Alan Seidler

Chapter 7

Conclusion

In these pages, I have told you most of what is printable about my life, discussed several major works and a couple of trifles. Now I see my remaining duties as

1. Talking about my most recent complete work, The Mystic Trumpeter, some projected plans for the future, and
2. Making my predictions for the future of live performing art by living creative artists in the age we are all-too-rapidly coming into, and expressing my most profound hopes that it will remain a vital force in the rest of the 21st Century and beyond, but this last will have to wait until later in this article which is already twice the length I anticipated.

My second all-Seidler concert, like the first, was held on October 10, 2006 at Merkin Concert Hall. All the selections on the Albany Records release Alan Seidler: Vocal and Choral Works (1990-2006) were heard at that concert, including the World Premiere of my choral symphony The Mystic Trumpeter, in my estimation and that of many colleagues my most accomplished and important work to date, the one which comes closest to fulfilling my ideas of the unity of many seemingly separate entities into a viable whole within the boundaries of a single work. The work was nominated for The Pulitzer Prize in music early in 2007, and though it did not win the prize, the seven-year-long experience of composing it and then hearing it live in concert was prize enough for me. (To be 100% honest, though, winning the Pulitzer has always been one of my lifetime dreams, so I’m still plugging away at it slowly.)

The story of the aegis of this work, from sketch to full score, is without a doubt one of the strangest and most complicated in my career. I will briefly outline it here for the reader’s benefit, and, possibly my own as well.

In the spring of 1997, against the unanimous advice of my friends and acquaintances, I became involved with an attractive woman whom I had admired from a distance for several years. Her reputation, though, was worse than poison, and sad to say, I swallowed the entire draught whole.

In the next two years (during which we kept planning weddings and the postponing them), I fell entirely under her spell, allowing her, among other liberties to spend what remained of my money as if it was water. Of course there were always good reasons; her five-year-old daughter needed new clothes (and a computer), her married sister in California was in difficult straits, she owed $10,000 to her mother, etc. Of course one day when I was out of town and she greeted me at the door with the news that she had spent the day purchasing five new fur coats (!) I did attempt to draw the line, which only brought about a brawl in which every imaginable sort of recrimination (not to mention a number of heavy objects) was hurled at me, and eventually I relented.

The situation, however, continued to deteriorate with her growing dependency on drugs, which I was neither willing, or by that point, able to supply. One evening in February 1999, I was standing in her kitchen hours after her return from a hospital stay, supposedly to “clean up” (again), when an inner voice said to me, “RUN FOR YOUR LIFE, YOU IDIOT!”, which is exactly what I proceeded to do.

Going on automatic pilot, I returned to the apartment I had held onto in case of emergency, grabbed a few clothes and, randomly, a couple of books including one of Whitman’s Complete Poetry, and knowing that she would come knocking at my door furiously until it broke down, retreated to the only place I could think of to safely hide out for a few days, my elderly father’s home in Queens, N.Y.

The next days, having nothing whatsoever to do, I flipped open the Whitman book and there was the poem The Mystic Trumpeter, which I had never read before. I was immediately captured by Whitman’s imagery as he takes his invisible protagonist from era to era, always present to answer man’s eternal questions about life, death, love and war, and I decided to make some sketches for a musical setting. As this was one of the lowest points of my life, I instinctively ran to work, a panacea usually quite effective when nothing else seems to be.

Within a very few days, before returning to Manhattan, I had crudely sketched out most of the first movement, and by late 2000 had a two-thirds complete score ready for a live tryout, which failed miserably and I am eternally grateful that it was not done in the presence of a real audience.

Much of the problem lay in my initial conception of the work, which I saw as a cantata for soprano and tenor soli, solo trumpet and a small chamber ensemble. It quickly became obvious that Whitman’s poem deserved far broader treatment with much larger forces to be the effective piece I had in my mind’s eye when I first read it. I then and there decided to give it my all for what it was truly worth, but first I had to deal with a few distractions of other types.

All during this time, my mother’s Alzheimer’s had progressed to the point where she now needed a round-the-clock aide in her assisted-living apartment. I could no longer communicated with her at all, which was, naturally, a source of profound sorrow and it was at this point that I got around to arranging the slow movement of the String Quartet as the Elegy for String Orchestra. Also, I allowed myself to get temporarily sidetracked in the winter of 2000-2001 in setting the Keith Douglas poem “Simplify Me When I’m Dead” for a baritone voice which both sang and chanted without precise pitch, guitar, viola, piano and percussion, including a marimba part large enough to be considered a solo instrument in its own right. I also agreed to do the score for Douglas Zimmerman’s indie film, “He Oughtta Be Committed,” which despite winning the audience appreciation award at the Louisville Film Festival was never picked up by a studio for distribution.

This being done, I beggar “Trumpeter” all over again, treating it almost as I would a new work, except for keeping some of the important vocal parts and trumpet motifs intact. Still, it took another five years until I put the double-bar on the last page of score in June 2006, partially because of dallying a great deal in L.A. during the years 2001-2004, both for work and personal reasons. Of the latter, the less said, the better.

Finally, in September, 2006, rehearsals began in earnest. Once again, I employed my stalwart regulars, soprano Laura Last and tenor Steven Goldstein as vocal soloists; the demanding part of solo trumpeter was given to Graham Ashton, formerly first-seat trumpet with the London Philharmonic, and I was fortunate enough to obtain the services of the Orchestra of Our Time, founded and led by Joel Thome, who was almost single-handedly responsible for introducing the more serious and experimental work of Frank Zappa to the public at large in the 1990s, and was the winner of two Grammys thereafter.

The “chamber cantata”, as originally conceived had morphed into a full-length six-movement symphony for soloists, chorus (the celebrated Collegiate Chorale) and an orchestra consisting of wind and brass instruments, a huge percussion section, piano, pipe organ, celesta and a string section consisting of only eight cellos and four double-basses. The reception was enthusiastic though the venue could not have been more wrong, especially considering the size of the ensemble required, which made the stage virtually impassible. It is for this reason that a great deal of time had to be spent in PPI Recording Studios, where engineering wizard Chip Fabrizzi lovingly took many weeks in re-engineering the original live recording as from scratch, under the supervision of Maestro Thome and myself, and then followed up with a masterful job of mixing and re-mastering the finished product, the Albany Records release. The Mystic Trumpeter, while its final verses speak of an unending and universal joy for all mankind, dwindles away in volume to end on a final atonal passage descending in the trumpet, then followed by an eerily soft ending in muted percussion, broken only by a raw and piercing open fourth in solo cello as the music dies away. The question of man’s future is left hanging in limbo, a technique I am particularly fond when the opportunity to use arises, because this, as I see it, is the true human condition.

You may quite reasonably ask yourselves, did The Mystic Trumpeter, given my own satisfaction and those of the my musical colleagues and friends, all of whom thought it came closest of all my works to fully achieving my artistic aims, really fulfill them totally? The obvious answer, at least to me, has to be no, for the simple reason that if total fulfillment was achieved in this one work, although it did come nearer to achieving my artistic objectives than anything which preceded it, I would have no reason to go on composing, which to me would be the equivalent of a death sentence. Besides which, as we have already established, just as there is no such thing as total originality, neither does total perfection exist in this world we inhabit, for better or worse.

So what have I been doing since? For one thing, due to studio availability, the re-mastering of the album did not conclude until January 2008. In the meantime, I have frittered away my time considering a number of project (composers spend more time considering their options than they are generally willing to admit). I previously mentioned my almost total neglect of purely instrumental music since the completion of the String Quartet. My next challenge, therefore, became to see if I could still produce a purely instrumental work of any size and value, or if I were bound and shackled to the written word forever.

Before I go on, I must say that in terms of falling victim to a series of rather bizarre accidents and other types of physical ailments too numerous to enumerate, 2008, a year in which I probably spent as much time in a hospital bed as out of one, was, to date, the worst of my life. Nonetheless, with the aim of producing a new instrumental work, I did not allow myself to stagnate completely. While still in a hospital bed (and in a most uncomfortable position to write, I might add), I began to sketch out some ideas for the first movement of a String Quintet.

I am very well aware that when most classical music aficionados think of that particular medium, they automatically assume they will be hearing 2 violins, 2 violas and a cello, but this was not, and on the rare occasions I gave it any thought earlier in my career, was never what I had in mind. It always struck me as blatantly unfair that, a String Quartet being constituted as is, a Quintet should still eschew the use of the double-bass. Therefore, I was bound and determined to compose a String Quintet in which the double-bass would be an equal partner, but written for in such a manner as to avoid overpowering the Quintet’s other four members. The fact that there probably was a reason that I had never heard this particular combination before failed to impress me as I slowly stumbled along with what was actually some pretty good opening material, using all the Juilliard-ingrained contrapuntal skills at my command, but by the end of what was an inexpressibly difficult year for me, I laid it away – not, however, without the intention of returning to it at a later date when my physical stamina had come back to something resembling normality.

Almost simultaneously with deciding to put the Quintet on the back burner, I looked at the my 1965 Steinway, still standing majestically in a prominent location in my living room, and it occurred to me as clearly as if it were the most obvious thing in the room (which, in fact, it was) how very badly I had neglected it ever since giving up plans for the virtuoso career about which my emotions were always mixed anyway. Certainly it was more than an expensive piece of furniture, some unimportant instrument to accompany some of my art songs and chamber pieces, or to give added color to the percussion section of an orchestra. This was my piano – what I had begged for probably since the age of four or five, and I hadn’t composed a single solo work for it since my one unsuccessful attempt at strict twelve-tone serialism, while still in my teens.

I decided then and there that I would composer an extended work for my instrument, even if years of not practicing and the beginnings of arthritis could be used as excuses to stand in my way. After all, I did not have to give the work its premiere personally, did I? That being resolved, I got to work on what, as I mentioned earlier, I am calling a Sonata, mostly for lack of a more precise designation, as I am giving no guarantees whatever that it will end up in anything resembling what we were schooled to be “Sonata Form.” As a matter of fact, I would be rather disappointed in my own inventiveness if it did end up following that pattern and really don’t expect it will, but I am off to a running start and will not stop until the work has been completed to my satisfaction.

As to that opera I have had in mind for the last ten years but am still waiting for the right librettist to show up on my doorstep, if you do not yet think I am crazy, you might now want to reconsider. The subject I picked for my magnum opus is none other that Stephen King’s “The Shining.” While you regain your collective breath, I have been utterly convinced that this novel (not to mention the Stanley Kubrick film which followed it) would be a perfect vehicle for my talents, not only stylistically and in terms of vocal leads and instrumentation, but I think I cold work wonders with the 1920s fantasy sequences, given my extensive knowledge of and experience with the music of that era. Of course, I do anticipate fairly complex staging problems, but as my grandparents were fond of saying years ago, “These days anything is possible!” O.K., so maybe I am crazy, but if the proper librettist happens to read these pages, please get in touch ASAP. It would be a great adventure for us, and besides which, though I hate to bring it up yet again, the clock is ticking.

It is a difficult as well as somewhat pretentious task to attempt to sum up one’s life work and artistic credo. This being the case, and also because I don’t believe a website to be the best possible medium to use for this purpose, I won’t try very hard. My compositional ethos, though I could write a dozen pages on the subject, easily boils down to this: IF IT WORKS, USE IT. In that one sentence I can best reduce all I have learned from Persichetti, Bracali, and my own life experience to its lowest common denominator. The ultimate judge of what constitutes an artist’s best work is, unless that person is deluded beyond any hope of recall, the artist himself. I am well aware of when I have worked up to the best of my abilities and equally well aware on the occasions I have not. This awareness, of course, began growing in me as a youngster practicing the piano. Maybe my mother didn’t notice when I hit a wrong note or slurred over a passage that was supposed to be crystalline-brilliant, but I did, and that sense has never left me.

For those of you who are not considering careers in composition but are still music lovers, keep in mind that music and all the other arts are created not only for the artist’s gratification, but with the goal of pleasing other people. Anytime you leave a concert hall or any place of artistic exhibition feeling more uplifted that when you arrived is an automatic success for both creator and the other souls he creates for. The ultimate success in my estimation is a situation in which both artist and audience are in some ineffable sense freed up by their part in their individual artistic experience, which is, after all, really a joint venture when all is said and done.

And what do I see ahead for the future of music? This is a complex subject about which I have both written and spoken extensively, but still find myself distressed when I am asked, or even worse, when I ask myself.

In order to give anything resembling a proper answer from my perspective, I will need to take you back once more to the past – not the distant past, but perhaps the very last gasp of innocence in the non-cybergenic world – the Summer of 1995. In that summer and the season that followed, two seminal events occurred which helped to convince me that the world of the performing arts was in peril as never before. It is true that I have spoken at musical conventions and intend on writing an extended essay using as its starting point this fact: that the Powers That Were had made a decision for political, economic, psycho-social and last of all, artistic reasons, that the world, that is to say society as it was, had enough music and, in general, enough of the performing (and some non-performing) arts to please it indefinitely, and that this decision was securely in place by around 1910, putting 20th Century composers and their colleagues in a virtually untenable position, and that turn of events marked the beginning of the slide to where we find ourselves today in terms of “culture”. But, now indulge me if you will by allowing me to jump forward to 1995.

During that summer, I found myself one of the oldest of a rag-tag band of composers, authors, screenwriters, musicians and actors looking for viable venues in which to work on new material. Though there were still relatively few of the primitive cellphones which existed at the time in use and the majority of the population still did not own their own PCs, some of us were forward looking enough to see the new Digitized world coming faster than we thought possible, more forward looking, sad to say, than the record labels, both major and independent, and the film studios, among other bastions of both “legitimate” and pop culture.

We realized that we needed to band together somehow to ensure that live performing arts by live creative artists would continue to survive in the digital age which was now rushing at us like a tsunami. We formed a loose confederation of composers, other musicians, screen writers, playwrights and actors, and for lack of a better idea took the name New Classics Entertainment. I was promptly elected the new group’s first president.

It was not long, however, before we realized that we were dealing with forces far larger than ourselves and that New Classics had to be greatly expanded for it to make any inroads whatsoever into preserving the “human touch” in the arts, which by now were becoming more and more computerized from music to theatrical effects to motion pictures.

In January 2001, we incorporated in New York State as Furhoof Enterprises Limited (see Duke of Ook page later on this site). Still desparately attempting to finish The Mystic Trumpeter, I realized that I could no longer be responsible for the day-to-day running of the company and early in 2005 found that rarity of rarities, a music business attorney, George Gilbert, who actually practiced for a professional musical career. He was and remains a lifelong music enthusiast. I soon turned daily operations of the company over to him and before long offered him a partnership which he gladly accepted. In the spring of 2008, the company changed its name to FHE Creative and Performing Artists, Inc., which we decided might lend us a little more credibility in the ever-changing marketplace.

Most of the next two years was spent arranging for and financing the second all-Seidler concert at Merkin and preparing the works heard on the Albany Records release. As is true of all of us, I grow no younger day by day and my health is poor. Competent physicians have told me that I have another five – ten years of life at the outside. This, however, does not cause me a great deal of pain or sorrow because I well realize that I have no place in the world which lies ahead. It has already been established by scientists and physicians that it will not be long before computerized chips are planted in our brains which will record and relay every thought we humans have back to Big Brother. I have no desire to be present for that as any information they get from my chip will most certainly fail to please them, nor have I any desire to be the last man standing in a profession which has been allowed to die due to neglect, indifference and miseducation of the public.

A good deal of my estate, should there be any remaining, will be left to FHE and other like-minded organizations in the hope that they will keep the dreams alive that so many of us have cherished in our minds and hearts for centuries on end.

Though I hate to end this essay on a sad or negative note the dice are heavily loaded in favor of my being one of the last of a long but dying breed. I can take a certain pride in this because I have spent my life doing what I love best and will continue to do so for as long as there is breath left in me. May I wish the same to all of you who believe as I do and to the world at large.

So here I sit at my computer, five months out of a wheelchair and seven out of the hospital. Except for the few remaining friends who visit me, I live the life of a semi-recluse in many ways, which sometimes astounds me when I look back a mere two or three years, but somehow it’s O.K. I’m happy to have reached the end of this article, because while I realize its importance, it has been keeping me from my Piano Sonata, which as a still working composer is my chief concern, but the manuscript sits there on the Steinway, beckoning to me.

When I do venture out, I use a cane, but then again I used one before my last and most crippling accident, only at that time, I carried it in the opposite hand. As I have mentioned in the concluding chapter, I am neither young nor, obviously, healthy any longer. Both my doctors and I would consider it a miracle if I lived to be seventy, but that, too, is O.K. When my work is done, I am content to go in peace, leaving this world behind to continue its mixed blessing/folly.

I am fully at peace with the fact that the majority of my many ailments are simply payback for living the life of eternal youth so many of my generation, especially those in my field of work and related ones, have unwittingly fallen victim to. I am, of course, now denied nearly all of my old pleasures, so please do not begrudge me my remaining indulgences. I do still smoke more than any person’s got a right to (if, indeed anyone still has the right to smoke in the year 2009). On orders of my cardiologist, I am allowed precisely 2 ounces of cognac per evening for my circulation, so I go out of my way, of course, to make sure it is a high quality product. I’ve played and I’ve paid, but when all is said and done, I never went out of my way to hurt another human being, and in my small way, I’d like to think I’ve helped a few. Yes, I’ve had my inappropriate dalliances with the wrong ladies and paid dearly for some of those too, but in most if not all cases, I’ve gone out of my way to protect both the innocent and the guilty.

Not very long ago, I had a dream. It was set in the future—-the far future; whether one hundred or five thousand years ahead I cannot say, but long after I am gone and almost certainly forgotten. By that time, the computer chips I recently spoke of will have long since been implanted in the brains of all of us who remain. It would not surprise me in the least if speech as we know it had ceased to exist except for what was essential to communicate with our computerized masters.
Yet, the day will come at Central Command Control when all the ultra-sophisticated devices will stop their whirring noises and be silent, for something is happening that they have been programmed to look out for since their era truly began. Somewhere, far away, a little child is skipping along, humming a melody and clapping his hands as he goes.

As long as we exist, as long as our world exists, they’ll never stop the music.

previous: Chapter 6