Archive for the ‘Flute for Thought Blogs’ Category:

Reflections from Ireland

My husband Lee and I recently returned from a trip to Ireland. I have loved Celtic/Gaelic music for over a decade, and always wanted to go to Ireland to experience the country where this wonderful music originates. I finally got to make the trip, as I had a solo engagement at the World Music Centre at the University of Limerick. The whole trip was thrilling, and I admit that I am now an official (self-elected, no re-counts) Eire-ophile!

While there, what struck me most was how prevalent music is in the daily life of the Irish. From small children to the oldest of ages, everyone seems to be steeped in playing, singing, or dancing music. If they weren’t actually doing it, one could bet they had the ABILITY to do it, as they were brought up in it all. I found this amazing, as it is not so in our country. In fact, the only music we can collectively “do” in America is a few Christmas carols, and few people feel comfortable singing, let alone playing an instrument.

Our first lunch in Ireland was at some Pub on our way to Doolin. There were only a few people there, but right next to the fireplace was seated an old man playing harmonica and stomping his feet to the rhythm of the music he produced, laughing and telling hilarious stories between the tunes. It was all the more poignant for me in that this harmonica, as an instrument, was just terribly out of tune with itself. I say poignant, because it was mystical and funny at the same time—mystical to my soul, and funny to my ears. Every tune he played (some of which I knew) had this lowered 2nd and a lowered 7th to it, so there was really no way that any tune could sound completely “happy” with these slight flattenings in the instrument. What is more amazing, I am quite sure that NO ONE recognized these oddities of the instrument, most especially its owner.

At first, I was feeling very self-conscious about how demonstrative/uninhibited this harmonica man was. This self-consciousness is certainly culturally rooted, as I’ve been brought up to listen to music as “performance”, and there is such a formality to it all where there are the performers ‘here’, then some invisible chasm, followed by an audience ‘there’. I realized I wasn’t really used to hearing music in a context that came to seem more like a conversation we were all having. This is the essence of the Pub scene (Pub=Public House) —regular folks sitting around socializing, with music as the main “conversation”, attention, and way of belonging together. After having my first-ever pint of Guinness, the cultural self-consciousness seemed to magically disappear, and the sense of belonging was beginning to sink in.

Soon, another Irishman with a sunny countenance walked into the pub, clad in field overalls and heavy, dusty working boots. He sidled up to the pub counter and ordered his pint. Within minutes, someone was asking this man to play a tune. He hesitated, but then took up the old man’s harmonica and played a tune. Again, the same flattened scale appeared, and I suspect this man heard it, too. He gave back the harmonica and launched into an exquisite song. It gave me goose bumps to hear him sing–so perfectly, with all the embellishments, and straight from the soul–all the while smiling. I felt privileged to be there and to hear this music coming from ‘regular folks’.

We made our way to Doolin, and checked in to a B&B. Lee had read from the internet that there was a music gathering happening here over the weekend (this was now Monday), and we hoped that there might be some hold-overs in the Pub from that event. I can’t imagine how packed that pub must have been over the weekend, as it was completely packed when we went there. I was ecstatic to see that there was, indeed, a pub full of live musicians playing away. This time, it was an accordion player, several bodhran players, guitar, and an 89-year-old whistle player. Again, how mind-boggling to realize how prevalent is music in these people’s culture. How many 89-year-old whistle players would be playing in a pub in the US? (Most likely, they would be home watching TV.) Before this man would play, he would lick his finger and “grease” the whistle over the finger holes. This was definitely his habit, as he did it every time, before every tune. Perhaps I’m going to wait until I’m older to incorporate his technique on that one…

The accordion player (who was fantastic) would begin a tune, and soon all the others would join in. Everyone knew these tunes, and this went on and on, with everyone knowing every tune. At one point, the old Whistle Man was trying to teach the accordion player a tune. It was very tricky, due to some interesting odd-metered measures here and there (not purposely). What was most remarkable about this was the utmost respect that all the players showed this seasoned man. They gave him all the time he wanted, and regarded him as the top in a hierarchy. Though they never did figure out the tune, they went on to play others, and the whistle player played along.

As the evening played and drank on, Lee talked me into getting my flutes from the B&B. At some large lull in the sessions (I was very careful about this), I leaned over and talked to the bodhran-player about a certain rhythm he could play, and I played my whistle on an O’Carolan tune that I’m sure all those Irishmen knew. Before that moment, since the music had previously ceased, the pub had gotten loud in conversation and most of the musicians were dispersing. When I started playing, everyone got silent and listened (this would never happen in a US pub), and at the end they burst out with what was like a group cheer. I think it was also very unusual that I was not only American, but a woman, at that. All the session players were men, and this was consistent in our whole trip. There was only one female flutist at this pub, but she kept far to the background, not even sitting at the “table” with the whole group. After my tune on the whistle, all the dispersed musicians quickly re-emerged, and now we were off to a whole new set and energy of sessions. I regret that I could not play along with their session music. I didn’t know any of it, and it was much too fast to pick up on the spot. This was painful not being able to join in, but on the other hand, it was a pure, fascinating delight to sit there like a sponge internalizing every note they played.

Another lull, and I whipped out one of my crystal flutes. This time I played a slow celtic piece, and as I started, a guitar player joined me in supplying harmony, which I greatly appreciated. Again, everyone listened intently in the whole pub. After it was over, the accordion player looked at me, slowly squinted his eyes, nodded once with his head, and raised his thumb up. I passed his test! I was IN. But alas, I still couldn’t learn their tunes…But I held the unique distinction of being the first person ever to play a crystal flute in that pub (so they told me). Everyone was interested in it, and if I didn’t like it as much as I do, I could have sold it for many, many times it’s cost!

The next day we went through Galway, and found a music store. I tried every single flute and whistle in there (about 40), and came away with some new whistles and a plastic flute made in Ireland. (yes, plastic—sounds great, won’t break).

We made our way up to Westport, where Matt Malloy has a pub. We thought there probably wouldn’t be music this night, as we’d had just too much good luck. But sure enough, they have it so there are musicians that come to play every night—great local musicians. This night the pub was full of Americans, oddly enough. Mostly from colleges, on tour for something.

Hearing these great players at this pub was exactly like the video the Chieftains made where in part they are playing there. Same table, same pictures still on the wall. I played my whistle here, too, and afterwards the musicians said, “play another”. Then I played the crystal flute for them. Again, I could have sold it for mucho euro….but didn’t.

Finally, another day and we made our way down to Limerick, and got into another frame of mind—I was to perform, and teach a Chant and Ritual class about the use of sacred music in my own compositions (which brought about great discussion from the grad students there). This was tremendously rewarding and fun. It was also good to see the academic side of life in Ireland. Limerick is a relatively new university, but it is already out-growing its space, and they are adding on buildings ‘across the river’.

That night, we got to hear the Irish Chamber Orchestra. This is an all-string orchestra. It was beyond fantastic. All the players stood while playing (which really makes it more alive, I thought), and they have no conductor but first violin—which I appreciated all the more by the use of very minute gestures, as opposed to what is common in a regular conductor’s display. This night, the guest soloist and first violinist was Romanian-born Mariana Sirbu. She is the ICO’s Principal Guest Director. A great player, and all of the music was performed superbly. Even though my darling Lee accidentally fell asleep during some of it (I should have had my airline neck pillow there for him, so his head-rolling wouldn’t be so funny!), I was having charges of adrenalin go through me, because the music and playing was so good. Especially their Shostakovich Quartet No. 8 that was arranged for strings. What a memorable concert.

And what an entirely memorable trip. From the music-of-and-for-the-people in pubs, to the art music of the stage, to some of the most beautiful countryside I’ve seen (it reminds me of Montana in many respects), I’m in love with Ireland. We were fortunate enough to get to know some beautiful human beings while there, and simply encountered others that colored our trip with sunshine, beauty, and joy. I now have a hint as to why Jimmy Galway’s playing soars with such an exquisite, other-worldly beauty!

I can’t wait for the next trip to Ireland.

–Rhonda (March, 2004)

Archive for the ‘Flute for Thought Blogs’ Category:

Reflections from Ireland

Julius Baker was principal flute with the New York Philharmonic for 18 years. He died the night before the Las Vegas 2003 National Flute Association convention. He was 87 years old.

I first heard about Julius Baker through my flute teacher, Karen Leech, as an eighth grade student in Bozeman, Montana. Karen’s education stemmed from the Baker lineage as well as the Moyse lineage, so the Baker influence was prominent in my lessons with Karen. I first remember hearing Baker on the Boulez recording of Daphnis and Chloe with the New York Philharmonic. It was the most beautiful flute playing I had ever heard—something about the loose, free sound that he produced, combined with the most alluring musicality for that solo that I had ever experienced. It made me understand that solo for the first time.

I immediately developed an appetite for ‘the Baker sound’, and began spending a portion of my Sunday afternoons huddled up on the floor in my parent’s bedroom listening to the live broadcasts of the New York Philharmonic—just to hear every note Julius Baker produced. (I was huddled in this particular location, as this was the only place in our house in Montana where the FM reception came in clear for Public Radio, over which these live concerts were broadcast.)

When I was fourteen years old, I finally got to meet Julius Baker in person. He came to Missoula, Montana to give a masterclass, and I was lucky enough to be accepted to perform, thanks to the wonderful Mary Jean Simpson who was the instigator and organizer of these. I was so awed in meeting Baker, and I remember introducing my parents to him, thinking to myself, “do you KNOW whose hand you are touching!”. My parents were politely impressed, but they couldn’t know what I knew about this man and his Holy Tone. Thus, he became a sort of guru for me, a muse from which I gained inspiration every day while learning how to truly play the flute, for years and years. And still to this day.

When I performed for Baker in front of the class, he raised his eyebrows at me and said, “what’s a flute player like you doin’ in a place like this?”, with his usual charm. I didn’t know what he meant, being fourteen, and I replied, “oh, I live in Bozeman, not here.” I don’t remember a thing that he specifically taught me in that class, but what was priceless learning was getting to hear his sound from two feet away, and see how his embouchure was shaped. I never forgot that, and from that time on, I was able to “get the Baker sound” as Karen Leech would request, because I learned how to imitate it.

People from all over the Northwest attended that Masterclass. It was an event of the highest quality that makes an indelible mark on a 14 year old, and it not only increased my own respect for Baker, but also gave me some mysterious, magical taste of what true excellence was. Such excellence, that adults themselves were willing to become students of this master to take part in it. I’d never seen anything like it. It set up something magic about the world of flute, something like, “this is the Way, play ye in it”, and I took it fully into my own soul. It was like a baptism into Real flute playing, and I was hooked.

Years later, my dream was to attend the Curtis Institute, where Baker taught. They only accept one student a year, and so everyone had a one-in-200 chance of getting in. I was about to graduate from high school, and contacted Julie that I was coming back east for the audition. He was again so kind to me at the audition, and said, “you know, I can only take one person. If it isn’t you, you would be the next person in line”. I believed him, though I don’t really know if this was true, or him just being nice. Nevertheless, I lived on those words. He then invited me to come to New York and visit him at Juilliard, and stay at his house in Brewster. I was ecstatic—I, Rhonda Larson, would get to go to Julius Baker’s house?

A few days later I met up with him at Juilliard, and listened to him teach a flute player (though he never said much in the way of teaching—he only demonstrated, instead). Then we drove up to Brewster together. I remember thinking that his driving was nothing in the realm of his flute playing, and I was a bit nervous. He was having to make quick decisions about lanes and turns, and his personality just didn’t really fit this task. Instead, he was someone that was always ultra-relaxed, played flute that way, walked that way, wore his jeans that way, and I assume would have preferred to drive that way. But you can’t drive that way in New York.

We arrived at his house, and I met Ruth, his wife, and two of his children. I learned a lot about “the man” that evening, and was so in-awe of him that it took some getting used to seeing he was simply a human being with household responsibilities and concerns. We had spaghetti that night, and as we were eating, I’ll never forget Ruth saying to him, “dear, you have tomato sauce on your chin.” Julie, in his slow, methodical way, said, “Oh?”, and wiped his chin. Then Ruth said, “no, dear, not that chin, your other chin”. We all burst out laughing, even Julie giggled over it, and it helped to completely put me at ease with them all.

I stayed overnight at their house, and the next day Julie showed me his barn studio. I was soaking in everything like a sponge-words and visuals—the life of this great man, so I would remember it all when I was back into my own life. In his basement, there were stacks and stacks of cassette tapes laying around, all from recitals he had played. I thought how great it would be to hear any one of them. By now, I’d fallen in love with, and worn out, his commercial recording of the Debussy trio, and the Roussel. I was stunned at the way he could play, particularly the SOUND more than anything else. But he had surprisingly few commercial solo recordings available, so I saw these tapes as scarce and rare treasure. I’ve always felt that hearing Baker recordings was like hearing the “secret” of how to play. Like codes to be deciphered were his recordings to my flute-playing investigative mind.

I didn’t make it into Curtis that year. Two more years in a row, I came back to audition for it again. It was still my dream, even though I was now in my second year of college at the University of Idaho with a great flute teacher, Richard Hahn. The last time I went to audition, I had no money at all. I refinished pianos to make the money to fly back to Philadelphia, but returned on a Greyhound bus. This is so symbolic as to how it all felt, too. My meals there consisted of yogurt, and peanut butter sandwiches. It took three entire days to get back to Idaho on the bus, which allowed me the reflection time to think about whether I would get in or not, and replay all the events in my head like some great magical, mystical play. This time at the audition Baker said to me, “you know, Rhonda, you are such a terrific gal with such a great personality like no one I know. I think moving to the city would ruin you. I think you should stay right where you are.” I protested that this wouldn’t be the case. I remember thinking, “don’t think you are doing me any favor by not picking me!” But in all those three days home, I was quite sure he was not going to choose me to attend Curtis. I was accepted to Juilliard, but I didn’t want Juilliard. It was the combination of Baker and Curtis that I had my hopes on, and nothing else would do. Alas, I did not, in fact, get selected that final time I auditioned for Curtis.

Certainly by my junior year in college, when I won the National Flute Association Young Artist Competition, I was able to truly see what Baker had done for me. I never really knew how deeply he thought about what he had said to me, and whether he really knew what favor he was implementing for me, but he was the one whose decision had a profound effect on my life in allowing me to stay with complete freedom in the small rural town of Moscow, Idaho. That is, I was free to grow at my own pace there, without outside vehement competition (as Curtis would have been), so I had to develop all of my drive from the inside, instead of trying to be better than the guy practicing next to me. I had to compare myself with the standards of recordings, such as Baker’s and Galway’s, as this was all there was to compare myself to on a larger scale. In short, it meant I had to truly develop from the inside out, not the outside in. I lived in a town that was similar to the town I grew up in, where everyone was friendly and unguarded, free to look a passerby on the sidewalk in the eye, free to ditch as many classes as I wanted so I could spend the time practicing, free to continue my love affair with Nature-the woods, bike-riding, hiking. None of this would have been possible at Curtis. Additionally, I would have been struggling to rent an apartment, let alone eat, which was less of a struggle in Idaho than it would have been in the higher economy of Philadelphia. And street smarts? I had none. Baker was right, I truly think that at that time in my life, the city would have inexorably changed me, shut me down. I didn’t have the “distance” to see this at the time, but there is a wide-eyed innocence to people from rural areas, particularly in the West, and internal development would have been abruptly interrupted by moving to a city and a way of life I had no idea about except from the media.

And so it was that Julius Baker had a many-layered profound effect upon my life. The last time I really got to see him was at the New York National Flute Association convention in 1997, where I performed with my group on a Gala Concert. During the soundcheck, someone was trying to get in the door, and the “guards” came up to me and said, “someone is saying that they are allowed to come in and see you before the show. Should I let them in?” I couldn’t imagine who it could be, but said, “sure, no problem”. They went to the door, and much to my surprise, in walks Julius Baker–shuffling in his characteristic way down the isle, pants bagging low as usual, until he reached the stage where I was. I felt so honored that it was him, the Man with the Holy Tone. (Or is that Wholly Tone?) After a quick exchange, we had to finish our soundcheck, so he sat in the front row and waited for the doors to formally open, and the concert to begin. When our portion of the performance was over, there was a slight audience break to change the set-up for the next group, and Baker rushed up to me (imagine a non-rushing man rushing), and grabbed my hand and said, “Rhonda, I had no idea. I didn’t know you could do that. I’ve never heard any of that before. I had no idea”. It was the best compliment a girl from Montana could ever possibly receive from a man who was instrumental in shaping her life, unwittingly or not, for the better.

I miss you, Julius Baker. If you don’t mind, I’m going to continue to learn from you until my abilities to learn have long expired. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for defining and embodying what is a true, genuine American Flutist. I thank you for magically pollinating so many individuals as you have done, who will go on to perpetuate the blossoming of your contributions to Flutekind. Thank you. And may I continue to thank you in my playing, too. May you hear the music wafting through the ethers.

—-Rhonda, February, 2004

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Reflections from Ireland

One tricky thing about having a website is finding the time to keep it updated, so I apologize to (and thank) all our staunch fans who have written us, asking for more info.

Much has been happening in the meantime. Most notably, my new recording, “Distant Mirrors” has just been completed. In actuality, it was over five years in the making. I do not expect future recordings to take this long, but this particular one has. It has been quite a musical evolution for me, not only in the compositions themselves, but even the style in which I am using the flutes these days. Expanding my own musical vocabulary on my gold flute, while at the same time exploring more ethnic flutes and styles, where my music-soul is permitted to be without boundaries.

Distant Mirrors”, the title piece on my recording, came about in the following way. After the September 11 tragedy, I needed to find some way in my music Art to speak to it, to address it. I sought to do through art what cannot be done in life: marry two different cultures/religions. In this case, I ‘married’ Islam to Christianity by borrowing ancient melodies from each culture, and creating new music from them. The melodies contrast greatly, especially in their style of delivery. That was my symbolic point: our diversity as a human race is a richness, not a liability. It was my way of trying to “create” peace, somehow, since I have not yet fully understood the true conflict that caused 9-11. What I know in my soul comes to this: as one human race, we are Distant Mirrors of one another. None better, none worse. Mirrors. Meant to reflect a mutual ‘goodness’ of human kind. Reflect life-giving qualities. This, to me, is the tell-tale key—life-giving. Not taking away. The mistake exists when we are not reflecting this from one human to another, one culture to another, one religion to another. As far as our differences go, I know that I don’t wish to live in a world where everyone believes exactly the same, or lives such similar cultures….the richness I already know from being a musician is truly defined as diversity. Diversity asks for us to care enough to learn of one another, and shake hands on our common human ground. Let us not be distracted by the fact that there will always exist some bad representations of any particular religion, culture, sect, town , or country. That is why I wish to concentrate on something more hopeful, and represent things through music that make me think more about reflecting our inter-relatedness and connectedness as one human race, rather than our problems which are usually self-glorification-generated (whether in this present life or the next)! It is here where my music takes over. It is my music that makes me seek some kind of ultimate peace, and which makes me believe it can be achieved through this Art. It must be possible, since this is what music does for me first, before I give it back out to the public. It is my music that compels me to seek a life filled with gratitude, not dissention.

Let me be honest in admitting that this is where my heart finds itself these days…ruminating over these thoughts of the time in which we live. I could call it “Rumi-nating”, since I have been reading Rumi (poet from the 1200’s), as well as Julian of Norwich, and David Steindl-Rast, (the only voice among my short list here that is alive in our time, whose books I have been reading and re-reading for ten years now). These are the “Distant Mirrors”, as it were–cultures and people that seem to have common meanings from the human soul echoing back and forth across eras, with the same loving intent…

Listen/Purchase “Distant Mirrors”

Archive for the ‘Flute for Thought Blogs’ Category:

Reflections from Ireland

There has been no other time period when it would have been possible for a flutist to follow one’s heart musically, let alone lead a band. This has been the case in previous eras for various reasons: if you wanted to be a flutist, it was a mere fact that you would be a classical flutist, since that was the only music available to school yourself in, to dine upon. I, too, had planned on following this path, but that divine hand called Life evolved a road less traveled for me to walk upon. In addition, in past eras the only opportunity an aspiring musician had to hear other music or musicians was in their own cities, towns, or villages. The world was “smaller” in all previous eras, and it followed that the available opportunities matched this.

The evolution of technology has changed everything: from travel, to recordings, to flute design. We now have the privilege to visit other cultures different from our own, hear other instruments and other musical expressions of this global primal instinct called music-making, and the craftsmanship and technology to create an instrument that suits today’s needs. It is within these privileges that I am devoting my learning, both musically and culturally.

Technology has also allowed the flute to be audible in a “band” situation via the microphone—an unprecedented boon for our time, where in the past the flute was that little bird in the back of the crowd chirping the good news, but only the more brassy or multiplied voices were heard over the waves of sound. In fact, our beloved sacred tradition of “chant” evolved due to the fact that the congregation could hear a singing voice more audibly than the spoken word, and so chant began—-out of a weakness, as it were, into a great beauty and strength into its own rite.

Compare this to the flute in the example of the most so-called passionate era, the Romantic era: almost no meaty flute music exists because the flute did not garner the attention and respect from the best composers due to its seeming inability to express the depth of colorful emotions that a violin or a piano could. Technology again came to the fore through a German named Theobald Boehm, who re-designed the flute into what is now our modern/current flute. He changed the tube from wood to metal, and the shape of the bore from conical to cylindrical. Now it could project a louder sound, but like any instance where prejudices have been bred, time must once again re-define the respect, and so the Romantic era came and went.

I like thinking of the former flute as if it were considered a weak individual, one that gets pushed around somewhat, called upon to serve others but never allowed to speak up for itself except to the chosen few who understood it’s individual beauty, and chose to think of its “weakness” as a kind of humility. Now, it is an individual that has become radiantly strong, well-spoken and outspoken, whose identifying characteristic is called Beauty. People love quoting Mozart in saying that he did not like the flute, and my reply is that he never heard our modern one. I believe he would have fallen in love with it. And I believe that flute players in general are some of the most interesting and animated, life-filled group of individuals that I have come across—who knows why? So much air flowing through us, like a spirit? To be fair, each section of instrumentalists probably also think their child is the most beautiful…

Musically, our society has evolved to such a degree that we are permitted to make the music that moves our hearts the most. Freedom of music improvisation and ad libitum (change as to one’s liking) was traded for the composers exact notes from the mid-19th century onwards, but is finding its way back in our era-and I do not mean specifically “jazz”, but performer-as-composer/arranger. This is not unique to the flute, but is happening with all instruments today.

Now that decades have presented us with recordings of various kinds, we have the benefit of exposure to global diversity, and it has bred yet another kind of music-making based upon the absorption of these revelations. Diversity and expansion have been a hunger of mine for many years. It was probably hastened due to the fact that I had devoured the classical flute repertoire at a relatively young age, and came out wanting more music to expand my soul and offer to my audiences. Hence, these recordings from around the world, musicians of every instrument and ilk, and other artists of the highest quality have escalated and evolved our society’s level of artistic excellence due to this luxury of education, comparison and growth. Combine this with the personal desire for “free expression”, and you have new music. I live in this said era. And what’s even more amazing? I am a female, permitted as no era before me to partake in this Artist’s Life. It is one of watching and listening, taking in, digesting, and giving back out, re-configured from my own soul, through my own art form of flute music and performance. This is the era of the flute, in which I gratefully stand.

Rhonda Larson