jwilzewske

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

26 Mar 08

From Two Tonys (Letter 2)

Two Tonys - A whacker of men and Mafia associate serving multiple life sentences. A Tarantino character whose acerbic wit may upset the politically correct.

3-8-08

Greetings & Salutations,

Forgive me for taking so long to answer your letter dated 2-10-08. What can I say? “I’ve been busy” or more like “I’ve been lazy.” It’s like this, Did Michelangelo just pick up a brush on demand and start turning out masterpieces? Hell no!

I’m trying to slow down on my cursing and foul language. I can’t explain why. I guess the only thing I can say is that it’s the right thing to do. I mean I don’t have the best vocabulary on the planet but I know a few words. I mean it’s not like I’m a George Bush – a real giant of English verse. But I like to think that if fate should ever move its huge hand and you ever throw a cocktail party that I was invited to, I would not be an embarrassment to you with all your English friends. Do you know any dukes or earls? How about a baron or two? But I’d really prefer a countess or maybe a baroness. How’s this sound “I say there my lady may I get you another spot of tea or a glass of sherry?” I mean I wouldn’t want to appear thuggish to your friends, if that situation should ever arise, which it won’t. But I can dream can’t I?

Hey, bro, time to get serious. I’ve got some sad news for you. Your friend Xena cut off his nuts Friday afternoon. Yeah, I said cut off his nuts like in testicles. Poor guy. I can’t help but feel bad for him. They choppered him out and he’s in hospital as I write this. I’d seen him the day before and he seemed in good spirit. But you never know what currents run through a person’s mind. Anyway, whatever, he dealt with it as the poets say “in his own fashion.” But wow, I always thought I was a tough old bloke, but imagine cutting your own nuts off. Uh, no thanks. I’ll pass on that one. Now I can see myself cutting off another guy’s nuts, sort of as a payback for a personal affront. You know what I mean. But my own! Uh, I’ll wait for the next bus, you go ahead, enjoy yourself. I don’t mean to be cold but I feel bad for him. I hope Xena’s alright and he finds what he’s looking for, which I gather is a vagina.

Ogre finally left. He got picked up by California. They had some kind of beef on him. Probably smelling bike seats in front of the YMCA or some shit like that. Now he can go to those Calif yards and tell all those guys how he was a big man in AZ, “Running those yards.” Yeah, right. I’ll never forget the time I put him on his fat ass in front of the whole yard. I just got lucky, but sometimes even a blind hog will find a truffle. Hey, bro, I’m going to miss him. Yeah, right, like a dose of the clap. I’ll always remember him walking around wiping his runny nose with the back of his hand then wanting to shake hands later or reach into your chip bag for a chip, catching attitude when told to fuck off. We never spoke for the last year. We just glared at each other. Those Calif guys will show him how the cow ate the cabbage once they figure out he’s a fraud. OK, time out hating. You know me. I’ve really got a lot of love in my heart, just not for frauds.

Hey bro, how’s the folks? Give them my love. Has your being back wore off yet? Do you have a job? A car? A girlfriend? These are things I want to know. “Why?” you ask. Because I have an inquiring mind. I’m sort of living vicariously through you. In fact as I pay my penance for past sins and a wayward life and I am scrubbing down the showers, I often stop and as I’m getting all the pubic hair out of the drains I’ll ask myself I wonder what old bloody Shaun is up too now, and I’ll picture you out in your English garden enjoying your tea and scones or a nice kidney pie as the hounds run by chasing the fox down.

OK bro, keep in touch, and be pulling for Obama in the race. He’s crooked as hell but they all are. He’s one of those southside Chicago blacks, they ain’t nothing nice, God bless em. Let those young blacks get an issue. We all know McCain and Hillary got theirs. It’s Obama’s turn to stick it to the masses, the great unwashed. His turn to piss on their heads and tell them it’s raining. I’m sorry. Do I sound bitter? I’m really not. You know me, I’m just venting about how stupid the public is. I saw one of those so called men of God the other night on the TV. He was selling handkerchiefs annointed by God. And I thought of all the poor folks getting fleeced. Then I thought fuck em, if he don’t get them then the plumber will or the insurance man or the doctor or the lawyer. Bottom line is this: there will always be an England and there will always be suckers.

Write me, ye bloody bloke, ye prince of the misty isles, you ex con from AZ.

Your pal,

Two Tonys

PS) Read Kite Runner, really good, a 8 ½ to 9 out of 10. Khaled Hosseini wrote it. I’m reading Oil by Upton Sinclair next, also a book called Martha Peake by Patrick McGrath, a Londoner. It’s different. I’m enjoying it. You might like it. I just reread Sol’s Ivan Denisovich. It makes me keep a grip on conditions. Silly, I know, but it works. If old Ivan did it in those Siberian conditions with all those Slavs, I can do it here in Sunny AZ with French toast and pancakes. No fish eye soup for me.
Once again sorry about your friend Xena. I know he is a friend of yours. I’ll try to keep you posted on updates.
Long Island is done, put a fork in him.
You remain strong out there. No silly shit in your path. You got writing skills. Hone them me lad, hone them.
Hey! Kudos to Bonnie Prince Harry. I like that kid. In fact he’s my favorite royal. And he’s got a good eye for the lassies. Yes, he does. Maybe he should be king. I guess I’m just a Britphile at heart. It’s me Irish blood, I guess, me lad. Cheerio!

Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below

Copyright © 2007-2008 Shaun P. Attwood

Sunday, March 23, 2008

Philip West’s Chamber Ensemble Arrangement of Mahler’s Rückert Lieder

T he performances here, leaving aside the emotional circumstances of their provenance, are priceless. [DeGaetani’s] illness had done nothing to dim the lustrous quality of her instantly recognizable mezzo voice nor her impeccable musicianship. West’s chamber reductions of the orchestral scores are skillful and effective. This is one of my ‘desert isle’ recordings [ —one that, were I marooned on a desert isle, I would salvage as one of the but few things I could take with me from the wreck].”
— J. Scott Morrison, 2003.

I spend part of Easter Sunday listening to the chamber ensemble arrangements of Mahler’s ‘Fünf Lieder nach Texten von Friedrich Rückert’ by Jan DeGaetani’s husband, Philip West (oboe, English horn, shawm, and krummhorn; long-time Professor of chamber music at Eastman School of Music), sung by DeGaetani, accompanied by the Eastman Chamber Ensemble. These are the last recordings made by DeGaetani, several months before her death from leukemia. The recording was done in 1989 and released on Bridge Records in 1993. Coincidentally, Philip West died also of leukemia 14 years later, on 26-JUN-2004. He was 73. At the time of her death, she had been 56.

The movements are as follows:

Blicke mir nicht in die Lieder! − Do not look at my songs! (June 1901)
Ich atmet’ einen linden Duft − I breathed a gentle fragrance (July 1901)
Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen − I am lost to the world (August 1901)
Um Mitternacht − At midnight (August 1901)
Liebst du um Schönheit − If you love for beauty (August 1902)

W est’s arrangements enhance the suppleness of line, delicacy of texture, and uncertainty of intermittent admixtures—they emphasize these qualities even more than in the original Mahler orchestrations.

In fact, if you hear DeGaetani’s rendering of the West arrangements, you will rethink whether the original full-orchestra Mahler manuscripts were as good as these—rethink whether any of the many superb orchestral performances of the originals are anywhere near this good. In some ways, West’s arrangements are like expert ‘novelizations’ of a screenplay—faithful transductions after-the-fact, which not only are true to the original intent but in many ways improve upon the originals or reveal shades and nuances that were not fully developed in them.

Chronologically, these lieder hail from a time in Mahler’s life when he was in progressively worse health, and the precariousness of his prognosis totally changed his outlook and his compositional style—from the more extroverted ‘early’ Mahler, to the introverted and otherworldly ‘late’ Mahler. Four of these five songs were written in the summer of 1901; Liebst du um Schönheit in summer of 1902. The first four were originally issued individually, in versions for voice with piano and orchestra; Liebst was only in piano manuscript and was orchestrated posthumously in 1916.

Unlike his ‘Lieder eines fahrenden Gesellen’ or ‘Kindertotenlieder’, Mahler’s five Rückert Lieder do not form a cycle. And their other-worldliness is not some beatific transcendental vision; rather, it is an existential despair—a profound relinquishing; a near-total cessation of desire; a hebephrenic hymn, inconsolable, announcing the futility of any attempts to provide solace.

Blicke mir nicht in die Lieder’ confides that the poet/composer/performer mistrusts her/his own judgment as frail or unreliable—confides an irreducible uncertainty, such that anything she/he might say does not bear overmuch scrutiny. A life’s story, retold in the waning days, may be marked by revisions and changed perceptions—priorities reset and substituted in recollection, priorities that may not have been quite as they are now being recounted.

The orchestral version of these lieder is thinly orchestrated—mostly single winds, horn, harp, plus a few violins and violas; in some songs a celesta is added. The string parts are ethereal, atmospheric. ‘Um Mitternacht’ is dark, midnightly in its coloration. Here, Mahler specified an orchestra without strings, just pairs of woodwinds (with a single oboe d’amore instead of an oboe section), three horns, two trumpets, three trombones, a solitary tuba, tympani, plus harp and piano.

Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen’, the most hebephrenic, regressive, and despondent of the Rückert songs, is serene only by way of withdrawal from society. We infer that the withdrawal is natural result of the protagonist’s struggle in the preceding two stanzas. This song, dark and weighty, has an English horn but no flute. It presents a pensive upward melodic line, up from two notes to three, and then arcing toward the line’s melodic peak, followed by descent. This is beautiful in all of the various versions. But it seems best of all in a thinner chamber ensemble arrangement, like Philip West’s, or in the original piano version. The Jan DeGaetani—Eastman Ensemble performance (this arr. by Philip West) is my favorite. Or, a close ‘second’, the Lorraine Hunt Lieberson—Roger Vignoles one—also very intimate. In the case of the latter version, Lieberson’s own failing health informed her interpretation, in much the same manner as Jan DeGaetani’s health informed the 1989 Eastman performance. ‘Desert isle’ material, indeed!

Ich atmet' einen linden Duft!	I breathed a gentle fragrance!
Im Zimmer stand	In the room stood
Ein Zweig der Linde,	a sprig of linden,
Ein Angebinde	a gift
Von lieber Hand.	from a dear hand.
Wie lieblich war der Lindenduft!	How lovely was the fragrance of linden!

Wie lieblich ist der Lindenduft!	How lovely is the fragrance of linden!
Das Lindenreis	That twig of linden
Brachst du gelinde!	you broke off so gently!
Ich atme leis	Softly I breathe in
Im Duft der Linde	the fragrance of linden,
Der Liebe linden Duft.	the gentle fragrance of love.

Liebst du um Schönheit,	If you love for beauty,
O nicht mich liebe!	Oh, do not love me!
Liebe die Sonne,	Love the sun,
Sie trägt ein gold'nes Haar!	She has golden hair!

Liebst du um Jugend,	If you love for youth,
O nicht mich liebe!	Oh, do not love me!
Liebe der Frühling,	Love the spring;
Der jung ist jedes Jahr!	It is young every year!

Liebst du um Schätze,	If you love for treasure,
O nicht mich liebe.	Oh, do not love me!
Liebe die Meerfrau,	Love the mermaid;
Sie hat viel Perlen klar.	She has many clear pearls!

Liebst du um Liebe,	If you love for love,
O ja, mich liebe!	Oh yes, do love me!
Liebe mich immer,	Love me ever,
Dich lieb' ich immerdar.	I'll love you evermore!

Blicke mir nicht in die Lieder!	Do not look at my songs!
Meine Augen schlag' ich nieder,	My eyes I lower,
Wie ertappt auf böser Tat.	as if I've been caught in an evil deed.
Selber darf ich nicht getrauen,	I can't even trust myself
Ihrem Wachsen zuzuschauen.	to watch them grow.
Deine Neugier ist Verrat!	Your curiosity is a betrayal!

Bienen, wenn sie Zellen bauen,	Bees, when they build their cells,
Lassen auch nicht zu sich schauen,	also do not let anyone observe them;
Schauen selber auch nicht zu.	even themselves.
Wann die reichen Honigwaben	If the rich honeycombs
Sie zu Tag gefördert haben,	are brought out to the light of day,
Dann vor allen nasche du!	then you shall taste them before everyone else!

Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen,	I am lost to the world
Mit der ich sonst viele Zeit verdorben,	with which I used to waste so much time,
Sie hat so lange nichts von mir vernommen,	It has heard nothing from me for so long
Sie mag wohl glauben, ich sei gestorben!	that it may very well believe that I am dead!

Es ist mir auch gar nichts daran gelegen,	It is of no consequence to me
Ob sie mich für gestorben hält,	Whether it thinks me dead;
Ich kann auch gar nichts sagen dagegen,	I cannot deny it,
Denn wirklich bin ich gestorben der Welt.	for I really am dead to the world.

Ich bin gestorben dem Weltgetümmel,	I am dead to the world's tumult,
Und ruh' in einem stillen Gebiet!	And I rest in a quiet realm!
Ich leb' allein in meinem Himmel,	I live alone in my heaven,
In meinem Lieben, in meinem Lied!	In my love and in my song!

Um Mitternacht	At midnight
Hab' ich gewacht	I awoke
Und aufgeblickt zum Himmel;	and gazed up to heaven;
Kein Stern vom Sterngewimmel	No star in the entire mass
Hat mir gelacht	did smile down at me
Um Mitternacht.	at midnight.

Um Mitternacht	At midnight
Hab' ich gedacht	I projected my thoughts
Hinaus in dunkle Schranken.	out past the dark barriers.
Es hat kein Lichtgedanken	No thought of light
Mir Trost gebracht	brought me comfort
Um Mitternacht.	at midnight.

Um Mitternacht	At midnight
Nahm ich in acht	I paid close attention
Die Schläge meines Herzens;	to the beating of my heart;
Ein einz'ger Puls des Schmerzes	One single pulse of agony
War angefacht	flared up
Um Mitternacht.	at midnight.

Um Mitternacht	At midnight
Kämpft' ich die Schlacht,	I fought the battle,
O Menschheit, deiner Leiden;	O Mankind, of your suffering;
Nicht konnt' ich sie entscheiden	I could not decide it
Mit meiner Macht	with my strength
Um Mitternacht.	at midnight.

Um Mitternacht	At midnight
Hab' ich die Macht	I surrendered my strength
In deine Hand gegeben!	into your hands!
Herr! über Tod und Leben	God! over death and life
Du hältst die Wacht	You keep watch
Um Mitternacht!	at midnight!

23 Mar 08

Month 3

The last time my parents went on holiday and left me in charge of the house (twenty years ago) I crashed Mum’s car. So it was no surprise that they hid their car keys before recently flying to Tenerife. Leaving me after our three-month reunion, Mum departed teary eyed – but only out of concern for the safety of her house plants. She wouldn’t have abandoned her plants if Posh Bird hadn’t promised to cater to their watery needs. As of today the plants are fine. I’ve watered them as per Mum’s written instructions. I also followed her instructions for the washing machine.

In Arizona’s state prisons, a laundry service is provided twice a week. Entering prison you are given a net laundry bag that you must immediately write your cell number on or else you won’t get your laundry back. Problem is, if you write it with a pen it just washes off – bon voyage laundry. So you have two choices. The first is to pull the top off a pen and to blow into the refill and write your cell number with the thick stream of ink that flows out of the other end. It may take a day to dry, but it’ll survive many washes before it fades and it’s time to give it a top up. The second is to use a marker. But markers are contraband. So you have to locate the local holder of a stolen marker, and have something like a soup to bribe him with. It’s best to go see him laundry bag in hand, because he’s usually disinclined to let his stolen marker out of sight, and if you lose it you’ll owe any amount he decides upon pain of being smashed.
You put your laundry bag in a cart. The laundry porters collect the carts the next morning. It comes back later in the day. If you take a clean item of laundry and put it in a sink of water, the water turns filthy. Which is why hand-washing services run by prisoners thrive.
Sometimes whole batches of laundry go missing. Forms must be filled out, and it can take months for replacement laundry to be issued. When that happens, you’ll see inmates going door to door begging for old socks, boxers, and T-shirts.

And laundry’s not all I’ve done. I’ve cooked – over and above cheese on toast. There’s nothing like hunger to motivate you to cook things. I even cooked Posh Bird an Indian curry thanks to Dad’s instructions. She ate it, survived, and actually praised the meal. Knowing she wouldn’t believe I cooked it, I made evidence: I videotaped myself in the kitchen converting a lowly pan of fried onions into a vegetarian rogan josh.
Also, I’ve hand washed dishes, cutlery, pots, pans – because my parents banned me from using the dishwasher out of fear I’d break it somehow or other, which I probably would as it’s old and fragile. I’ve vacuumed – well, just today, because they get back tonight. The only thing I didn't do was open the curtains, but I did put the plants in the kitchen for sunlight purposes.

Last Tuesday, Posh Bird put our relationship on hold again. She claimed to be under too much exam stress to be dealing with a relationship, but I suspect it is because I chose two bad DVDs for us to watch in a row. It seems movies directed by Tarantino aren’t what they used to be before I was imprisoned. Posh Bird put our relationship on hold just days after I had bought her an Easter chocolate champagne bottle, which I couldn’t regift to anyone else because the lady at Thornton’s embossed Posh Bird’s name on it. It was a close call between eating it and giving it to her, but I did the latter. It must have somewhat compensated for the lousy DVD picks, because Posh Bird has asked me to spend this evening with her spooning on the couch watching a DVD. A DVD picked by her of course. A chick flick. More penance. However, we have agreed to postpone preliminary discussions about taking our relationship off hold until after her exams.

This month I finished a draft of the first part of my second book. Part one is tentatively titled “Illegal-Alien Stockbroker.” It’s 17 chapters, 21,291 words. It’s a series of anecdotes leading up to my immersion in Arizona’s rave scene.
To a certain extent I am reliving my life vicariously as I write about it. In order to get details and dialogue right, I’ve used the Internet to find many people from my past and arranged telephonic interviews with them. These include my old boss. I am grateful to those people for taking the time to help me. And it’s interesting to find out how their lives have progressed since I knew them. Sadly, I also discovered that a former right-hand man of mine, the head of my security team, Cody “The Admiral” Bates, hung himself. He left a message saying our times spent together were the best of his life, and he hopes we’ll raise a beer and think of him. Cody was one of my soberest friends, but his life spiralled out of control after our arrests.
Tomorrow I’ll start part two of the book – I’m bracing myself to relive that madness. It’ll probably take all summer to write. I’m expecting it to be well over 50,000 words. Then part three will cover my time in Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s jail system prior to the blog.

I’ll end this blog with an excerpt from Chapter 13, which is about Chupa, a small weekly rave held in downtown Phoenix around 1994-95. Deejays such as Eddie Amador, Gary Menichello, Pete Salaz, Emile, RC Lair, Inertia, Rob Saint, Sachmo, Mike Gomez, Chris Flores, David Alvarado, Marques Wyatt, and Jeno spun there.

Outside Chupa, homeless people milled about like zombies or clustered around industrial-drum fires. Gangbangers cruised the streets in lowriders thumping gangsta rap. The ghetto didn’t lack gunfire. For the safety of the RX7, I parked at the curb by Chupa’s entrance.
Red lights guided us down a hallway, past a flooded toilet, into Chupa. The strobe, like the Hindu goddess Durga emerging from a blinding light, beckoned us into the darkness with its many open arms. We disappeared into a smoke-machine cloud and joined the throng of regulars – drag queens, club kids, ravers – grooving to house, tribal and trance. Hypnotic beats. Lyricless, except for the repetition of phrases spoken in bizarre voices. Robotic voices. Androgynous voices. The voices of divas. Voices and tunes that played in my mind long after the music had stopped.
High levels of club drugs enable some people to dance with unnatural fluidity, and the stocky Sioux Indian, Acid Joey, was one of them. In the middle of the dance floor, Acid Joey would mimic loading up a shotgun. Then, still moving perfectly to the beat, he’d shoot the people dancing around him.

Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below

Copyright © 2007-2008 Shaun P. Attwood

Saturday, March 22, 2008

Gao Hong: Nomadic Pipa Master/Mom

Have you attended a concert or heard a recording by Gao Hong, nicknamed ‘Flying Dragon’?

Chinese pipa artist and composer Gao Hong is featured in this month’s issue of Sounding Board, the newsletter of American Composers Forum. When she was 22, she was one of just two pipa players who were selected to train at China’s premier school of music, the Central Conservatory of Music in Beijing, where she studied with Lin Shicheng, the great master of Pudong style pipa. Currently, Gao is Adjunct Instructor at Carleton College in Northfield, Minnesota.

The pipa is essentially a ‘bowl lute’. In Chinese, ‘Pi’ means ‘to play forward’ and ‘Pa’ means ‘to play backward’. In China the instrument dates to at least the 4th century C.E., but it had its origins more than 2000 years ago in Central Asia and the Middle East. The pipa has normally either 4 or 5 strings. The number of frets has gradually been increased over the centuries (now with 23 to 30 frets), giving the modern pipa greater chromatic possibilities over a three-and-a-half octave range. The pipa player tapes picks (fake fingernails) to all fingers and, optionally, to the thumb. (Do a mouse roll-over Chinese images to see translations of the texts below.)

Road to happiness is strewn with difficulties

Gao Hong has lived in the U.S. since 1993. Her playing and composing have won her much recognition, including:

Meet The Composer Fund New York, 2005-6
Subito award from the American Composers Forum, 2005
Emerging Composer Commission from the Jerome Foundation, 2002
American Composers Forum’s Performance Incentive Fund, 1998
McKnight Artist Fellowship for Performing Musicians, 1997
Fellowship from Minnesota State Arts Board, 1997
Walker Art Center Community Partnership Fund, 1996
First Prize in Hebei Young Music Performers’ Competition, 1984.

Gao continues to travel a great deal. So much so that I am reminded of Jacques Attali, who talks about ‘hypernomads’ in his work, L’homme nomade. Hypernomads are voluntary nomads, as distinct from involuntary nomads (infranomads), whom Attali separates into ‘nomads by custom’ and ‘nomads by constraint’. The latter includes refugees, migrant workers, homeless people, exiles. For Attali, hypernomads are a constitutionally peripatetic class of creative individuals, whose discoveries and art works influence the sedentary non-nomads. Gao Hong must, by all reckoning, be a hypernomad. Look up ‘hypernomad’ in the dictionary, and we imagine to see a picture of Gao—successful diaspora of the Chinese Cultural Revolution. Flying Dragon!

When you are with two other people, one is always your master, someone you can learn from

Gao expresses her admiration and gratitude for her experiences learning from pipa master, Lin Shicheng, who died two years ago. Gao is by nature modest and makes special effort to attribute her own accomplishments to the teaching and generosity of Lin Shicheng. It is a striking and characteristic feature of her personality, for her to so consistently and earnestly do this. She does Lin Shicheng great honor.

Speak of Cao-Cao, Cao-Cao shows up (speak of the devil)

[ Lin Shicheng and Gao Hong, pipa; video 1996 ]

Sonic signs of Spring include birds singing at dawn, chipmunks emerging from hibernation chirping to each other from rocky outcrops. We hear this in Gao Hong’s playing, on YouTube here and here.

Aphorisms are an oblique acknowledgement of difference—of crisis—and opposing nomadism and passivity by acting to redeem or recover culture from fragmentation and nihilism. Is this part of Gao Hong’s intention?

If you haven’t lived in many places, you may not be able to identify an association between sound and place.

Today we have wine [tomorrow, maybe not], so let’s drink today

Listeners make of music what they will, based on their prior experiences and contexts that they’ve known. From all possible interpretations, they select ones to which their own experiences give priority. Gao Hong offers a wider range of experiences than most of us will ever know…

People who haven’t ever been displaced—who haven’t moved around a lot, who haven’t experienced periods of separation from family and place—think of this music as ‘fantastic’ or ‘alien’. To Gao Hong, it’s utterly concrete. The timbral and rhythmic textures are concrete. Except for echo, except for reverberation. Hear it on her recordings. It is the abstraction of distance in the Chinese landscape, of mountains in the distance.

Epic migrations over long distances—marking the chapters of one individual’s life; marking the chapters of a people’s existence as a society.

Indigo [student] is bluer than the plant it comes from [master]

It is by now evident that Gao Hong is very blue, probably bluer than her master, Lin Shicheng—even though Gao is too modest to even contemplate that possibility. Lin Shicheng’s blues were, admittedly, of a different hue—of a different generation.

Gao permits herself and her music to become ‘inscribed’ by the culture within which she lives. Minnesota and North America have been hospitable, for some 15 years now. But Nature is not ‘kind’ or ‘hospitable’. Her 7 year-old daughter’s leukemia is a case-in-point. How can a parent not be ‘inscribed’ by the life-threatening illness of her child. Where water flows, a channel is formed. Yes, a channel. An indelible gash is eroded. No one’s fault. How to cope?

A cornered dog will leap over a high wall [do seemingly impossible things in extremis]

And life goes on. Hardship and suffering are the human condition, as well as joy and treasured remembrance. It makes us become extraordinary things, leap unleapable barriers, makes us do unbelievable deeds. Things that ought to be impossible, and that one should never wish to befall any of one’s enemies. You think pipa is ‘alien’? Think again! Listen to Gao Hong’s music.

It takes a long time to make a great instrument

What does not kill us makes us stronger?

She is worthy of the reputation she enjoys

Gao Hong, fine ambassador for the human species.

Gao, cheerful and friendly, makes everyone feel welcome. Given the challenges she has faced, how can we not be inspired by her example?

Three feet of ice does not come from one day’s freezing weather

Layer upon layer in her instrumental and choral writing, reflecting the classical influences of her conservatory training and regard for traditional Chinese forms—and yet bearing the marks of her own sense of what is happening now and what lies ahead.

Words escape from the lips [in a Freudian-slip way]

The spontaneity of Gao Hong’s playing sometimes astonishes us. She seems fearless. She lets the ‘chips’ fall, even if what they contain is an inconvenient truth.

One hand cannot [without help from others] clap to make a sound

Collaboration with Shubhendra Rao and other Asian chamber musicians is a hallmark of recent Gao projects.

Feeling like old friends from the moment of first meeting

When she was young, her mother told her “that I had a terrible singing voice. When I sang she said it sounded like someone stepping on a rooster’s neck… Writing a choral work now has made me the happiest person in the world. Even if I don’t sing it, I enjoy hearing others perform it. I’m so happy … with the incredible luck of having my piece as one of five selected to be premiered with VocalEssence.” [interview with Amy Boxrud, ACF, SoundingBoard, MAR-2008]

What is most important is to keep going, to never give up.

Choose the medicine according to the diagnosis

And to use compositional materials and instruments that are best-suited to the expressive goals at hand.

C ontrary to the objective evidence, it is the ‘we’ of all people who feel more insecure and more passionate about everything related to security than people of most other societies on record. This is the puzzle that needs a resolution if the twists and turns of the popular sensitivity to danger ... are to be comprehended.”
— Zygmunt Bauman, Uncertainty and Other Liquid-Modern Fears, in Priban, p. 17.

Gao will perform at Ted Mann Concert Hall, Univ Minnesota, 2128 Fourth St South, Minneapolis at 8:00 p.m. on Saturday, 19 April.