humble cake (1977)
for flute, clarinet in Bb, bass clarinet, violin, and 'cello [9 mins.]
Premiered 24 April 1978 at SUNY - Stony Brook.
5 subsequent performances including Vancouver, Canada and San Francisco.
Opus 2 —A.S.C.A.P. work I.D. 381939797
SCORE
5 subsequent performances including Vancouver, Canada and San Francisco.
Opus 2 —A.S.C.A.P. work I.D. 381939797
SCORE
humble cake (1977)
flute, clarinet, bass clarinet, violin, and ‘cello
NOTES
humble cake was written while a Masters student SUNY Stony Brook, New York. After composing FOUR PIANO PIECES, which was a break-through piece for me, I was anxious to get to work on my 2nd Opus. (“Opus,” that’s rich!) I had received a lot of nice comments on the first piece, and the performance was repeated in New York City. I was anxious to get back to work and write more, but — I couldn’t get anything going. It was very difficult to get a new piece started – one that clicked for me. I tried and tried, for months – nearly a year, but —no dice. There was just nothing there. I was worried, bewildered, and lost. I wondered if that first piece was a fluke, that I was a one-hit-wonder. Perfection was nowhere to be found, or even mediocrity, and I was on the verge of giving up the whole idea of continuing my quest to compose. (Umph – back to Milwaukee to play jazz piano?)
But with failure dooming around the corner, I showed myself the grit that was needed. After 9 months without writing a piece, with at least 50 beginnings crumpled up in my waste basket, I refused to give up. So, I made a decision: I AM GOING TO COMPOSE! And, if I can’t compose anything decent, I’ll compose something lousy — Lousy or not, here I come! So, I wrote a few supposedly lousy measures. YUK! Then I continued. But as I examined those lousy measures, I could see the entire piece stretching out and beyond. I couldn’t see through to the end, but that initial lousy beginning sprouted branches. I could hear the ideas of how this beginning would become a beginning and develop and live.
“Click!” It was if I had just learned how to compose. It’s as if those first measures brought the entire piece into focus. Not only that, but a climactic violin’s high Eb, half way through this new quintet (humble cake) also got my VIOLIN CONCERTO (1978) percolating, and I started writing it within that same year — just after a percussion quartet, OFF CENTER TO THE LEFT (1977). Perhaps I had some talent, skill, musicality after all, or maybe not – but I had an enormous amount of determination. I was going to compose music for the remainder of my life, even if it was lousy!
And the non-upper-case letters that I always use when dealing with my opus 2, humble cake, became an illustration of my own humility as I joined the ranks of composers through history. I wasn’t sure if I was worthy to belong to this club that I had just elbowed my way into, but I was damn well not going to give up my seat at the table of this incredible art form. As I continued to write humble cake, I looked around at my new colleagues with awe, including Leonin, Perotin, Gesualdo, Bach, the first and second Viennese Schools, Debussy and the other French guys, Ives and the other American guys, as well as the masses of composers that I hadn’t even discovered yet.
Later, when I was later a student at UC-Berkeley, I had the opportunity to study one of Beethoven’s sketch books. Although I was honored to do so, as I paged through the book, the scratches and rewrites looked familiar. I had seen a similar bunch of scribbling in my own studio.
My teacher at Stony Brook during humble cake was David Lewin. David was one of the most respected and creative music theorists in history! He received his B.S. degree in math at Harvard and then went to grad school at Princeton, also in math. But during his first year he had a change of heart, and switched into music, receiving his M.A. degree in composition and theory under Milton Babbitt. He became Milton’s prize student. He was frightfully brilliant.
When I arrived at Stony Brook, David took me seriously. He took what I wrote seriously. He liked me, too. I had a musical epiphany under him: Not happy with the music that I had been writing, one evening I tried something very different for me. It sort of clicked as treaded with my pencil on virgin territory. I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing. At my next Lewin lesson, after showing him the progress on the piece I had been writing – about which neither of us were too excited, I showed him this new stuff I had been experimenting with. “Oh!” David said. And he kept looking, then playing it on the piano. “Oh, this is more like it.” Time-wise, my lesson was over, and David had to teach a class. But before I left his office he said, “can you come back in an hour?” I did. That piece became FOUR PIANO PIECES. That was the break-through.
David knew that he had tapped something, that he had done a good job teaching me. And, as I said, he liked me. In addition, we both realized during one tangential conversation that his father was a psychiatrist, as was my father, and his father, as Chief of Staff at Belleview in NYC, and was my father’s mentor during his residency at Belleview after WWII! Small world — and what a parallel. It was definitely a connection for the two of us. I remember asking why he didn’t go into Medicine, i.e. Psychiatry? He told me that he preferred to study the mind from the different angle that is allowed in music!
Although he was frightfully brilliant, he was also completely unpretentious, down to earth, and full of mischief. The Masters students at Stony Brook put on monthly new music concerts called MOSTLY FROM THE LAST DECADE. It was part of my assistantship to organize them each month. In addition to putting the program together, and getting posters, programs, etc. together, I did other fun stuff. The music grad students had quite a camaraderie. One month I told everyone to show up for the concert in 3-piece suits and baseball caps.
David Lewin did, too.
Another time, I got off the elevator on the fourth floor of the Stony Brook music building and immediately heard music. It sounded familiar. It was German Lieder. It was Schumann’s DER DICHTERLEIBE, one of my favorites. But who was singing and accompanying? With all the talented students in the music school, it wasn’t surprising to hear such a wonderful interpretation of the song cycle – but who? I walked toward the sound and when I got there, there were a few grad students in the small office. Christopher Butterfield was singing. He wasn’t really a singer. He was one of my fellow student composers. He sounded wonderful. Accompanying him was Harvard/Princeton mathematician, David Lewin. He was reading from score, and not only nailing everything, but make the crappy upright piano in the small room sound fantastic. It was a beautiful sight and sound. And it was then that I first noticed that when David Lewin sat at a piano and played, he looked like the famous picture of Brahms playing the piano. He had the beard and the stocky build, but never the cigar.
flute, clarinet, bass clarinet, violin, and ‘cello
NOTES
humble cake was written while a Masters student SUNY Stony Brook, New York. After composing FOUR PIANO PIECES, which was a break-through piece for me, I was anxious to get to work on my 2nd Opus. (“Opus,” that’s rich!) I had received a lot of nice comments on the first piece, and the performance was repeated in New York City. I was anxious to get back to work and write more, but — I couldn’t get anything going. It was very difficult to get a new piece started – one that clicked for me. I tried and tried, for months – nearly a year, but —no dice. There was just nothing there. I was worried, bewildered, and lost. I wondered if that first piece was a fluke, that I was a one-hit-wonder. Perfection was nowhere to be found, or even mediocrity, and I was on the verge of giving up the whole idea of continuing my quest to compose. (Umph – back to Milwaukee to play jazz piano?)
But with failure dooming around the corner, I showed myself the grit that was needed. After 9 months without writing a piece, with at least 50 beginnings crumpled up in my waste basket, I refused to give up. So, I made a decision: I AM GOING TO COMPOSE! And, if I can’t compose anything decent, I’ll compose something lousy — Lousy or not, here I come! So, I wrote a few supposedly lousy measures. YUK! Then I continued. But as I examined those lousy measures, I could see the entire piece stretching out and beyond. I couldn’t see through to the end, but that initial lousy beginning sprouted branches. I could hear the ideas of how this beginning would become a beginning and develop and live.
“Click!” It was if I had just learned how to compose. It’s as if those first measures brought the entire piece into focus. Not only that, but a climactic violin’s high Eb, half way through this new quintet (humble cake) also got my VIOLIN CONCERTO (1978) percolating, and I started writing it within that same year — just after a percussion quartet, OFF CENTER TO THE LEFT (1977). Perhaps I had some talent, skill, musicality after all, or maybe not – but I had an enormous amount of determination. I was going to compose music for the remainder of my life, even if it was lousy!
And the non-upper-case letters that I always use when dealing with my opus 2, humble cake, became an illustration of my own humility as I joined the ranks of composers through history. I wasn’t sure if I was worthy to belong to this club that I had just elbowed my way into, but I was damn well not going to give up my seat at the table of this incredible art form. As I continued to write humble cake, I looked around at my new colleagues with awe, including Leonin, Perotin, Gesualdo, Bach, the first and second Viennese Schools, Debussy and the other French guys, Ives and the other American guys, as well as the masses of composers that I hadn’t even discovered yet.
Later, when I was later a student at UC-Berkeley, I had the opportunity to study one of Beethoven’s sketch books. Although I was honored to do so, as I paged through the book, the scratches and rewrites looked familiar. I had seen a similar bunch of scribbling in my own studio.
My teacher at Stony Brook during humble cake was David Lewin. David was one of the most respected and creative music theorists in history! He received his B.S. degree in math at Harvard and then went to grad school at Princeton, also in math. But during his first year he had a change of heart, and switched into music, receiving his M.A. degree in composition and theory under Milton Babbitt. He became Milton’s prize student. He was frightfully brilliant.
When I arrived at Stony Brook, David took me seriously. He took what I wrote seriously. He liked me, too. I had a musical epiphany under him: Not happy with the music that I had been writing, one evening I tried something very different for me. It sort of clicked as treaded with my pencil on virgin territory. I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing. At my next Lewin lesson, after showing him the progress on the piece I had been writing – about which neither of us were too excited, I showed him this new stuff I had been experimenting with. “Oh!” David said. And he kept looking, then playing it on the piano. “Oh, this is more like it.” Time-wise, my lesson was over, and David had to teach a class. But before I left his office he said, “can you come back in an hour?” I did. That piece became FOUR PIANO PIECES. That was the break-through.
David knew that he had tapped something, that he had done a good job teaching me. And, as I said, he liked me. In addition, we both realized during one tangential conversation that his father was a psychiatrist, as was my father, and his father, as Chief of Staff at Belleview in NYC, and was my father’s mentor during his residency at Belleview after WWII! Small world — and what a parallel. It was definitely a connection for the two of us. I remember asking why he didn’t go into Medicine, i.e. Psychiatry? He told me that he preferred to study the mind from the different angle that is allowed in music!
Although he was frightfully brilliant, he was also completely unpretentious, down to earth, and full of mischief. The Masters students at Stony Brook put on monthly new music concerts called MOSTLY FROM THE LAST DECADE. It was part of my assistantship to organize them each month. In addition to putting the program together, and getting posters, programs, etc. together, I did other fun stuff. The music grad students had quite a camaraderie. One month I told everyone to show up for the concert in 3-piece suits and baseball caps.
David Lewin did, too.
Another time, I got off the elevator on the fourth floor of the Stony Brook music building and immediately heard music. It sounded familiar. It was German Lieder. It was Schumann’s DER DICHTERLEIBE, one of my favorites. But who was singing and accompanying? With all the talented students in the music school, it wasn’t surprising to hear such a wonderful interpretation of the song cycle – but who? I walked toward the sound and when I got there, there were a few grad students in the small office. Christopher Butterfield was singing. He wasn’t really a singer. He was one of my fellow student composers. He sounded wonderful. Accompanying him was Harvard/Princeton mathematician, David Lewin. He was reading from score, and not only nailing everything, but make the crappy upright piano in the small room sound fantastic. It was a beautiful sight and sound. And it was then that I first noticed that when David Lewin sat at a piano and played, he looked like the famous picture of Brahms playing the piano. He had the beard and the stocky build, but never the cigar.
Johannes Brahms doing an impersonation of David Lewin at the piano.
Then there is my favorite David Lewin story:
David used to stand outside his 3rd floor office, in his jeans, leaning against the wall with one leg bent and the foot up on the wall – like a French prostitute standing under a lamp post. He’d stand there until somebody came by, and, when they did, he’d stop them and engage them in conversation. The conversation was always lively, but sometimes you’d have to avoid going down the hall if you were in a hurry. He’d also wait for his next student in that position. Sometimes you’d get to your lesson, and he’d be in a long conversation with somebody, and you’d have to wait for your lesson to begin.
One particular lesson, not too long after I began humble cake, were discussing the new passage I had written since my last lesson. For some reason, I wasn’t happy about it. David played through it, just once. He didn’t seem to think it was right either. In the passage, all five instruments were busy, working both together and at cross purposes. We talked about it for a while and decided that I should cut it and try again, which I did. It was the right thing to do. I cut it and then the piece continued in a better direction.
About three months later, I was nearly finished with humble cake. I was just about to write the final section, the ending of the piece. I showed up for my lesson and put my pencil score on David’s piano. He sat down and looked through it, from the beginning, every once and while playing a part on his piano. When he got to the newest music I had written, which would precede the ending, as he played through it his eyes got sparkly. “Oh, I get it. That’s what’s happening.” Good – he agreed that all was in place for the ending passage. But then his eyes squinted, and he sat in thought for about 10 seconds. “Mmmmm. Does this new passage remind you of anything?” I wasn’t sure what he meant. Did I subconsciously plagiarize some other piece? “No, it doesn’t…..what do you….” And then Mr. Freightfully Intelligent played, from memory, the passage that I had thrown out 3 months before – the one that didn’t seem to work. From memory. After playing through it once, three months before!! You have to realize that that passage was quite complex. There was a lot of polyphonic notes and rhythms, lines chords, textures, etc. I was so shocked that I did a pirouette, twirling in place, with my eyes hysterically wide open. I just couldn’t believe that anyone could do such a thing. But David had just done it.
He laughed. He knew he had surprised me. Surprised? I was in shock. I joked, “I’m going to bring you some whiskey to me next lesson to slow you down.” David responded, “Oh don’t do that. My memory gets sharper when I drink.”
Epilogue: About 5 days later, I was on the fourth floor doing something in the music department office. As I exited and started walking down the hall I saw a familiar sight. There was David, way down the hall, leaning against the wall with one leg bent and the foot up on the wall – looking like Johannes Brahms as a French prostitute. I kept walking toward him, thinking about my last lesson, where he had wowed me with his uncanny ability. As I walked, David saw me, and instead of waiting for me, he ducked into his office. I didn’t think anything of it, but by the time I got to his open office door, as I looked into his office to see what happened to him – there he was, sitting at the piano, playing that passage I had thrown out more than three months ago – and looking right through the open door at me – and a big smile on his face!
David Lewin died young, age 69. RIP Maestro.
Wiki
Obituary, NY Times
Obituary, Harvard
David used to stand outside his 3rd floor office, in his jeans, leaning against the wall with one leg bent and the foot up on the wall – like a French prostitute standing under a lamp post. He’d stand there until somebody came by, and, when they did, he’d stop them and engage them in conversation. The conversation was always lively, but sometimes you’d have to avoid going down the hall if you were in a hurry. He’d also wait for his next student in that position. Sometimes you’d get to your lesson, and he’d be in a long conversation with somebody, and you’d have to wait for your lesson to begin.
One particular lesson, not too long after I began humble cake, were discussing the new passage I had written since my last lesson. For some reason, I wasn’t happy about it. David played through it, just once. He didn’t seem to think it was right either. In the passage, all five instruments were busy, working both together and at cross purposes. We talked about it for a while and decided that I should cut it and try again, which I did. It was the right thing to do. I cut it and then the piece continued in a better direction.
About three months later, I was nearly finished with humble cake. I was just about to write the final section, the ending of the piece. I showed up for my lesson and put my pencil score on David’s piano. He sat down and looked through it, from the beginning, every once and while playing a part on his piano. When he got to the newest music I had written, which would precede the ending, as he played through it his eyes got sparkly. “Oh, I get it. That’s what’s happening.” Good – he agreed that all was in place for the ending passage. But then his eyes squinted, and he sat in thought for about 10 seconds. “Mmmmm. Does this new passage remind you of anything?” I wasn’t sure what he meant. Did I subconsciously plagiarize some other piece? “No, it doesn’t…..what do you….” And then Mr. Freightfully Intelligent played, from memory, the passage that I had thrown out 3 months before – the one that didn’t seem to work. From memory. After playing through it once, three months before!! You have to realize that that passage was quite complex. There was a lot of polyphonic notes and rhythms, lines chords, textures, etc. I was so shocked that I did a pirouette, twirling in place, with my eyes hysterically wide open. I just couldn’t believe that anyone could do such a thing. But David had just done it.
He laughed. He knew he had surprised me. Surprised? I was in shock. I joked, “I’m going to bring you some whiskey to me next lesson to slow you down.” David responded, “Oh don’t do that. My memory gets sharper when I drink.”
Epilogue: About 5 days later, I was on the fourth floor doing something in the music department office. As I exited and started walking down the hall I saw a familiar sight. There was David, way down the hall, leaning against the wall with one leg bent and the foot up on the wall – looking like Johannes Brahms as a French prostitute. I kept walking toward him, thinking about my last lesson, where he had wowed me with his uncanny ability. As I walked, David saw me, and instead of waiting for me, he ducked into his office. I didn’t think anything of it, but by the time I got to his open office door, as I looked into his office to see what happened to him – there he was, sitting at the piano, playing that passage I had thrown out more than three months ago – and looking right through the open door at me – and a big smile on his face!
David Lewin died young, age 69. RIP Maestro.
Wiki
Obituary, NY Times
Obituary, Harvard
DEDICATION
humble cake is dedicated to Mr. and Mrs. John H. Tyler. The year before I started writing the piece, my girlfriend, Nancy Jefferson and I were married. Actually, as they might say in a decent Film Noir movie, we eloped in upstate New York. That has quite a ring to it. Yup, we drove up state from Stony Brook, checked into a hotel near Lake Placid, got on our Sunday best clothes, and headed for the Justice of the Peace’s home. On the way, we stopped at the College Inn, a dive bar on the two-lane highway. Not to drink, but to find a couple witnesses that we were told we’d need. Of course. Nancy waited out in our 1969 Chevy Nova, while I went in the bar. There weren’t too many people in there, although it was a Friday afternoon, just after “quittin’ time.” But there was an older couple sitting at the bar. Meet Mr. and Mrs. John H. Tyler. I walked in the bar and went straight toward them. I said to Mr. Tyler, I wonder if you could be my best man? He was taken back, as if he didn’t believe what he was hearing. I told him that my wife and I were getting married in about 5 minutes, at the home of Frances Duquatte, the JOP. Mr. Tyler said, “Frances? Frances just got me for short fish last week.” And with that he and his wife got up and left the bar with me.
We took the short drive to the DuQuatte house, and walked up to the back door – where we were told to meet the Justice of the Peace. There she was waiting for the four of us. Before Nancy and I could introduce ourselves, Frances and the Tylers gave each other an old friends hello, with a couple of joking comments – probably about the fish fine. And with that, Frances began the “ceremony.” It took placed right there on her back porch, just off the kitchen. Sometime in the middle, she interrupted the proceedings to go into her kitchen and stir the soup she was cooking. All went well, the Tylers signed the papers, I gave Ms. DuQuatte the ten bucks, and away we all went. Nancy and I met the Tylers back at the College Inn, where I bought a round of drinks for the house – it cost me less than the wedding did.
humble cake is dedicated to Mr. and Mrs. John H. Tyler. The year before I started writing the piece, my girlfriend, Nancy Jefferson and I were married. Actually, as they might say in a decent Film Noir movie, we eloped in upstate New York. That has quite a ring to it. Yup, we drove up state from Stony Brook, checked into a hotel near Lake Placid, got on our Sunday best clothes, and headed for the Justice of the Peace’s home. On the way, we stopped at the College Inn, a dive bar on the two-lane highway. Not to drink, but to find a couple witnesses that we were told we’d need. Of course. Nancy waited out in our 1969 Chevy Nova, while I went in the bar. There weren’t too many people in there, although it was a Friday afternoon, just after “quittin’ time.” But there was an older couple sitting at the bar. Meet Mr. and Mrs. John H. Tyler. I walked in the bar and went straight toward them. I said to Mr. Tyler, I wonder if you could be my best man? He was taken back, as if he didn’t believe what he was hearing. I told him that my wife and I were getting married in about 5 minutes, at the home of Frances Duquatte, the JOP. Mr. Tyler said, “Frances? Frances just got me for short fish last week.” And with that he and his wife got up and left the bar with me.
We took the short drive to the DuQuatte house, and walked up to the back door – where we were told to meet the Justice of the Peace. There she was waiting for the four of us. Before Nancy and I could introduce ourselves, Frances and the Tylers gave each other an old friends hello, with a couple of joking comments – probably about the fish fine. And with that, Frances began the “ceremony.” It took placed right there on her back porch, just off the kitchen. Sometime in the middle, she interrupted the proceedings to go into her kitchen and stir the soup she was cooking. All went well, the Tylers signed the papers, I gave Ms. DuQuatte the ten bucks, and away we all went. Nancy and I met the Tylers back at the College Inn, where I bought a round of drinks for the house – it cost me less than the wedding did.