A couple of nights ago I played a background music gig with one of my ensembles, The Moussai. I remembered 2 things. First, no amount of ingested alcohol is too small for me to not totally lose my finger dexterity/coordination (of which I have precious little to begin with). Second, I am not a background musician.

Honestly, I ingested less than a quarter of a champagne glass full of champagne. AND it also included a huge strawberry, a raspberry and 2 blackberries. I SUCKED. Not only could I not play and not read the music, but I didn't care!

About the background music thing........I've known that I can't tolerate inattentive listeners. I have friends who function as great musicians ONLY when playing background music. At one point in The Moussai's evening of background music making, an elderly assertive woman who earlier made it a point to tell us that she had been a trailblazing horn player in her youth was conversing with the oboist WHILE the oboist was playing - REED IN MOUTH! Had I liked the piece we were playing at the time I would have had a different reaction at that moment. But, given that it was Madeline Dring's insipid Trio (again, why can't females get it through their heads that they cannot write music?........with a very few exceptions - Ruth Crawford, for one) I was bemused. Later, at home, I was seething. It isn't about me. It isn't a Diva thing. It's about respect for these sacred sound waves. SHUT THE FUCK UP, SHOW SOME REVERENCE, AND LISTEN TO THE VOICE OF GOD/UNIVERSE/WHATEVER AS IT CHANNELS THROUGH THE MUSIC!

If I hear so much as an audible breath from an audience person during the performances of Milhaud's Sonate (for flute, oboe, clarinet, piano), I will garrote the motherfucker with a piano string.

I was at a friend's house last night. We were enjoying a spirited gross out session where I was crooning away badly (because I cannot croon goodly) "We've Only Just Begun......" and "If a Picture Paints a Thousand Words then Why Can't I Paint You?........" and so on while friend was screaming at me "PLEASE STOP!" When I finally stopped I retorted (jovially) "Well, at least I'm not a snob!" My friend was clearly stunned and sputtered "uh, uh, uh, uh.....". His surprise surprised me so I asked seriously: "Really, do you think I'm a snob?"

He wouldn't answer, just kept evading.

So this morning I'm putting in my first practice stint on Milhaud's Sonata, 2nd movement. I took a break and did some house chores and came back to do work on the 3rd movement. No such luck - my brain was already trashed from the first stint (I am more out of shape than I've ever been in my life and it's showing in my practice endurance). I switched to the 1st movement of the Damase Trio. Whew! I had mental chops to tackle this.

The Damase and the Milhaud are on the same concert program, along with the Poulenc Sextet. The Milhaud is definitely the genius work followed closely by the Poulenc. This makes practicing the concert a pleasure. I intersperse practicing nice B+ works like the Damase and the Goossens with genius literature like the Milhaud and the Poulenc and I have no problem enjoying my life.

Last year while working almost exclusively on the very genius Winterreise, I was in such bliss that I projected genius to anyone who wrote anything on manuscript paper. Then I began the work on Damase and Goossens, sans Milhaud and Poulenc and my life sucked. It sucked so much I somehow gravitated to Bach's 2nd English Suite to save my artistic sensibilities.

My point, and yes, I do have one: I AM a snob. But I'm an authentic, honest snob, based on my own observations of how I viscerally react to music. I don't give a shit what others think. I hate Madonna. There is nothing you can say to me that will ever change my mind. And I detest her because she bores the living shit out of me. Ditto Lady GaGa. Ditto Damase if I had a steady diet. Ditto Mozart. Ditto Radiohead. Ditto The Beatles. Should I stop now?

I am hot and heavy into Milhaud's Sonata for Flute, Oboe, Clarinet and Piano. I think I've actually managed to woodshed 5 measures, one per day. Milhaud in this piece is polytonal, polystylistic (even snippets of 12 tone for just 2 measures), visionary (quotes the band Tool way before Tool existed), and extremely sad with one burst of homicidal anger in the 3rd movement - the ENTIRE movement. Sad in a universal sense. Sad because humankind has let him down (onset of the first World War).

2 summers ago I got a bug up my butt to woodshed the 3rd movement of Beethoven's Waldstein, my favorite depiction of a heroin nod. And it kicked my butt. But I did that just for me and I had the option of bowing out when it got too intense (and I did). The Milhaud will actually be performed next May. I am in close embrace Argentine Tango with it for the next 9 months, gestating death and finality. Last time Milhaud and I did this dance he nearly crippled me. Milhaud suffered from Rheumatoid Arthritis and spent a good deal of his adult years in a wheel chair because of the pain. I contracted whatever he had for the duration of our relationship and thankfully recovered quickly (the day after the performances - my back and bones felt brand-old again).

It's hard for me to maintain my correspondences with friends when I'm this deeply involved with a piece/composer. I retain the light correspondences and conveniently forget to answer the ones with depth, the ones that vie for my inner attention, something I can now only give to Milhaud's Sonata.

There circulates an apocryphal anecdote that Leonard Bernstein insisted Stravinsky's Sacrificial Dance from "Rite of Spring" could be conducted in 4/4 and all the mixed meter be damned.

I think John Bonham had this in mind when beating into submission "Black Dog" from Zeppelin's 4th album.

I'd like to add another song to my bucket list of songs to which I want to dance the Argentine Tango: "I Wish" - Stevie Wonder. It was used as a Cortina tonight (a music blurb signifying the end of a set). I asked the really wonderful DJ if he perhaps had "Kashmir" or "Money" loaded. S.O.L.

I dragged 2 friends to Alternative Music Argentine tonight. One of these friends is an extremely accomplished classical musician. So today I've put in 3 really grueling but productive practice sessions at the piano and I was both proud and impressed with my effort and my playing. I'm on a roll. I love the way the Damase Trio is sounding under my hands. The Milonga began at 8:30pm and within an hour I'm over in a corner sitting with my accomplished classical musician friend sulking about how I feel like shit dancing the Argentine. She smiled wryly and said "it's hell being a novice isn't it?"

I wish I was as good at the Argentine as I am at the piano.

I'm trying my hardest to be semi-regular posting articles and practicing piano but the sun is a mighty huge tempter. Summer finally came to Western Oregon, although today is overcast and cool. I'd love to write about Zeppelin's third album or revisiting Milhaud's dark Sonata for Flute, Oboe, Clarinet and Piano but all I can think about is starting this morning's yard work. Oddly, I haven't been on a bike yet this year. Oddlier, I'm not yet missing it. It's weird when I stand back and watch my own patterns and desires morph. Outdoors, I'm craving more physical, functional activity and less recreational activity. Indoors, I'm definitely craving more dance and less gym work-outs.

I have started reading the collected writings of Morton Feldman - "Give My Regards to 8th Street". I love how he melds visual art and music in his descriptions of pieces. He's also a wicked wit. Gotta love that.

Once upon a time while having amorous fun, my lover moaned "oh yeah, that's how to keep your man happy and at home". I saw red. I slithered up to his face and hissed "if anyone strays in this coupling, it'll be me". I react passive-aggressively to glass-ceilings, male-narcissism (my father) and young stockbrokers. I am calmly confronting as a leader and am pretty good at ferreting and supporting the good ideas regardless of voice pitch. All in all, I'm a Dom at the very least and an equal whenever I get the rare opportunity.

However......

Argentine Tango.

Last night a friend and I finally managed to attend an alternative music Milonga. Friend is an outstanding Viennese Waltzer (spinning waltz). He likes dances that travel and as he says "The Argentine is a traveling dance that doesn't". The Argentine is my favorite dance. Its charm is its subtlety - making it the antithesis of American Ballroom Tango (which I abhor). It's entirely spontaneous and the female follow gets a chance to be truly female - to backlead, to be entirely submissive (though not passive) to the music, the dance, and her partner. I have no instinct in general for leading as a dancer. I remember a Contra-Dance where one of my favorite female dancers was not dancing and I grabbed her as a partner, establishing me as the leader. I sucked. Not all that long ago the same thing happened but she wisely said she'd be the guy. OMG. She's one of the best leads I've ever had and we were so XXX steamy we got an ovation at the end of the dance.

It's always nice to know I can find places to balance my visionary stubbornness and drive, totally giving myself up to a visionary and capable lead, the dance and the music.

I canceled my "Argentine Tango To Everything NOT Piazzolla BUT Definitely Alternative Selections Possibly Including Kashmir (Zeppelin) AND Money (Pink Floyd)" date with a friend last night in order to do a last minute consolation date with another friend who's flight back home to see his beloved sister was postponed by 2 days due to airplane wing failure. Saddened friend had already gone through one bottle of wine and the other circumstances are too numerous and personal to mention.

First - every Wednesday night Portland Oregon actually has an Argentine Tango dance to alternative music. The Milonga Police have not yet shut it down.

Depressed friend and I decided that we would go hear yet another friend performing a "Happening" with his experimental music group "Rob Walmart". Their mascot, emblazoned on their t-shirts, looks suspiciously like Lionel Richie and nothing like Rob. En route to this "Happening" we stopped at a neighborhood bar called The Slammer where neither of us have ever been.

Second - this place had the greatest eclectic juke box I've ever heard (albeit way way way too loud) AND it included NO Madonna, NO Lady GaGa NO Beatles......... It did include plenty of Violent Femmes, Bowie, Beastie Boys......... (of no relevance to music but an odd observation never-the-less, this place also had the densest population of really naturally gorgeous people I've ever seen in a bar.......maybe anywhere. What's up with that?)

We made our way to "The Happening". Our directions were to find the big white cube parked somewhere around 11th and SE Morrison. Cube was parked outside a club. Unbelievable. 6 guys stuffed in a delivery truck converted to a traveling FBI band (no, seriously, all the electronic equipment in the back could have passed for surveillance ....... well, except for the 6 mini piano keyboards in front of each operator. In a more traditional setting - a club, a concert venue, a workshop/classroom, any stage, this would have been butt crack boring (think Merzbow). But the location, the open air, the warm night, the people spilling out of the club for a smoke break, the collective enthusiasm and wonder generated by all of us, the fairly innovative use of ambient noise and drum kit rhythms, seeing the equipment and the operators operating at such close range and getting a feel for the ensemble (I hate arena concerts.....which I term spectacles because there is nothing remotely music-magic about them) drove home the magic of Live Music, chamber style, updated with modern "instruments" and use of improvisation.

Third - even the streets are game for Music events, un-twittered! (thank you jesus).