Adam Tendler's Blog, page 10

Palmer Journal: 1—Origin StoryI realized yesterday that I don’t remember where he went to school....

Palmer Journal: 1—Origin StoryI realized yesterday that I don’t remember where he went to school. Where Robert Palmer learned the craft part of his craft. Who from? Even the half-biographies floating around on the internet treat the man as if he fell from the sky at twenty-something and immediately went to Tanglewood to study with Copland. But one has to learn to write notes on the page, right? One has to start with 4/4 before they get to 21/16, right? That impeccable script. That tight counterpoint. Where did it come from? The letters begin with him working in a supermarket, but the sonata is all but completed.Have I simply not paid attention to the quaint Wikipedia entry (okay, he went to Eastman), which includes his middle name, Moffat? Nowhere else does his name appear this way. Perhaps whoever created it wished to keep him separate from the ubiquitous pop singer, who enters nearly every conversation I have about the composer who lived quietly in Ithaca, roamed quietly at Cornell in the composition department he helped build. Before that, briefly, it was Lawrence, Kansas, where he taught piano and theory, and played a recital that included Haydn, Chopin and his own First Sonata. A postcard he sent in 1940 shows the administration building, with a little arrow pointing to his office: “my hangout!”Quietly as the first American composer published by Peters, only to receive a string of apologetic rejections afterward, as his legacy, perhaps his future, vanished in the obliterating force of later experimentalists—serialists, indeterminists, minimalists—namely all the other composers I enjoy playing. Sure, people in Ithaca knew and loved him, and yes, played his work—students, mainly. There doesn’t seem to be much surviving in Kansas. I’ve emailed people at Cornell who remember him fondly. They call him “Bob.”I haven’t seen any of his letters outside of those he sent to John Kirkpatrick, which I saw at Yale a couple years ago, but even those letters begin with the two of them discussing his First Sonata, meticulously composed, maybe a touch overwrought, but mature in style and breadth. He sends fragments, one or two measures with the staff itself handwritten, to Kirkpatrick and Kirkpatrick says yay or nay to such-and-such transition. (One of Palmer’s latest works for piano is called Transitions—I learned it, but won’t record it this go-round). The only thing immature about that sonata is perhaps its ambition, typical of first sonatas. And also typically, his second is much smaller—two short movements, ten minutes.But the narrative begins there for me, and sort of for everyone. And frankly it stops soon after.I want to ask his daughter, if I meet her this weekend in Ithaca, about the narrative. If she knows anything about his parents. I‘ve asked composers who brushed paths with Palmer about his personality, but never his beginnings. And still, they have foggy or short memories. An argument, a look, a generality. Even Steven Stucky, one of the most prominent Palmer advocates before he himself passed away, had few details when we met at Indie cafe across the street from Juilliard—and yet we talked for well over an hour. What did we talk about? I remember so little. But certain half-sentences he left me with continue to endure, as does my regret for not asking for more details. I’m not ready quite yet to share those half-sentences here. Just like I’m conflicted about sharing what little personal information he shares with Kirkpatrick in those letters. Is it mine to share? Is it even important?I’m not even sure where he was born (okay, Syracuse), and after all I’m just a pianist, so maybe I don’t need to know why, in 1943, a time of draft, he was “rejected permanently (4F), for psychological reasons,” which he quickly promised would allow him to now “play more intelligently,” and would “practically make certain” that he could be on the East coast the remainder of that year. Then he writes about a grant he received from the Koussevistzky Foundation.

reasonMe: Do you think I’m scared before I play?6YrOld: No, because you’re a grown-up.Me: I’m scared...

reason

Me: Do you think I’m scared before I play?

6YrOld: No, because you’re a grown-up.

Me: I’m scared every time.

6YrOld: But I’m scared for a reason.

new friend (at Vermont)

new friend (at Vermont)

Wow my first index! What a trip, and really an honor! And...

Wow my first index! What a trip, and really an honor! And seriously this book by Jeff Nytch is great—like a pat on the back from a really smart friend. The irony is that as I read it, I’m trying to make my first actual website, rather than the geocities™️ frightfest currently online (see it while you can—it’s insane), and this process has me confronting all these overgrown gardens from my digital past. Everything needs updating, tweaking, razing.

Sunday night, revisiting the letters Robert Palmer wrote to...

Sunday night, revisiting the letters Robert Palmer wrote to pianist John Kirkpatrick, which I saw at Yale a few years ago, spanning from when he was a grocery clerk to his professorship at Cornell. Mostly cordial, midcentury-mannered, workaday stuff, and then something really kooky will happen, like a vague description of personal anguish, professional uncertainty, the casual mention of being disqualified permanently from the military “for psychological reasons.” And then the letter will go on about such-and-such measure, and why the tie is important.

lighton the brooklyn bound j train, francesco tried to determine if this woman who looked just like...

light

on the brooklyn bound j train, francesco tried to determine if this woman who looked just like joni mitchell knew the asian guy sitting next to her, to whom she was speaking passionately. at essex street the guy stood up and left the train, and i muttered, “well, there’s your answer.” she continued speaking, now to no one in particular, until we crossed over the manhattan bridge and she caught my eye, pointed out the window and said, “look at that light, it’s unbelievable!”

ready #cheapimitation @newmusicgathering (at Boston...

ready #cheapimitation @newmusicgathering (at Boston Conservatory at Berklee)

cheap imitation, 9am, friday, new music gathering,...

cheap imitation, 9am, friday, new music gathering, boston

www.newmusicgathering.org

matt / within earshot Amidst the varied difficulties and complications of each passing day, the...

matt / within earshot

Amidst the varied difficulties and complications of each passing day, the expectation is at least survival. So when that code is broken, and someone disappears from the regular cast of our lives, it feels like a deep betrayal. Grief (my phone refuses to write it, replaces it with another word as type this on the subway) combines anger with regret with, of course, sadness. I looked forward to next week’s New Music Gathering particularly because I’d finally have a moment to see and hug Matt Marks. We last met over a year ago, sitting for coffee to discuss a grant I wanted to apply for with him. We discovered upon the first minutes of that meeting that he was too old by a year, while I met the deadline by a mere month. I felt so dumb. But we talked for an hour about music and aesthetic, and laughed, and promised to stay in touch. And then of course, because New York or who knows, we didn’t. Maybe I’d shoot over a little message here or there if I saw his name on a poster or if I saw something funny I thought he’d like. I was peripheral at best, and probably wanted his friendship more than he even fleetingly considered mine. But still, he’s supposed to be here. There. Somewhere within earshot. I’m furious he’s not.

lineagesa couple years ago, the first time i played music by julius eastman with joseph kubera, we...

lineages

a couple years ago, the first time i played music by julius eastman with joseph kubera, we shared a cab after rehearsal and i sheepishly confessed that one of my side projects was the music of robert palmer. not only had he heard of palmer, but eastman had actually wanted to play palmer’s sonata for two pianos with him. i was shocked, and began crossing my fingers right then that we might someday play the piece. (eastman, it turns out, played other works by palmer too, even including them on his town hall recital.) we’ll record the sonata next month, and privately perform it as well (i’ll send you an invite to that, if you haven’t received it already). joe’s score actually has eastman’s fingerings in it, and today we rehearsed the piece (such a thrill) in the hall at Third Street Settlement where julius used to present concerts. “that’s the last time i was in here,” joe said.