Happy Birthday, Michael Head

Happy Birthday and thanks for the beautiful and fun songs, Michael Head.

from Wikipedia:

Michael Head was born in Eastbourne, United Kingdom on January 23, 1900. His father was a barrister and journalist and his mother an accomplished amateur singer and pianist. His mother’s influence evidently dominated, and at age 10 he commenced his musical training, taking piano lessons with Jean Adair and singing with Fritz Marston at the Adair-Marston School of Music. He was educated at Monkton Combe School Somerset In 1919, after a period of study at the Royal Academy of Music, he won the Sir Michael Costa scholarship for composition. During World War I he was called up for service, and while working at an ammunition factory, composed the song cycle Over the rim of the moon (Head et al., 1920). This was to become his first published work.

Check out my YouTube channel for a new video of Michael Head's "A Piper" here.

My thoughts (almost) exactly!

Admit it, you're as bored as I am

After 40 years and 1,500 concerts, Joe Queenan is finally ready to say the unsayable: new classical music is absolute torture - and its fans have no reason to be so smug.

During a radio interview between acts at the Metropolitan Opera in New York, a famous singer recently said she could not understand why audiences were so reluctant to listen to new music, given that they were more than ready to attend sporting events whose outcome was uncertain. It was a daft analogy. Having spent most of the last century writing music few people were expected to understand, much less enjoy, the high priests of music were now portrayed as innocent victims of the public's lack of imagination. If they don't know in advance whether Nadal or Federer is going to win, but still love Wimbledon, why don't they enjoy it when an enraged percussionist plays a series of brutal, fragmented chords on his electric marimba? What's wrong with them?

The reason the sports analogy fails is because when Spain plays Germany, everyone knows that the game will be played with one ball, not eight; and that the final score will be 1-0 or 3-2 or even 8-1 - but definitely not 1,600,758 to Arf-Arf the Chalet Ate My Banana. The public may not know in advance what the score will be, but it at least understands the rules of the game.

Read all at link above.

Brahms' Intermezzo Op118 No2

Working on a new song with poem (lyrics) by John Burroughs

I've enjoying writing music to some of the world's great poetry including Ode on a Grecian Urn, She was Phantom of Delight, Daffodils, La belle Dame Sans Merci, Rumors from an Aeolian Harp and others. My attempts are to create singable tunes in a style that is accessible to the trained or untrained vocalist. I hope I capture the intended emotions even at this level of interpretation.

WAITING

by: John Burroughs (1837-1921)

Serene, I fold my hands and wait,

Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;

I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,

For, lo! my own shall come to me.







I stay my haste, I make delays,

For what avails this eager pace?

I stand amid the eternal ways,

And what is mine shall know my face.







Asleep, awake, by night or day,

The friends I seek are seeking me;

No wind can drive my bark astray,

Nor change the tide of destiny.







What matter if I stand alone?

I wait with joy the coming years;

My heart shall reap where it hath sown,

And garner up its fruit of tears.







The waters know their own and draw

The brook that springs in yonder height;

So flows the good with equal law

Unto the soul of pure delight.







The stars come nightly to the sky;

The tidal wave unto the sea;

Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,

Can keep my own away from me.