthed thank you, someone gushing that they haven’t heard that tune for years, someone else mentioning that I have a rather wide repertoire.
I am a glutton for praise. I fear I have long been addicted to affirmation. Praise is often payment in the music world. But man – or woman – cannot live on praise alone. You can’t pay the rent with praise. But just as time is money; tips are praise and affirmation. I’m not going to complain, no siree; I don’t have one complaint about earning my daily bread with music. The people watching is unbeatable. I especially love it when they dance.
Tip It Forward
She spent a lifetime raising young musicians. And when I say a lifetime, I mean all her adult years. I guess you could say for the 21 years previous to adulthood she was only raising one young musician – herself – but that would not accurately account for her parents’ hand in the business. Anyway, she raised three – musicians that is – three to whom she gave birth (this story is not about the hundreds of students whom she raised to love music) and she watched them fledge and fly away and continue forward with the music business because each of them, at the approximate age of 16 began to play with bands; marching bands, rock bands, punk bands, reggae bands, celtic bands, worship bands; every kind of music one could imagine. Likewise, these young musicians began to be independent, to learn more from the big wide world of music, less from the mom who gave them birth and especially they learned from the School of Hard Knocks and paying your dues. So it happened, after they were grown from home, that whenever she passed a street musician – which was usually when traveling to San Francisco or Pike Place or other colorful and cultural locations, she was careful to tip the musician – a little change here, a dollar bill there because she was never flush with money. And each time she dropped the money in the hat, she thought of her kids; wished them well. She hoped that someone, somewhere that day was dropping some money in the hat or jar or fishbowl for her children who were making a way for themselves with music.
***
He was born three weeks early and came out using his lungs and with the ability to grasp and grip objects. His parents sang a cappella harmonies while his mother nursed him. A few days later he could roll over. Before the age of five weeks he was pushing himself up to a standing position in his mother’s lap. This in itself seemed precocious. But the amazing thing was, he was pushing himself up, bouncing, keeping accurate time to the rhythmic crooning of a traveling black music evangelist. Six months later she boarded a city bus in San Antonio with this little man child held securely in her arms. She was only 19 and a little skittish of the big city, strange surroundings, people and customs different from hers. An old woman with a large and worn shopping bag occupied the seat behind causing her to think of all sorts of fairy tales with old hags. Across the aisle sat a young Puerto Rican looking desperate and hungry, she knew too much about Westside Story. She tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, to melt into the bus interior. But Baby would have none of that. He squirmed until he was turned to face the Puerto Rican. He stuck out his little cherub face and coughed politely. No result. Determined, Baby coughed again. The young Puerto Rican man finally looked up, whereupon Baby beamed at him and then turned his attention to the weathered woman behind to begin the social process of introduction again. Working the crowd. That was 47 years ago. To her certain knowledge, that child has been a consummate showman and performer ever since. He loves people. He reads the crowd.
Child number two had to be rocked to sleep standing up, the one who watched the patterns of the LED music readout on the stereo over her shoulder to make sure the music was not stopping, only advancing to the next song. This made sense. This child was born to parents who worked in radio and had a mortal fear of dead air time. She was the dancer who moved her arms gracefully to the music before she could walk, the toddler who sat at a piano keyboard and attempted delicate arpeggios instead of pounding. As a young adult she was the drummer, the mandolin player, the songwriter and the one woman show.
Child number three was born using his lungs and never stopped. Always self-contained, mindful and confident, he knew what was expected of him and delivered on stage by the age of five. His pitch was as sure and accurate as that of his older siblings. He was able to engage adults in meaningful conversation at a young age. He toured the world with a children’s chorale, sang for weddings, and soloed on the concert hall stage before entering high school. As a young adult he knew his path and located himself in music hubs, playing concurrently with as many bands as possible.
***
So now, when she plays the Saturday and Sunday morning gig at the French Bakery, she thinks of her kids. She thinks how encouraging they are – all three of them- how excited for her that she has this unencumbered opportunity to play live music, enter this world they have survived in and loved for decades. She thinks of her oldest child when she makes eye-contact, smiles and acknowledges each guest that comes through the door while she continues to play. She is pretty sure she learned that habit from her son. She thinks of her daughter and a one-woman show as she keeps the music humming without benefit of drum or guitar fills for a few solid hours. When happy guests tip her handsomely – and when they don’t, she thinks of the seasons her kids were busking on the streets to survive. She recalls the street musicians she has tipped over the years. And she wishes, she wishes she had tipped more – tipped it a little further forward!
In a Music House part 3, crashing a party
We crashed their party, and when I say we, I mean two genXers – both of them dads – and me, the gray-haired baby-boomer. “Let’s go down,” said my 47-year-old son, “And ask if we can jam with them.” He was talking to me, but mostly to a former bandmate who was visiting from out of town. Down we trooped, to the well-appointed basement studio. “Can we set in?” I called, feeling very much like a nuisance neighborhood kid. Now I ask you, how can two sixteen-year-olds, one seated on the throne and the other slapping a bass, refuse the dad who shelled out the lettuce for all the equipment? And how can they refuse grandma? Captain picked up a second bass (Tennille was upstairs chatting with the mom of the graduate). Kvon grabbed the guitar and started setting options on the pedal board. I flipped the switch on the keyboard stack and got…nothing – this is not my studio and the sound man is AWOL. So I moved to the Hammond which was live last time I was here, pulled a few tabs, disengaged some buttons and full-throttled the Leslies. We’ll play in “A” said the captain to the co-bassist. So I did. Played “A” for about ten minutes. Played A 440 on the upper manual and A 440 on the lower manual and A 880 and riffed the notes in between. Eventually, I slide off the bench and drifted away to greet cousins and walk the old homestead. The teenagers switched instruments and cross-trained. But for a moment there, it felt like old times. I’m even saddle-sore from dangling my legs off an organ bench. And what of the graduate, the person who precipitated this event?
He wasn’t manning the keyboards, instead, he was playing video games with his classmates. Are they wasting time? No. Think of it as research. He’ll design something someday, a game that integrates original music and video and creativity and it will be a hit. Because all this is what you do; all this is at your fingertips, when you were raised in a music and media house, with grandparents who were songwriters, engineers, and bandleaders in the 70s and great grands who knew how to raise the roof at gospel camp meetings.
***
I returned to the music house today after a job interview of sorts. Like most interviews I have been to, this one included a fair amount of listening on my part – listening to the story of another and absorbing the information between the lines and applying it to my life, shaping an opinion and a proposal. Unlike most interviews I have ever been to, this one ended with me sitting on a piano bench playing a medley of popular tunes whilst the retiring piano man wandered off to talk to the restaurant owner. “I told him he should hire you,” he said. “When he asked me why, I said because you guessed the correct amount of money in the tip jar.” He laughed and played a few tunes for me. I thanked him and walked back home, declining a ride in his convertible. After all, it’s only a few blocks and the weekend weather is fine. Walking gives me a chance to soak in the neighborhood ambience and hear various kinds of music wafting out the doors of houses and food establishments. My own house is no exception. When I arrived home live music was filtering through the open screen. Laid back guitar riffs, a bit of funk, nice steady patterns on percussion, perfect for a lazy Saturday afternoon. Andrea sat on the cahon, hand-drumming snare and bass and adding tambourine fills with her foot. My guitar was in the hands of someone obviously more capable than I who was effortlessly picking and strumming. A mandolin and a bass lay in open cases nearby. They’ve gone to do some grocery shopping now, and I just spent another hour at the keyboard improvising old favorite tunes. It’s a fine thing to live in a music house, and an even finer thing to have a musical family.
Free Music
Yesterday, I did it. It’s taken me 14 months, but I finally played an original, complete, coherent, eight bar melody on the public chimes at the top of the sky steps at Ft Lewis College. You may well ask why it has taken me so long. After all, college music theory III required a complete Sonata of three movements plus coda in less than a semester’s time -half of which time was spent learning the rules governing a sonata. My sonata, named something prosaic like Praxis Sonata, critically acclaimed by the entire class, garnered me only a B on my final report card. A B! In music! Even then, I knew my instructor was generous. Why? Because he knew something my classmates did not know. I had failed to analyze the piece – to mark in the jots and tittles right on the music. And though I worked frantically with my pencil on the bound and presentable copy whilst other students performed ahead of me, I had not completed the analysis before the final bell.
Give me seven giant, floor-mounted windchimes at the top of a trail and two attached mallets, what could possibly be difficult? I’ll tell you what: They never gave me the rules. I have spent a year trying to figure out the theory of the thing. Not diatonic. Not arranged in ascending or descending chronological order. One of them is even out of tune with the other. Seven. Not six like guitar strings. Not a major scale. Not a mode. Nada. Not an Aeolian harp. I discovered the chimes early in March 2020 and played them at each passing so my ear could make out the pattern. No pattern developed. By Labor Day I could play two bars of the French Marseillaise, but after that, the available tones gave out. I pondered what I knew of world music and puttered about making incidental riffs whenever I hiked in that neighborhood. Most of the hikers and stair step masters ignore the presence of the chimes. They wear motivational earbuds so what do they care? Once, and one time only in the entire 14 months, I saw a child walking away from the chimes. Otherwise, the chimes are my oyster and mine alone, I guess. I’ve heard oysters need irritation to compose pearls. I was plenty perplexed.
With March 2021 came the advent of distanced outdoor concerts downtown every Friday. On the walk home, it seemed only natural to take in the art gallery in my path. And there I saw them; miniature, hand-held tone bars in sets of five. What were they? Freetone bells. Freetone bells made by the same artist responsible for several outdoor musical installations around the community including parks, pre-schools and Ft. Lewis College. Not one of the five tone sets is just like any other. They are all free. Each sounds its own unique pitch without regard for harmony or the chime hanging next in line.
Do you know what that means? No rules. You are free to strike any chime you like in no particular order. But me? I’m still bound to the definition of music as organized sound. I’ve spent a good deal of time and research trying to get to know these chimes. So far, I’ve got them organized into 8 bars of passable melody. I’ve still got to figure out how to work one outstanding chime into the mix, but six out of seven isn’t bad – it’s kind of like my life. Here’s to the future; with or without rules!
