13. The Temple of Idyll

Oct 31, 2023

Your trek through the roots of ancient trees seems a lifetime ago.

In truth it’s been three days. An unplanned stay, a curious cavern.

1×

0:00

-3:58

You’re still not sure what this place is. A shrine of some sort, sculpted into the cliffs, its entrance perhaps not always hidden behind forest overgrowth?

The mystery of its purpose has collected into freshwater pools at the edges of your awareness. Why not stay awhile echo the sandstone floors.

Already your surroundings have morphed. What were spooky, somber shadows, full of forgotten poems, have become peaceful. Recall your alarm on the first night, bumping into those stone bird statues encircling the space. Initially watchful and suspicious, they’re now regal, even friendly.

Time dilates into an odorless tincture. Outside, the symphony of leaves presses on.

// Side B //

Thank you for tuning in . . . that song was “tryst on cold mountain”, composed in March and lightly re-arranged last week1. The process of recording the song was a departure-then-return to instinct: I tried some takes with a clean performance — clearer notes, perforated sustain, more articulation — and discovered that what I liked about the original concept was its dream-like nature. Long echoes, persisted pedaling, emotions mixed together throughout.

At the Spokane Piano Competition where once, a lifetime ago, I played Claude Debussy’s Arabesque No. 1, my “Honorable Mention” prize was supplemented by a speech from the judges:

“We would have liked you to ignore the pedal markings on the page.”

(Here’s young Lucy’s impressive rendition at Royal Albert Hall from earlier this year.)

I’ve been working on a huge project for years — and this, right now, is the scary time to begin showing it to other people. It is by far the most personal and most ambitious improvisatory music I’ve ever attempted. This concert poster is a bookmark of where I am in the process:

I’ve been wanting to record a demo comprising 2–3 songs, but the target has been confounding + elusive: last summer I ground away at it, ending up with recordings that hit all the technical marks I’d outlined for myself.

Success?

. . . then, listening back to them, I realized their feeling was all wrong and I needed to build a new foundation.

Why could I create this music when improvising freely (with intermittent mistakes) but not for a recording? Each time I approached playing-without-flubs-or-interruptions I lost emotion; whenever I entered what Kenny Werner calls “The Space” I couldn’t consistently execute what I heard in my head. Unlike classical music (written on a page, say, even if the markings end up ignored) or bebop, where facility can be developed via clear exercises: defined, broken down, slowed to a crawl if needed — I realized I was building an improvisatory piano language that I haven’t heard yet, and the paths to discover it only travel through momentum and trial/error.

A year after my lab experiment, I’m proud to say I’m just starting to be able to speak this new vocabulary with conviction and reasonable accuracy . . . but there’s still a gap to bridge, and toiling away in my home studio trying to get performances recording-ready feels interminable in the same way Zeno’s paradox of Achilles and the Tortoise offers no fully satisfying solution.

Enter stand-up comedy.

The wacky idea: by performing the music, I can develop the present-moment attunement needed for it to mature to fruition. The way a comic tests new material in front of live audiences. I’ll play a series of shows to see how it goes, and report back here. Either way, I can’t wait to start releasing this stuff — never before has that word’s liberation component sung so true.

It’s Halloween, Charlie Brown! I have always adored The Great Pumpkin Waltz, comp. Vince Guaraldi, especially this version played by Chick Corea2:

Is anyone dressing up for Halloween? I am, at press-time, under heavy lobbying by a persuasive friend to transform into Ken from the Barbie movie. What she doesn’t know is that my last successful costume was a signpost.