Breaking Up Is...Not That Hard, Actually

I suppose I should be a little bit angry.

A couple of weeks ago, I received one of those thin envelopes in the mail. Typically, these kinds of envelopes contain disappointing news concerning the results of a score call, contest or other opportunity. Normally, when I see the thin envelope, I’m mentally prepared as I slowly open it and read the predictable content. However, the thin envelope that came the other day was not from any contest or score call. It was, rather, from a publisher who has carried my music for the last 20 years. It’s not unusual to receive hard copy mailings from time to time so I thought nothing of it. In fact, I don’t think I even opened that letter first. When I did finally get around to peering within the envelope, I read a lot about mergers and acquisitions, marketing plans, ideas of promotion and the making of…uh-oh…difficult decisions. Then the punch line – I was being dropped from the catalog.

Is this where they are storing my scores?

There was, at once, a flood of thoughts as I put the letter down. Was I really being rejected after 20 years? How would this impact my career? Would this loss tarnish my professional standing or reputation? Then, I was seized with anger. However, this anger was short-lived and was soon followed by absolute calm. I began to honestly question the ways that the publisher had really helped me over the years. This particular publisher carried two of my orchestral works in their catalog. One had moderate success and the second was never sold or rented. As I no longer held the copyright to this second work, I could not send out the physical score to orchestras, score calls or other opportunities on my own. I helplessly observed that the promotion of this piece was relegated to just another name in a long list of names, buried in an index using a very small font type. I began to feel that my work had been crated and stored in some nameless warehouse in much the same way as the Ark of the Covenant was at the end of the film, Raiders of the Lost Ark.

I suppose I should be angry…

Yet, the more I think about it, the more I realize that this is actually a blessing in disguise. This news has allowed me to shed the final vestige of an older 20^th Century model for music publishing, promotion and distribution. It occurs to me that I will now regain control over these works. It is also not lost upon me that I have sold more physical copies of music on my own, through my own website and as my own ASCAP registered publisher in the last five months than had my publisher sold in the prior five years.

Just as I finally gave up on hand calligraphy for music notation in the early 1990’s - putting away my rapidograph pens, vellum paper, straight edges and ink and embracing computer notation programs – so now I need to finally give up on the notion of the traditional music publisher and embrace the freedom to publish, promote and distribute my own work in ways that work best for me.

Of course, as a composer who works within academia, being dropped from a publisher might have been more devastating news; especially had it occurred while I was still untenured and at a junior rank. As it stands for me personally, this is a bullet that has been dodged. My task now, within my institution at least, is to be sure that administrators understand that the old “publish or perish” paradigm no longer works for composers. Nor is it even in our self-interest anymore. The obvious trend is toward self-publishing. There are already many notable examples of high profile composers within the field already engaging in this activity. There once was a time when “doing it all yourself” made no sense. Now, however, with the rise of social media and a more powerful world wide web, the hurdles of promotion and distribution are greatly eased.

Now naturally, it’s never good news to learn that you are rejected and yes, I should be a little angry. The truth be told – I am. However, I’m angry not because I was dropped from a music publisher’s catalog.

I’m angry because I didn’t drop them first.

Summer Job

Back when I was in high school, and spring would roll around, an annual event  - as dependable as the vernal equinox itself – occurred in my house. My father would one day casually ask me from behind his newspaper, “So, what have you got lined up for the summer?” Of course, he meant a summer job and of course, I hadn’t even begun thinking about looking for work when the question was posed. I’d make some vague list of plans that I thought would placate him for the moment and then begin to earnestly look for work. In my house, there was no hanging out during the summer with nothing to do. Over the years, I took many summer jobs: yard man for the neighborhood, clerk at a record store (remember those?), waiter and a ride operator at Six Flags amusement park among many other day gigs.

Now, of course, the job has changed for me, but one thing has remained constant: there is a pressing need to “line something up” for the summer. On the surface, this need is necessitated by a professor’s nine-month contract. There is no income during the summer so those of us in the academy are used to the notion of lining up summer work. Often, this means teaching summer school and/or receiving grants for summer research. For the composer working within the academy, the summer also is an unparalleled opportunity for writing. Many pressures of the academic year are removed and there is finally time to think. Within a university, my “research” is writing music. So it is appropriate and beneficial to apply for summer research funding to compose. It’s also one of the increasingly few “perks” of working in higher education. Knowing that summer must be filled, spurs me to develop projects throughout the year with the expectation that the bulk of composing will take place in the relatively calm summer months. I don’t write exclusively in the summer – but it is a time that a significant amount of work is accomplished. This summer is no different than others gone by except for one thing: everything has panned out.

Like many composers, I don’t have the luxury of sifting through myriads of commissions that have fallen before me like manna from heaven. To be sure, there are a few. However, part of lining up summer work entails me pitching projects to performers or ensembles. Some proposals work out, many do not. Therefore, like any good salesman, I toss a lot of ideas against the wall and hope that some will stick. This summer, almost every proposal has met with success and this – coupled with several legit commissions out of the blue – have me a bit nervous.

It’s only May and the summer – like an inviting country road – beckons; full of promise. Yet there are a fistful of chamber works, a double concerto and a film score to complete before September. I do write quickly… but even so – I’m a bit apprehensive. Yet, I must confess that I’m also more than a bit excited. I’m one of those people who thrive on impending deadlines and self-inflicted pressure. I also take solace in a quote attributed to Leonard Bernstein that I often share with my students: “To achieve great things, two things are needed; a plan, and not quite enough time.” Only history will judge if what I write this summer will be “great.” However, I do have a plan and I definitely don’t have enough time. I’m halfway there!

"...with a little help from my friends..."

I have a recurring daydream. If you’re a composer, maybe you’ve had it too. It’s the one where a major music director from one of the Big Five symphony orchestras, or a well-known performer or chamber ensemble contacts me after perusing my website and offers me a commission. OK, so perhaps it’s not a daydream. It’s a delusion; somewhere akin to a 10-year-old who catches a foul ball at a baseball game and secretly hopes the manager of the team noticed what a great play was made.

L-R: Demondrae Thurman, myself, Randall Coleman &
Jon Whitaker after a recent performance of my music.

Of course, back on planet Earth, it almost never works this way. It’s exceedingly rare to be simply “discovered” and catapulted into a career. Most composers I know – especially the composer writing this blog entry – need to work on their careers and try to put themselves into a position where their work is noticed. But how do you go about doing that?

There are two givens a composer needs before even thinking about getting into a position where they find themselves in the spotlight. First, one must actually write good music on a consistent basis. This involves hard, diligent and consistent work. It may involve several college degrees – or it may not. However, it usually always involves some sort of apprenticeship with a more experienced composer. This may be in the traditional composition lesson via a degree program at the music school of your choice – or simply working privately with a composer after the day gig. The second given is that a composer must put themselves into a position TO be noticed. In the 21^st Century, that probably means an easy-to-find web presence. Composers should have a place they call “home” online (a website, blog, etc.) as well as good social media skills via the ubiquitous Facebook and other online social media outlets such as Twitter and LinkedIn among others.

My friend, Theofilos Sotiriadis from Thessaloniki, Greece
performing on the last neoPhonia concert in April.

Given you work hard, have some training and are established on the web, what’s next? How does the composer get the music “out there?” One way, of course, is by entering every possible score call and opportunity published. No guarantees there, however. Every opportunity has many applicants. The bigger the prize, the fiercer the competition one encounters. I’d hate for my only opportunity for performance and “discovery” to be left solely to the vagaries and subjectivity of a contest. So where does that leave a composer?

I had the good fortune a couple of years ago to sit on a panel with the distinguished American composer, Libby Larsen. She was a guest on our campus and our Director of Bands organized a joint panel discussion with student composers and performers. When, during the Q&A session, a student asked what was the best advice she could give to a young composer, Ms. Larsen, without hesitation and with firm resolve answered, “You must write for your friends.”

Therein lies one of the most important tools a composer has to control a career. It would not take much research to quickly discover that most composers throughout history wrote for their friends and great pieces of music often resulted from these relationships. A performer who personally likes you and your music is apt to give you a wonderful performance. Friends are much more likely to champion a work and breathe life into your composition by programming it more than once; giving a piece of music an actual performance history and exposing it to an even wider audience. A friend is more likely to allow you to stream all or part of their live performance of your work on a website or via a blog thus widening your audience even further. Friends tell other friends about your music and your connections to one friend lead to opportunities with another. I could write several paragraphs outlining example after example in my own career where this has been the case. In fact, all of this is brought to my mind by several recent activities I have been engaged in just this spring.

My friend, Christos Galileas, recording a
chamber piece of mine last week.

Since the start of the new year, I have had the great fortune of having several of my works recorded for various commercial CD releases due directly to relationships I have with performers. Friends from Greece have been in the United States this month not only performing on my neoPhonia series but also actively discussing future projects. I have had four recent performances of a brand new work by two good friends of mine who have championed the work I wrote for them. We’re now talking about future concerto projects! I just got back from hearing a double concerto of mine written for euphonium, trombone and winds wherein the soloists embraced my music, took ownership of it and suggested slight revisions that exponentially improved the work. This last point is the most important for me. Writing for friends encourages true artistic collaboration. It releases the creative spirit in performers and greatly benefits the composer. Like just about everything in life, a composer cannot succeed alone. Left solely to my own devices, I would be nowhere. Through community, we lift each other up and journey towards the fulfillment of our great potential - together.

Although it is unlikely that I will ever get that phone call from a famous conductor out of the blue, I continue to enjoy a rich artistic life made possible through my friends. A commission from the New York Philharmonic would be great, of course, but it might not necessarily guarantee happiness. Sometimes the true, heartfelt embrace of your friend onstage amid applause after a performance is the most important and lasting reward – and maybe all the “discovery” I need.

Am I Here Yet?

If you are a composer who regularly trolls through score call listings for contests, festivals or conference submissions, the following sentence (or one very much like it) will be very familiar:

“The [name of sponsor] is pleased to announce the [name of opportunity], designed to support the creation and premiere of new works by emerging composers.”

When I come upon this phrase, I usually pass on by without reading the remainder of the score call. In this particular context – a score call – I am well aware of what “emerging” means: 35 or younger; preferably younger. Now this is fine, of course. Commissioning groups are well within their rights to qualify the parameters of their score calls. And to be fair, groups do not limit calls on the basis of age in all instances. Often, contests or other opportunities may be restricted by geographical location, gender or ethnicity. Also, just to stem the wave of sympathy now being directed my way, there are plenty of opportunities out there with absolutely no restrictions. So, no worries; I’m not left weeping in my studio, destitute of opportunities. My issue, then, is not with qualifying factors placed on score calls. It is, rather, with the specific term “emerging.”

I’ve been thinking about this for a few weeks now; ever since reading the wonderful blog post by composer Alexandra Gardner in the American Music Center webzine, NewMusicBox entitled “Composer Emerging.” In her post, Gardner asks, “…how does an "emerging composer" turn into a straight up "composer"? By finishing a doctoral degree? With a tenure track teaching position or other substantial music-related gig? Upon receiving a commission from a major orchestra or signing with a major publisher? A big award such as a Guggenheim fellowship or Rome Prize? I have no idea!”

I don’t think anyone has a clear idea. If you ask ten different composers what “emerging” status means, I suspect you will get at least eleven different answers. For me, the answer is a bit fuzzy as well. I believe most composers are in a state where they have emerged, are emerging and hope someday to emerge. This fuzzy area can be flanked, however, with two pretty clear endpoints: at one end is someone (age is irrelevant) who has either never completed a piece or, having written a work, never had the composition performed in front of an audience.

On the far end, we have the “famous” composer (age, again, irrelevant). To my way of thinking, these “famous” composers share at least five attributes. First, they have garnered significant recognition in the field. This recognition is at a high level as demonstrated by big time commissions by big time ensembles (i.e., major symphony orchestras or well-known chamber groups such as eighth blackbird or the Kronos Quartet). These commissions are usually accompanied with big time grants and awards such as those Gardner lists: a Guggenheim Fellowship and a Rome Prize – I’ll throw in a Grawemeyer Award and, of course, the Holy Grail, a Pulitzer Prize. Second, “famous” composers often have older works continually performed. This is a huge distinction from most rank and file composers. As hard as it is to get just a single premiere, it is exponentially more difficult to get second or third performances of a piece. (And really, anything over three performances of the same work is just crazy talk.) Third, I have no way of knowing this for sure, but I imagine “famous” composers do not usually troll through score call listings for contests, festivals or conference submissions. They are probably too busy with the aforementioned commissions several years out to bother entering most contests. If they attend a festival or conference, it is usually not because they had a single piece selected through an adjudicated process. Rather, they were selected to be the distinguished composer-in-residence for the event. Fourth, “famous” composers probably earn a significant income from commissions, royalties, sales of recorded music and sales of physical music. Some may even live completely off of these revenue streams. Finally, I’m guessing every composer I would identify as “famous,” would point to someone else who they feel is more accomplished.

So where does that leave the rest of us? In that great fuzzy middle of having emerged, in the process of emerging and hoping to emerge. My answer to Gardner’s question of how an "emerging composer" turns into a straight up "composer" is simple: we are ALL straight up composers. We have varying degrees of experience, academic credentials, recognition and, yes, age. However, once we put pencil to paper (or for my younger colleagues, pixels to computer screens); once we create our first electronic piece, devoid of traditional notes but full of passion; once we sit horrified or enraptured as our music is performed in public; once we hear applause and stand in the audience as performers recognize us from the stage; once we send off that first piece and get that first rejection letter; once we have done any of those things - we have emerged. After that, we should just relax about our status. We’re all emerging composers; even the “famous” ones.

Composer from Somewhere

For every composer, there usually comes a moment when you must decide to follow the inner voice that pushes toward an aesthetic that is meaningful and authentic to your being or write music to be “accepted” by others.  I’ve thought about this lately and tried to recall the moment I made my own decision in the matter. What prompted these thoughts was the recent premiere of a chamber work of mine for clarinet and saxophone that I entitled Citizens of Nowhere. The title is taken from an article of the same name written in 2003 by Paul Kingsnorth in The New Statesman. The article puts forth the assertion that a new global middle class is emerging that is, as Kingsnorth puts it “…Rootless, technocratic, unburdened by the baggage of locality… [existing] in every nation but [feeling] attached to none.”

Yours truly, playing at a recent
Greek Festival in Ocala, Florida

In addition to my activities as a composer, I am also a traveling, gigging musician. I wander the southeast performing with my Greek band at festivals and private affairs many weekends out of the year. As such, I often find myself within the environment created by the fruit of these “citizens of nowhere;” awakening in chain hotels flanked by chain restaurants and big box retailers. More than this simple comparison, however, I believe the notion of the “citizen of nowhere” sometimes extends to the current state of contemporary music composition as well. I can’t help but think about how many “composers of nowhere” there seem to be. Over the years I have attended many contemporary music conferences and festivals or sat on composition panels where one contemporary piece is presented after another. Very quickly, they all begin to sound alike; originating from a nondescript geographical area and possessing all the same textbook techniques. Thus, the title of the Kingsnorth article and the class it described resonated with me in an unintentional way.

As a student, I was firmly on the path of nowhere. To be taken seriously as a composer, I felt I needed to incorporate techniques that didn’t necessarily represent me personally but were in keeping with the music that my peers were writing. There were actually two moments that pushed me towards embracing a more personal compositional voice. The first occurred in 1986 while I was in a lesson with my teacher, Donald Erb. Of course, back in those days, lessons always began with a long interval of silence as my mentor carefully examined my music. There was no computer notation playback of the score with cheesy, artificially generated sounds. There was not even a computer. During this particular lesson and the opening silence, I began to grow panicked as I realized, to my utter horror, that I had incorporated – overtly incorporated mind you – elements of Greek folk rhythms and folk tunes in an otherwise dourly constructed academic piece. How could this happen? Damn all those Greek gigs! They somehow worked their way into my “serious” writing! As Erb continued to study the score, my discomfort reached such heights that I interrupted his concentration and began to apologize for all the “Greek stuff” littering my composition. “I don’t know what you are apologizing about,” he said without lifting his eyes from my smudged score, “the Greek stuff is the only thing that’s interesting about this piece.”

That lesson did not immediately change the way I approached writing music. However, Erb’s comment tickled the back of my mind from that moment forward. Was it actually OK to clearly cross the bounds of my “serious” music and my gig life? It would be another 11 years before I finally made the decision to follow my inner voice. The year was 1997 and this time I was no longer a student. I remember sitting quietly working on a large piece for TTBB choir and orchestra when I bumped into a small dilemma. I noticed that after tracking dutifully along for sometime in some kind of amorphous dissonance, I reached a sonority that got that old tickle from Erb’s lesson to act up again. I stared at the sonority I had just written and realized that I was sitting on a suspended B Major chord. All I needed to do was resolve the 4th degree down to reach a consonant triad. I struggled for hours finding one way after another out of the situation so as not to give any sense of tonality to the piece. And yet, I erased each clever escape and returned to the sonority; wondering if I should just go ahead and land on the chord. What if doing so would be the only really interesting thing in the whole piece? In the moment that I decided to embrace the triad where my writing had led, I embraced the idea that I would, in addition to following craft, follow my heart as well and write what I wanted to write.

Not long after this, more tonal aspects – heavily imbued with my Greek heritage – crept into my compositions and before I knew it, I was developing a personal voice and writing music that I actually enjoyed listening to myself! I finally had become a composer of somewhere.

The Taste of Music

Poussin Saltimbocca: the fourth course at the
Grove Park Inn Culinary Getaway.

Anyone who knows me at all, knows that I love to cook. I believe it's the only non-musical activity I engage in on a regular basis. Mostly, I like to prepare heavy Greek and Italian dishes with some side trips into certain Latin cuisines. There are obvious connections between cooking and composing, of course. The combining of ingredients is much like the combining of musical sounds. Chefs develop an individual style usually based upon their training and background much as a composer develops a unique musical voice. Good chefs are also mindful of time - making sure that different ingredients begin cooking at separate times in order to insure that all items are warm and ready for the table at the same time. This is very similar to a composer's concern for unveiling musical materials in a proper pace as the piece moves along in time in order to to maintain a sense of structure. I also can't help but be reminded of the similarity between chefs and composers when, after spending hours (sometimes days) in the cooking process, those at the table finish off the meal in minutes (or seconds if you count hungry teenagers). How like the process of crafting a piece of music this is! Composing a piece may take weeks (or more) to compose and rehearse and then is seemingly over in the blink of an eye at the premiere.

Sumac Dusted Carolina Bison: the fifth course at the
Grove Park Inn Culinary Getaway.

Two recent events have also reminded me of another way cooking is like composing. The first of these events took place several weeks ago as my wife and I celebrated our 20th Wedding Anniversary at the gorgeous Grove Park Inn located in Asheville, North Carolina. We just happened to plan our stay during a culinary weekend and thus had an opportunity to enjoy a five-hour, six-course meal at the resort's acclaimed Horizons Restaurant. The striking aspect of this meal was its collaborative nature. Four chefs combined to present the six courses. Each course was paired with a different wine and/or drink with the wine maker and distillery manager also on hand. Intricately prepared, each course needed to work in context with the others. Care was also taken to select a compatible winemaker and then to be sure that the pairings worked with the different offerings. This task of pairing wine and food was left to yet a different member of the culinary staff. One of the more unique, experimental and perhaps even risky collaborations occurred at the beginning of the meal. The person responsible for the pairings created an aperitif that consisted of 1 part Four Roses Bourbon and 2 parts Niagra Ice Wine. Both the distillery manager from Four Roses Bourbon and wine maker of Sparkman Cellars admitted later that they each had grave doubts about the concoction. However both of them - along with the rest of us - were pleasantly surprised. The drink was delicious both as a refreshing stand alone offering as well as the prelude to the amazing meal to come. Somehow this collaboration seemed more intimate. It's one thing to try and pair disparate items and quite another to literally mix them together to create something wonderful.

Candied Ginger Carrot Cake: the sixth course
at the Grove Park Inn Culinary Getaway.

The thoughts of this type of collaboration were brought back to mind at the second event that reminded of the connection between food and music. This event is more recent. I have just returned from Huntsville, Alabama where the Huntsville Symphony Orchestra performed an older piece of mine entitled epiphanies. I have to admit that I was a little surprised at just how really good this group is! In addition to being able to work with a fine orchestra, I had the good fortune of also having an opportunity to work with conductor Daniel Boico, who, at the time of this writing, is currently serving as the Assistant Conductor of the New York Philharmonic. I say that I am fortunate to have worked with this conductor not so much because he is a very fine artist - which he certainly is - but also because of his collaborative nature. In my first meeting with him prior to a rehearsal, Boico went over the piece with me and shared his thoughts about how he was interpreting the music. It was immediately evident to me that he had spent some time with the work and had definite ideas of how to proceed. And yet, he wanted to talk things over with me first. He sought my opinion on his ideas. There have been many times in the past when a conductor - especially an orchestral conductor - has simply pushed an interpretation without consultation. Sometimes I have never been invited to attend even a single rehearsal. This is not collaboration. Rather, it is an occupational hazard of being a composer. Boico certainly had strong opinions about how and why he might change a tempo marking here or there. Yet he always had a rationale for his decision; a rationale he shared with me. There was an immediate trust that was formed between us. This trust allowed me to let his vision of the music mix with mine to create something wonderful in the same way that the Niagra Bourbon Cocktail had at our dinner weeks ago. 

As I always remind my students, I believe that the act of composing music goes through five stages: first is a conceptual stage; second an active writing stage; third a notation/engraving/part preparation stage; fourth, the rehearsal stage wherein collaboration takes place with performers; and fifth, the created stage wherein the music is brought to life for an audience. It is the fourth stage that many of us overlook. Rather than thinking a piece is completed after a double bar is drawn, it is vital for composers to recognize that collaboration is part of the compositional process. Both my meal at the Grove Park Inn and my work with Daniel Boico and the Huntsville Symphony have reminded how important it is to work with performers as a piece begins to come alive in sound. Great collaboration usually leads to great art - whether in matters of food or sound.

Snow Days

A rare sight outside my front window.

During the second week of January, a somewhat rare event took place in Atlanta. The city was completely shut down for a week due to a significant snow and ice storm. Atlanta, being a southern city generally oblivious to winter - I mean, real winter - was caught wholly unprepared. Only a handful of salt trucks labored to make just the most essential roads passable. They were generally unsuccessful in this endeavor and so, most citizens - myself included - found themselves trapped at home.

It was a very odd week for the city. The novelty of snow closed schools and businesses for days. In fact, people are still talking about it weeks after. I couldn't help but smile about the reaction to the weather having spent many years living up north - first in Bloomington, Indiana and then on the east side of Cleveland, Ohio. Of course, such snow falls as we received in Atlanta, are the norm up north. I remember it once snowing more during a single exam I took up at the Cleveland Institute of Music than the whole evening of Sunday, January 9 when the storm blew through. Yet, I no longer live up north and this kind of weather is truly remarkable. I had almost forgotten how beautifully new fallen snow can transform a familiar landscape. It's not that snow is not lovely and magical up north - it is. It's just that it becomes a little routine. Part of the novelty of the week down here was due to the disruption of a normal routine. Up north, unless the storm is truly massive, such snow as we received might hardly get a special mention on the news.

I put the extra time to good use. While my family huddled around a blazing fire, eyes glued to movies courtesy of Netflix and iTunes, I sat busily preparing a score in my basement studio. I still compose music using a No. 2 pencil and manuscript paper and so, when a piece is completed, still must notate the music using music notation software. It can be a somewhat tedious process and as I sat clicking away at the computer keyboard, I began to think about my composition career in terms of the piled up snow outside my window.

For me, the completion of a new work is always a magical moment. I am at once filled with relief that a piece is completed, nervous anticipation at how the players will react once the music is delivered and a bit of apprehension at how an audience will respond to my effort. However, I don't want this feeling to be as rare an occurrence as a snow storm in the deep south. I don't want the process of preparing a score, putting it in rehearsal and attending a premiere to be a disruption to a normal routine. These activities must in and of themselves be a major part of the normal routine.

A creative artist working within the sphere of the academy must constantly guard against this. It is so easy for the composer working within a university to be sucked into endless committee meetings, petty faculty bickering, mounds of student work to be graded and the slowly creeping paralysis of lowered expectations.

Somehow, living up north, I never truly lost my sense of wonder at significant snowfall. However, I did not treat it as a rare event. So long as I can see that my creative output as a composer follows a similar pattern, I know that I will remain moving in the right direction.