Tonight, I went to a concert in the Old Capitol. Mark, our orchestra conductor, had invited some world class musicians to come perform. They played works by Hummel, Mendelssohn, and Dvorak, and with this vitality that filled the building to the dome.
One of the most notable things about this ensemble was how different the violinists were from each other. One seemed to push sound through his violin, as if he could channel his soul directly through the instrument, with passion and drive, letting us see his innermost emotions. The other seemed to pull the sound; I could almost imagine that he was somehow, through some mysterious workings of his hands, imbuing the violin with a soul of its own, and then coaxing from that soul a line of beauty and nuance. That these two sounds mingled with each other, and with the other instruments, was surprising. The interplay was especially interesting when the "pulling" violinist played first, and the "pusher" second.
Their last piece: Dvorak's second piano quintet (This is the second movement.)
The opening totally gets "Nature Boy" stuck in my head.
It's been a year and a half since I went downtown with Alan the last time. Sitting there tonight, I couldn't help but remember being at the Union with him the night before he died. I teared up a few times during this movement. Eighteen months, and I still haven't gone a day without shedding a tear for him.
A year ago, I posted on Facebook how part of me had been left behind the night we lost you, how the changing seasons took me by surprise. I charged myself with figuring out how to move on and reconnect the two parts of myself. Truth be told, I haven't found the magic salve for that wound, but I'm stitched together and moving forward. Maybe that's good enough.
I don't presume to understand the universe well enough to know if you can see these words, or feel their meaning. But I am typing them anyway, just like I keep talking to you, not knowing if you can hear my words.
Life has been tough since you've been gone. The world bears the scar of your departure, a deep gash that does not heal quickly. Mostly, it is filled with sadness, longing for better days, and questions. There is also anger -- how could you do this to us? And guilt -- if I had only... I should have... Why didn't I....
I can't speak for everyone, but for myself, I know that there are other more complicated emotions. There is the sense of drive -- the obligation to find purpose in the pain. There is the relief that your suffering is over, and that our worry about those middle of the night calls and texts is fading away. There is the guilt of wanting you back knowing that it is only for the selfish reason of what I got from your presence. There is the gratitude for having had you in my life that tempers the sense of loss. There are the smiles that come, more and more, mixed in between the sobs, from fond remembrances.
I remember trying to explain our relationship to others. They didn't seem to get it. They compared us to other siblings, and couldn't see why I felt so much more responsibility for you than most. I didn't just love you as a brother, and yet you weren't quite a son. You were my companion -- my soulmate. We traveled this life together for 22 years, and when you left, I felt like part of me did, too.
This blog has given me an outlet to work through some of these emotions. I write because I am afraid of forgetting. I write because I want to share you with the world. I write because I don't know what else to do, what else to hold onto when I know I can't hold onto you.
These performances we have on video -- they are so imperfect. They aren't even your best performances. I wish we had your Revolutionary etude from your senior recital. I wish we had the flawless transcendent performances that I remember. Even more, I wish I could have a recording somehow of the time you played for me in that practice room at Lawrence before your recital. That I could relive that realization of how far you had come.
I know in the Buddhist tradition, I may not see you again until my next life. But I am sure I will see parts of you before then. You have enriched our lives so much, shone a light upon us that will always be felt. Fleeting glimpses of that light, I am sure, will be seen still, even as its source has gone away.
I wish I could do justice to your soul, but I only ever saw the parts facing me, and even my recollection of those parts is imperfect. I hope these entries have helped others -- helped them say good bye to a deeply loved friend -- helped them know the beauty of a man who hid it well -- helped them understand a single facet of a story about pain and love, regret and release.
Alan had to prepare pieces from different periods for his piano competitions, so in addition to big serious works, he played a lot of fun little things, often more modern. Two of my favorite:
These little pieces often gave him a chance to work on musicality and technique, sometimes even more so that the "big ones." They weren't just "throw-aways" even though it could sometimes seem that way.
It reminds me of how there were so many little things about Alan, or little things that he did, that defined him just as much as the big issue things. Those sheepish grins, the way he walked with his knees bent to keep his pants from falling down (any farther), the obsession with his hair, the ridiculous facial expressions he made, the little "huh" laugh that sort of slipped out from time to time...
In a way, I am almost more afraid of losing those things because they weren't linked to important events or life moments -- they were just the everyday quirks that made him Alan.
This post is going to be, admittedly, a little disjointed. When I try to reminisce about Alan, things kind of run together all stream-of-conscious-y. I've thought a lot about these various musical memories, and have come upon them from multiple different directions. So, I guess I'll start with Christmas.
We've had many Christmas traditions over the years. We had Christmas bears and Christmas stockings, and of course all the things I covered in the blog entry about Great-grandma. One short-lived but dear one was Uncle Steve getting Alan the DVD sets for each of the Lord of the Rings movies, and then taking us to the theater to see them with him.
It had a bit of everything -- adventure, nerdiness, music in cool meters for me. It provided a framework for movies that came after it. When we watched Thor, his friends -- technically called the Warriors Three, were "Gimli, Asian Legolas of the Woodland Japanese, and the guy from Robin Hood: Men in Tights."
So, now I ask you to follow my tangent here. The Lord of the Rings movies were made in New Zealand, which is kind of like Australia, but they talk even funnier there. "seven eight nine" -->"seevin, ite, noin" It's like Down Under's Canada.
This is how my brain connects this memory to Kimbra and Lorde -- two New Zealand singers that had huge hits recently, and are famous for weird songs, great voices, and making absolutely ridiculous faces when they sing.
Kimbra made it big when she was featured in Gotye's Somebody That I Used to Know.
She has a solo career over in Australia and New Zealand.
I warned you about the faces.
Lorde, of course, I already covered in this entry.
I guess this post goes to show how hard it is to capture even one group of thoughts about Alan and my relationship with him as a cohesive whole. This blog is but a dull reflection of its subject. I hope you are able to follow me.
One person whose music we both appreciated was Jack White. Alan was far more into him than I am. I always thought he looked like Michael Jackson had succeeded in becoming totally white -- hence the name.
I wish I could post all his later stuff, and the things he produced, but I was never as into those things as Alan was. It makes sense that Alan would like Jack White. He is well-rounded, eclectic, eccentric, plays guitar and drums as well as a smattering of other instruments, and he appreciates Bob Dylan and old country music.
He was Alan's kind of musician -- not that he just had one kind of musician.
Alan's tastes helped broaden my horizons. Even though he was the little brother, he taught me so much about the world. I tried my best to try to teach him how it worked, how to exist and thrive in it. He showed me what was there under the surface. I will always miss having that influence. I will always miss the car rides and the music, sometimes forced upon me, but with such enthusiasm that it seemed worth it to see what it was all about.
When iTunes allowed you to buy music and give it as gifts, this is what I sent to Alan:
I wanted Alan to know the effervescence of these pieces -- the joy. I thought maybe some day he would play these short little pieces. Each piece represents a different star in Orion's belt. Each has a different mood. But all of them sparkle.
To be honest, though, the first thing I sent him was not this. It was a free download of the SNL digital short, "Lazy Sunday."
Alan and I would often go see one movie while Mom and Dad saw another when they lived in Madison. The last one I remember seeing with him there was The Dark Knight Rises.
Several times during the movie, the music would go into this funky 10/8, either 3-3-2-2 or 2-2-3-3. I would start conducting it in the movie theater, and saying in an excited whisper "the meter! Alan, the meter!" and he would tell me to shut up.
He never got why I was so excited about it. These things always brought me back to the early days of listening to meter with him. We would later get into conversations about whether Hans Zimmer was too gimmicky. When we went to see Twelve Years a Slave, it was a big topic of discussion. In the end, the music really helped those movies feel right. Whether or not Alan wanted to hear about it in the movie theater while I was waving my arms around like a lunatic or not, he did get it. He did care. Maybe not as much as I did, but...
I still find myself thinking I should tell Alan about something, and realizing that I can't, not really. But I tell him anyway.
