Pessimistic Reflections on Practicing

I have been fairly obsessive about practicing flute every since I took up the instrument with a teacher, about six years ago, and, while I keep improving, compared to the kind of progress a young person makes, I am hopeless, despite decades of playing musical instruments.
When I was a high school student, I took clarinet lessons with Irving Neidich, the father of Charles Neidich, one of the top classical clarinetists in the world, and I never practiced with the kind of seriousness I am applying to the flute. Still, I got to be pretty good. I attended the National Music Camp in Interlochen, Michigan for two years, and I played in our high school orchestra.
Mr. Neidich made me play a lot of the classic exercises written by Klose, and I did so more or less dutifully. But I don't play through exercises on the flute. I have memorized a warm-up routine that I learned when I was taking saxophone lessons from Stephen Horenstein: scales, arpeggios, long tones, etc. Every day I spend about twenty minutes with that, and then I go on to the pieces I'm working on with my flute teacher, Michael Lukin, who was born and brought up in Moscow and, here at the Rubin Academy in Jerusalem, studied with Moshe Aron Epstein, who later had a career in Europe.
Right now I'm working a sonata attributed to Johann Sebastian Bach, but probably written by one of his sons. At my lessons, Michael plays the piano accompaniment to the Bach, and we also play duets together. Hearing his tone helps me improve my own.
Right now I'm working on the last movement of a duet by Telemann and the first movement of one by a romantic composer, Kummer.
Instead of playing exercises, when I practice, I play the fast passages of these pieces quite slowly, concentrating as much as possible on maintaining as good a sound as I can. If I can play notes written by one of the Bachs  or by Telemann, why should I play notes written by a flute virtuoso who is virtually unknown as a composer? However, I will probably never be able to play these passages as fast as they are supposed to be played.
So why am I playing flute at all? I'll never be good enough at it to please myself. There are two good reasons: first, I enjoy it, and, second, by working at these pieces, I am improving my appreciation of music. Indeed, the more I play, the more I marvel at the brilliance of the composers I am playing, and, the more I listen to great musicians play, the more I admire them.

Stage Fright and Excitement

My musical guru, the late Arnie Lawrence, used to say that if you channel stage fright into excitement, it can enhance your playing. Easier said than done.
For some reason Arnie objected to the word, "performance," as if it implied something artificial, as opposed to playing from the heart. But I don't think "performance" is a bad word at all.
Last night at our home we hosted a performance by the young and gifted classical pianist and composer Nadav Greenhut. Nadav, whose name in Hebrew means "generous," agreed to play the first Schumann "Romance," originally written for piano and oboe, a piece that isn't hard technically, since it doesn't have a lot of fast passages, but which is very hard musically, partly because it is quite slow, and the soloist is very audible.
I didn't play it as well as Ory Schneor does in the performance linked above, but I did a credible job. I'm getting close to producing a sound that I like on the flute. Nadav and I worked very hard to prepare the piece. We met three times to rehearse it and spent more than an hour each time -- for a piece that lasts about three minutes! And that doesn't count the times that we each worked on our own to master our parts.
In general, and I've written about this before, the investment in time that goes into a musical performance is vastly greater than the duration of the the performance. Think about a symphony orchestra, for example, and the number of years each of the musicians has put in to get to the high level required for the position, and then the hours of rehearsal specifically devoted to the piece being performed. This also holds true of a jazz improvisation. It demands years of skill-development. This concentrated time is what you're hearing.
I'm not used to performing as a soloist. I mainly play in groups, and often, when I play baritone saxophone, in a supportive role. So it was doubly challenging for me: I was playing the flute, to which I'm relatively new, and I was playing as a soloist.
The audience of about twenty-five were sitting in our living room, mainly friends of ours and of Nadav's, so they were far from hostile, which made it easier for me to play. The main problem I had was in breathing correctly for the phrasing of the piece. Because I was nervous, I didn't take deep enough breaths, and I had to interrupt some of the phrases in the wrong places. Also, as I listen to Ory Schneor, I realize that I wasn't as flexible rhythmically as I should have been. The Romances aren't meant to be played in strict time. But I wasn't so disabled by nervousness that I couldn't play at all, and I avoided most of the errors I tended to commit when I was practicing, though, of course, I made a few new and unexpected errors while playing before the audience.
Even after playing for only three minutes, I was exhilarated at the end, both relieved to be finished, and also high from the experience. Playing in public demands concentration. It also has a kind of inside-out quality. I found myself both deeply invested in what I was doing and also observing myself from the outside, noticing both mistakes and also places where I was pleased with what I had done, as if someone else were playing.
Nadav played the entire program by heart, pieces of his own as well as pieces by Haydn and Chopin, except for the Schumann where he was accompanying me. I'm very weak at memorizing music. Nadav said to me on the subject, that, since music was written by a human being, another human being ought to be able to memorize it. That sounds right to me, but I think it's too late for my brain to acquire that skill.
Playing for other people makes your music real, and the tension it requires improves your playing. I would rather listen to a live performance by less than the greatest musicians in the world than a recorded performance. Hearing Nadav play in the intimacy of a small room was clearly a thrill to everyone in the audience, and we got great pleasure in hosting the event.

The Banality of Getting Old

Today is the last day of my 73rd year.
Last night we went to see the recent Israeli movie, "Scaffolding," which I recommend. As senior citizens, we get a discount on movies, museum entrances, etc., but we have to show our official senior citizen cards. I gave ours to the girl at the cash register and said I wanted tickets for two "old people." She and the other girl at the neighboring cash register laughed. I meant to be funny, but what's funny is calling us "senior citizens," instead of what we really are.
So, I wonder: what am I looking forward to? The impeachment of Donald Trump and the indictment of Benjamin Netanyahu and his henchmen. How petty and vindictive am I getting to be?
It's healthier to look forward to personal things, hoping to get as much out of life as I can, and to remain engaged and productive, not to be a burden on anyone.
I admit to a failing of the aging: I scan the obituaries on the Times Internet edition and keep score: this one made it to 92, that one died at 46. I don't expect to rate an obituary in the Times when I croak, but I wonder what people will say: Well, at least Jeff made it to X. Or, too bad, Jeff only made it to X.
My father died before his 85th birthday (1906-1991), and my mother, who was a heavy smoker, only made it to 82 (1910-1992). My son Asher died at 28 (1978-2006). When he died, we knew he had been cheated of years of activity. When they died, it didn't seem untimely to me.
In a sense, the future is an illusion. It hasn't happened yet, and anything could happen. I was supposed to take part in a concert tomorrow night with a wind band that I play with, but the conductor, Eitan Avitzur, who's a bit older than I am, was hospitalized with a heart problem, so the concert has been cancelled. I have a lot of respect for Eitan, a fine musician, a professor emeritus of composition, a prolific composer and arranger, and a dedicated man. He's been conducting the orchestra as a volunteer for years, and the last thing he needs is the petty little troubles that keep cropping up and spoiling things.
I wonder whether he'll be able to continue.
As for me, I have some irons in the fire, things I want to accomplish and to continue doing. For example, I want to bring my overcoat to the cleaner's this morning.

Something a Bit Technical about the chord progression of "Misty"

I just noticed something about the chord progression in the first part of "Misty," the famous song by Errol Garner.
At first glance, there seems to be something arbitrary in the second two bars of the chord progression:
(1) EbM7| (2) Bbm7 Eb7| (3) AbM7| (4) Abm7 Db7| (5) EbM7 Cm7| (6) Fm7 Bb7| (7) Gm7 C7| (8) F-7 Bb7|
I've numbered the bars to make things clearer.
After declaring the key of the piece: Eb major, it abruptly modulates to Ab major, and then, just as abruptly, it returns to Eb major, where it remains to the end of the first part, except for the E natural in the C7 chord in bar 7, which puts the song in the key of  F for a moment.
Interestingly, if you sit at the piano and play these chords, moving your hand as little as possible, something fascinating emerges.
The top note of EbM7 is D natural.
The top note of Bbm7, spelled F-Ab-Bb-Db is Db, as is the top note of Eb7. This is a chromatic descent of a half tone.
The top note of AbM7, spelled Eb-G-Ab-C is C. Another chromatic descent of half a tone.
Abm7, spelled Eb-Gb-Ab-Cb gives another half step descent, repeated in the following Db7 (Db-F-Ab-Cb).
Then, in bar 5, EbM7, spelled D-Eb-G-Bb provides another half tone descent, and the top note of Cm7 is also a Bb.
In bar 6 there is a whole tone descent from Bb to Ab: C-Eb-F-Ab to B-D-F-Ab. (This whole tone exception to the half-tone descents reinforces the function of the seventh and eighth measures, which bring us back harmonically to the beginning of the piece - a turnaround).
The G minor 7 in bar 7 goes down another half step: Bb-D-F-G, repeated in the C7 (Bb-C-E-G).
Both the F-7 and the Bb7 in bar 8 can be spelled with the top note as F, and then we return to Eb with another whole tone descent, hastening us back to the beginning of the first part of the piece.
So the voice-leading of the chords goes down a a major sixth from D to F: D>Db>C>Cb>Bb>Ab>G>F
The second ending, bars 7 and 8 in the repeated first part of the piece, has the chords Eb6 Db9 | EbM7. These chords can be played: Bb-Eb-F-G, Cb-Ab-Db-Eb-F, compressing the whole tone descent from the two measures in the first ending to one, and the second measure of the second ending can finish on Eb: G-Bb-D-Eb.
If that isn't neat, what is? Errol Garner certainly knew what he was hearing.

Doing Things for the Last Time

As my 73rd birthday inexorably approaches, I think of the last time I will be doing things. But you don't have to be old to do things for the last time.
My youngest daughter just gave birth to a baby girl, her third child. Quite likely this is the last time she'll go through pregnancy and birth. But still, as the date of your last breath approaches, you are aware that you might not be doing a lot of things again.
When we got our dog, Kipper, about 9 years ago, I found myself thinking that he was probably the last dog we'd ever get. When we bought a new car 2 years ago, I figured that would be the last car we'd buy. Just now I bought a new laptop to replace the ancient, clunky one I bought a long time ago. Will I ever buy another computer? Depends who gets obsolete first.
Some of the things one does for the last time are things one wouldn't want to do again anyway, mistakes one doesn't want to repeat, or things one has gotten tired of doing. A lot of my friends are retiring from their regular jobs now. If they keep on working, it won't be under  the same circumstances. It must be a relief not to have to go back to your workplace except to visit former colleagues.
You can also do something and not know that it's for the last time. When will I ever go ice-skating again, ride a bicycle, go back to Mumbai?
It's probably a good idea to think of things you enjoyed but haven't done in a long time, and then to go out and do them, if you still can. It's an equally good idea to think of things you've never done and do them for the first time. That's advice for retired people.
You're only born once, and you only die once, but in between you do a hell of things over and over again.

Some Thoughts About Genealogy

To state the absolutely obvious, every person living today is directly descended from the very first cells that lived billions of years ago. However, to make the time scale easier to grasp, let’s just state that every human alive today is necessarily directly descended from someone who was alive a thousand years ago, when, according to one estimate, the human population of the world was about 265 million.

Of those 265 million, we can assume not everyone managed to produce offspring, who, in turn, produced offspring, over forty-one generations (assuming four generations per century) between the years 1000 and the year 2000. Families were wiped about by wars, plagues, other natural disasters, and some people would have been celibate or infertile. However, a certain, evidently substantial fraction of those 265 million did manage to breed successfully, and today they have an estimated seven billion descendants.

From the perspective of a person concerned with genealogy, the important question is: which of the 265 million humans, who were alive a thousand years ago, are my ancestors? If you make a simple but fallacious calculation, you might be led to the conclusion that you are descended from them all. A person born in the the year 2000 has two parents who were born in 1975, four grandparents who were born in 1950, eight great-grandparents born in 1925, and sixteen great-great-grandparents who were born in 1900. Taking it back to the year 1000 would mean 2⁴¹ ancestors, which is 219,902,325,552,

or more than thirty times the present human population of the world. We could not possibly be not descended from two-hundred, twenty billion different people. Hence, many of our ancestors must, in fact, sit in more than once place on our family trees.

For example, suppose two of your great-grandparents, not necessarily a man and wife, were first cousins (let’s say your mother’s grandmother and your father’s grandmother). That would mean that two of your great-great-grandparents were siblings, and those siblings would, by definition, have the same parents. So instead of thirty-two different descendants in that generation, you would only have thirty. That’s the process that whittles down the number of our actual ancestors from the impossible billions that the arithmetic offers. In the villages where most of our ancestors probably lived, in times when people tended to live and breed close to the places where they were born, the pool of available spouses could not have been very large, so many of our ancestors were related to each other. Instead of fanning out more or less infinitely, our lines of direct descent overlap and tangle. Not only are we directly descended from someone who lived a thousand years ago, we are descended from that person (and from many of our other actual ancestors in that generation) along multiple paths.

Some people I know are very proud that they can trace their ancestry back several centuries, but, obviously, that usually means they can name one person out of the many from whom they are descended in each previous generation. I would be interested in my own genealogy only if I could discover more than a name and place of residence. If I knew what one of my ancestors did with her life in the twelfth century, that might be interesting.

In Praise of Mediocrity

If I weren't mediocre, you couldn't excel. Mediocrity is comfortable. If I don't make demands on myself or on you, we can all relax and enjoy ourselves. Don't expect too much, and you won't be disappointed. People who are content with mediocrity probably sleep well, have low blood pressure, and don't get tension headaches. They don't get angry at other people for being ordinary, a bit sloppy, a bit lazy. They live in a mediocre world and expect the world to be that way.

Mediocre doesn't mean “bad,” it means “good enough,” “decent,” “satisfactory,” “serviceable” – not the best but not the worst.

Of course mediocrity is relative. One of my college roommates was taken into a freshman physics class restricted to students who, like him, had received 800 on their college board tests in physics. In that context, he proved to be a mediocre student. Those who excel in one environment rise to a higher level, where they prove to be mediocre. As far as I know, my former roommate went on to have a happy and prosperous life.

Mediocre people run the risk of being overtaken by the excellent and left behind, but even mediocre sports teams sometimes beat the league leaders. Besides, at a certain level, mediocre people are kicked upstairs, where they can do no harm but still can draw a nice salary and feel happy with their lot. Mediocre workers are passed over for promotion, which means they have less responsibility, less pressure. Maybe they are wise enough to know they don't handle pressure well.

Self-satisfaction can be a symptom of mediocrity, bourgeois fatuousness, not realizing that one is mediocre. It takes the critical gaze of the outsider, who is superior, to discern mediocrity, to see that the person who fancies himself superior is far from that. But a mediocre person with self-knowledge, who doesn't imagine she is better than she is, can be satisfied with her lot without being proud of it.

Mediocrity might well be optimal in the utilitarian sense. What's preferable, a society of content mediocrities, without too many outstanding successes or miserable failures, or a society with a few anxious, insecure brilliant people at the top and a huge mass of unhappy nobodies?

Does the idea of mediocrity necessarily entail competition? Not in zero-sum games with only winners or losers. It definitely entails comparison: to others or to an ideal of excellence.

If you grade people's performance on a curve, the middle is, by definition, mediocre. What ever happened to the Gentleman's C? The idea was: it's bad form too try too hard. Why? Because you were born to privilege, and if you strove, it was a sign that you doubted your privilege. The idea was: ideas and knowledge aren't all that important. On the other hand, it didn't do to fail. You had to learn something. And perhaps accepting the Gentleman's C was a way of rejecting the standard of those who presume to judge, who presume to know what should be known, who presume to set standards. Plenty of very intelligent and creative people never cared what kind of grades they got in school or college, because they were deeply interested in other things. The stigma of mediocrity implies some absolute scale, against which everyone is measured, but if society no longer agrees on standards, or if there are many independent sets of standards, the man or woman who are judged mediocre in one area of their life might be highly valued by people in another area of their life.