North (4)

Where is Spoon River (4)

This is what happens when you think too much...

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Stephen, the Musician

Passers-by, reflect and consider...
The gods shall endow us with embryonic tools for our use
To assemble a life and a path.

For the carpenter, braces and shaving planes,
For the cobbler, the pegs and awl,
For the shopkeeper, ledgers and shelves.

For the banker, keen fingers and an eye for gain,
For the farmer, strength to wrest sustenance from barren prairie fields,
For the orator, a shiny tongue of Panglossian appeal.

For the artist, pigments and brushes,
For the poet, language, rhythm, and shades of meaning,

For the musician, dancing notes of color, depth and weight-
non-corporeal violins, piccolos, horns, and bassoons-
swirling in a cacophonous aerial ballet of unheard possibility.

These god-endowed tools shall reside in our heads!

But the tools of mere mortals,
perseverance, diligence, dedication and loyalty,
The tools that cause the quickening of hands-

These man-worshipped tools shall lurk in our hearts!

But I was born inexplicably with music in my heart-
And the tools of mere mortals residing incongruously in my head
Were confiscated by strangers wearing the selfish robes of...
Mentors!
Who with the certainty of the insular
Tried to compel my life and my path.

From the chemist, chalk and fire,
From the doctor, medicinal elixirs and omnipotence,
From the professor, inflexibility and infallibility,

From the lawyer, the precedent, the cruelly twisted logic-
the book, the whig, the obscured agenda-
the spectral comrade of mutual convenience.

I could no more deny the banshee-keen of their leaden demands
Nor dull my misplaced mortal tools of helpless compulsion
Than I could cut music from my heart!

So my hands and arms withered and disappeared,
In a weary bi-brachial waltz towards the Plain of Lethe.
Like sand eroded from the banks of Spoon River,
Washed in surrender to the Father of Waters.

Where Is Spoon River? (3)

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Receiving a diagnosis of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis in 1998 re-ignited my quest for Spoon River. This time, I realized that I would have to use my knowledge of American literature and my skills as a musician and composer to bring Spoon River to life.

My long time neurologist and treasured friend suggested I write a series of art songs for her daughter, who is studying voice at the music conservatory of Gettysburg College. Since she's the matriarch of a family of accordionists, she specified that the accompaniment be written for the accordion with her son in mind as a performer. I immediately saw that this was an unprecedented but perfect compositional medium. Of course, my textual sources would be from Spoon River.

Much to my surprise, I found that in the nearly 100 years since the publication of "Spoon River Anthology", many musicians had tackled the daunting task of setting Masters' poetry to music. The work is written in an unusual synthesis of blank (free) verse, gravestone epitaph doggerel, mildly archaic Midwestern speech patterns, and artistic license. I had decided to use an amalgamation of the style associated with the masters of 20th-century Philadelphia art song composition (Curtis faculty members past and present including Samuel Barber, Giancarlo Menotti, Vincent Persichetti, Ned Rorem) and traditional American folk song. This approach allowed me to use polychordal harmonization and pandiatonicism in conjunction with simple melody lines. However, Masters' verse did not "scan" well for a smooth incorporation into a song. I was forced to make changes to Masters' words, but strictly maintained his intent and meaning. The natural expressiveness of the soprano voice coupled with the unusually wide range of emotional evocation possible with the accordion produced something, in my opinion, that is unique and mutually reinforcing.

"Spoon River Songs" (Senderoff, 2008) begins with a setting of "The Hill". This narrative poem is the introduction to "Spoon River Anthology". It is stated unequivocally that small town life was not idyllic. It could be horrific. The characters die as a result of wanton acts of cruelty, bad luck, overwork, and alcoholism. Although they are all sleeping, it is probably a troubled sleep. I have set the ominous drone of the accordion against a plaintive vocal melody that moves between loosely defined modal and minor tonalities. The overall mood is sad but resigned. Although I have set only the first verse (involving male characters), the second verse describing the tragedies of female characters could easily be set to the existing melody.

The second song is a setting of the epitaph of "Eugenia Todd". Ms. Todd impressed me as an irritating woman who would corner you at a party and pour out a litany of physical ailments that seem to be of equal importance, or the cause of her bedrock existential decompensations. Although she is essentially unbalanced, she is firmly in touch with her emotional needs and severely affected by disappointment and loss. I tried to illuminate these aspects of her personality by inappropriate use of traditional American Square dance tunes, dissonant polychords, and a mocking "oom-pah" rhythm in accompaniment. The vocal melody is humorously melismatic. It employs awkward rhythms characterized by hemiola, as well as a psychotic bit of Sprechstimme. A poignant central section highlights Ms. Todd's existential sadness.

The third and currently final song of the cycle is the epitaph of "Lucinda Matlock". Masters uses her as a vehicle to extol the virtues possessed by the original settlers of Spoon River: devotion to family, devotion to neighbors, acceptance of hard work as the pathway to accomplishment and happiness, as well as an unfettered joy in the simple pleasures of life. Masters saw these values disappearing during his lifetime, and many of the epitaphs scold the current inhabitants of Spoon River. Ms. Matlock met her husband playing "snap-all to Winchester", a partner-swapping game occurring at dances. They were happily married longer than most people live. During that time, she saw her share of joy and tragedy, but at 96, she had simply lived enough and moved eagerly to the next world. She berates the current inhabitants for expressing anger, sorrow, and weariness in their lives. "Life is too strong for you. It takes life to love life," she says. I have illustrated her love of dancing, child rearing, and constancy with a repetitive rocking figure similar to one used by Samuel Barber in "Knoxville Summer of 1915". Her melody resembles a lilting folk tune. Conflict and dissonance are absent from the accompaniment. The central section is a transcription of a traditional Kentucky fiddle tune called "Rose in the Mountain". I took liberties with the text of her song; I could not let such a wonderful woman refer to people as "degenerate sons and daughters", so I dropped the line.

If you have clicked at the proper place before reading this entry, you have heard one of the original cast members of "Spoon River Anthology" present the epitaph of "Lucinda Matlock". When I composed Ms. Matlock's song, I changed Masters' text as shown below:

Lucinda Matlock

I went to the dances at Chandlerville, and played snap out at Winchester,
One time we changed partners, driving home in the moonlight of middle June.
And then and then, and then, then, then!
I found Davey!

We were married and lived together for Seven, Seven, Seventy years!
Enjoying working raising twelve children
Eight of whom we lost ere I reached the age of sixty.
I spun, I wove, I nursed the sick, kept the house, nursed the sick-

But on holiday-

Ran over fields where sang the pretty larks, and by Spoon River gather'd many shells,
Flowers, flowers, medicinal weed,
Shouting to the wooded hills and valleys green!
Green!
Shouting! Singing! Singing! Shouting!

At ninety six, I had lived enough, That is all.

At ninety six, I had lived enough and passed, passed-
To a land of sweet repose

What's this I hear of sorrow and weariness?
Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?
Life is too strong for you!
It takes life to love life!

Shouting! Singing! Singing! Loving!


Below is a MIDI rendition of the song; when I can get recordings of the concert I'll post them.


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North (3)

Where Is Spoon River? (2)

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I was born in Washington, DC in 1953, and grew up in suburban Cleveland, Ohio.

I pursued my education in Berea and Oberlin, Ohio, Interlochen, Michigan, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, Evanston, Chicago, Urbana, and Granite City, Illinois, St. Louis, Missouri, and finally, Rochester, New York. I established myself in suburban Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and settled down with my wife in a suburb of Wilmington, Delaware.

Between 1972 and 1992, I lived in suburban homes, dormitories, crowded apartments, more or less co-operative group houses, a converted Motel 6, an ancient row house in a dead mill town, a basement, and in several instances, an automobile. I rarely lived more than a year and a half in the same place, considerably less in the automobile.

While such an odyssey is not unusual, I noticed something disconcerting. The communities in which I lived appeared to be interchangeable. Surprisingly, I began and ended my journey in what felt like exactly the same place. When people ask me where I am from, I jokingly reply, “anywhere and nowhere".


I found life to be soporific and repetitive in suburban Cleveland (Fairview Park, for God's sake!) by the time I was 13. In desperation, I retreated to fiction and poetry, mostly not age-appropriate. About this time, I discovered "Spoon River Anthology" (1915) by Edgar Lee Masters (1868-1950). Although I was not aware of it, this volume of poetry was Masters' magnum opus, and one of the cornerstones of 20th-century American literature. The book held a cobra-like fascination for me, because the characters Masters created were speaking from the grave through epitaphs. I was enthralled by these characters; they had deep passions and strongly held opinions, they were unusually perceptive and tragically unaware, they were brutally honest and criminally deceptive. Most importantly, their lives all seemed to be intertwined inextricably within the unique, confining, small Midwestern town-of-another-time, Spoon River. Little did I know that the characters were inspired by Masters’ fellow townsfolk. Unlike me, they had roots.

My high school drama club presented the Broadway musical adaptation of "Spoon River Anthology" (Aidman, 1963) in 1970. I was selected to be the music director, and helped several

fellow students prepare and perform the music that accompanied the dramatic readings of Masters' poetry. This was an early life-changing experience for me. I learned that poetry read from a page in silence and isolation was flat and listless, but came to life with powerful immediacy


when spoken. I realized that "poetry" could become an emotionally shattering experience within a communal dramatic context. The inhabitants of Spoon River became more real to me than some of my classmates. Most importantly, I recognized that the main character of "Spoon River Anthology" was actually Spoon River itself. I had to find Spoon River. After I devoured Masters' "The New Spoon River" (1924), "Winesburg, Ohio" (Anderson, 1919), and attended several performances of "Our Town" (Wilder, 1938), my search for a physical as well as a metaphorical "Spoon River" became a lifelong obsession.

My initial search for Spoon River was a resounding failure. Obviously, I did not have sufficient knowledge of American history, sociology, nor the maturity to conduct a meaningful search. College and time would remedy those deficiencies. Much to my dismay, I learned that small town life in America began disappearing at the turn of the 20th century, and had completely vanished at least two decades before my birth. I was now living in Evanston, Illinois, only 216 miles northeast of Lewistown, Masters' home during adolescence. He would later model Spoon River on this town, as well as nearby Petersburg, his childhood home. As my feelings of loneliness and disconnection increased, my search became more desperate. I continued my education in Urbana, Illinois. Lewistown was now only 115 miles due west. I made the drive.


Lewistown was a shock. Although it was a small Illinois town, Lewistown appeared, in its salient features, indistinguishable from my home of adolescence! In desperation, I drove to Petersburg, only 35 miles away. I went to Oakland Cemetery and found Masters' grave.


My heart leapt as I read words I had memorized in high school:

Good friends, let’s to the fields...
After a little walk and by your pardon,
I think I’ll sleep, there is no sweeter thing.
Nor fate more blessed than to sleep.
-"Tomorrow is My Birthday" (1918)

I wandered through the cemetery. I saw names I recognized (Ann Rutledge), names I imagined I knew. A cursory exploration of Petersburg gave the same disappointing result as the exploration of Lewistown. If there was a Spoon River, it was long gone. My search for Spoon River was now entirely metaphorical and relegated to the back burner due to the sequential demands of graduate school, a postdoctoral appointment, the establishment of a career, and the settling of a life. Nevertheless, I re-read "Spoon River Anthology" every few years. I realized that Spoon River was a personal myth, located in my emotional and intellectual landscape.

Receiving a diagnosis of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis in 1998 re-ignited my quest for Spoon River. This time, I realized that I would have to use my knowledge of American literature and my skills as a musician and composer to bring Spoon River to life.

Hiatus

Sorry for the disappearing act...two weeks in the hospital gave me new blood plasma and a new immune system, thanks to ca. 15000 donors...