Notes on "Light Comes, Even in Darkness" - a new choral piece by Becky Archibald

The opening 20 bars were conceived while riding a stationary bike in my basement…

When it comes to lyrics, I like to step away from my piano sometimes and sing into my tape recorder to help capture my gut reaction, especially when it comes to rhythm. Glenna Heath, who commissioned the piece, had sent me some suggestions of favorite verses in Psalms that I was considering, so I went downstairs to do something that sort of distracted me from trying too hard to be musical and allowed me to just react. We had discussed Taize music, how it repeated, sometimes in round, and could slowly build by adding each line of voices. When I thought about words that I would want to repeat in song, “Light comes, even in darkness” resonated with me as something I needed to tell myself OFTEN.

As I meditated on these words, I thought about all of the good things that happen in darkness – seeds growing in earth, cocoons, the womb. I thought about how darkness to light is not instant, it is often a very slow, gradual process. I wanted the opening to convey this by repetition of just the word “light,” even before repeating the phrase “light comes.” I used word painting when it was fitting, such as the ascending notes at the beginning on “light comes” and the falling notes at ms. 77 on the phrase “in the dark…”

For the “New every morning” section, I distinctly remember writing the accompaniment pattern and chords at ms. 30, and then wondering how to treat it lyrically and melodically. I have had much more success having words first and then music, so it was a big challenge to try it the opposite way. Thankfully, the prayer of the Thanksgiving in the Methodist Hymnal came to me as being a possible fit. I like that the notes on “new every morning” are gradual and step-wise and the chords on the words “stir up in us” are more dissonant.

More word painting – notice that the chord of ms. 57 is darker sounding (even in darkness) than the one at ms. 65 (every morning.) Also, some of the “big moments” of the piece are on the word “light” and, just for the Joyful Sound choir, on the word “joy!”

The final section at ms. 91 is another mix of darkness and light. Although the key is D minor, if you listen closely to the harmonies in the piano and voices, each chord is a major chord. I wanted this section to sound celebratory and to have another opportunity to build toward a high point. The women sing first, the men join on the repeat, and the third time, each voice is lifted higher “simply” by swapping parts. And just when you thought I was done with this “growth” concept, I give it a go one more time using a variation of the “new every morning” motive but with an ascending scale. And for the last word - I wanted it to be about newness rather than darkness. I wanted the basses to end on a high note, not resolving to the D but singing something that felt more like it is left up in the air.

Here is the world premiere, by the Joyful Sound choir, directed by Charles Manning, at St. Luke's United Methodist Church in Indianapolis. The piece was commissioned for the choir's 20th anniversary.

Miracle on 57th Street

If I could have written what I was feeling in the moment on Sunday, May 7, 2006 at 2:00 p.m. on stage at Weill Hall at Carnegie Hall, it would have been “miraculously calm, relaxed, warm, happy and good.” It could only have been a miracle that brought me to that place, because the night before I was suffering from a severe head cold, runny nose, chills, sore throat, aching sinuses—you name it, I felt it.

I ended my evening early, filled up on Nyquil, Ibuprofen, and Cold-eze, and prepared for a good night’s sleep. But sleep did not come. Every hour, I looked at the clock and saw that another hour had passed. I wasn’t alert with worry about the day ahead of me, I was just miserable and couldn’t rest. I finally dozed off at 7:30 a.m., but woke up 45 minutes later because I was thirsty and starving. Alan, Delaney and I left Taylor sleeping and walked in the cold to the nearest diner. I went back alone to take a long, hot bath, and then it was show time. I dressed in my warmest clothes, packed my long black dress, shoes, programs, and everything else I needed for the concert, and stubbornly walked 10 blocks to get to Carnegie Hall.

Mom met me outside their hotel (just across the street from CH) and we headed for the stage door entrance. Celia, the assistant for the afternoon, led me to my dressing room (very nice and clean, with comfy chairs and a Steinway upright in the corner) and said she’d be back to let me on stage to warm up. Alan, his mom, and the kids arrived shortly after, and there was a mad rush to get everything in place—programs, Will Call tickets, CDs in reception area. I changed, put some extra makeup on for Henry (my hairdresser, whose advice to me was, “when you think you have enough makeup on, put on a little extra, just for me”) and came out on stage. I only had time to stretch my fingers a little, and then it was time for photos. While I was strutting and posing, I saw Jill, my sister-in-law, and did a double take. What is she doing here? And then more friends, Jackie, Mary Jane and Diedre. I got so choked up. They had been planning this surprise for months.

People were already starting to take their seats (it was well after 1:30) so I went back to the dressing room to wait. More makeup. Check hair. Go to the bathroom again. Wipe nose again. Check makeup again.

The stage manager, Dennis, set a music stand behind the piano for hiding a box of Kleenex in case I sneezed during the concert. The last thing I wanted was to play not so well and have people say, “well, she wasn’t at her best, but she was sick. I’m sure she was stressed out.”

Celia gave me the 5 minute call. 1:55 p.m. I didn’t feel sick. My nose wasn’t running. I wasn’t hot or cold—I felt just right. So many people said they would be thinking of me and pulling for me at this time, but I didn’t know the effect it would have on me. I reminded myself to let the words I chose for each piece put me in the right mood. (For “From Mozart to Me” it was “elegant”; for “Softly Spoken”—intense; “Rocktober”—rebellious.) And then it was time to go on.

I saw friends and family in the audience, and was so happy that they came. I saw strangers, which was a good thing. I looked for the seat that the reviewer I had been corresponding with (my Guffman) would have sat in. But it was empty. I smiled, bowed, sat and played.

It wasn’t a fog, but it did go by fast. I played 9 numbers, separated by stories about the music. The sound and the piano were such a relief to me. Rather than fighting and compensating for bad sounds, I could relax in the great sound that the piano made, and the wonderful acoustics. I could play so quietly and still be heard. I could play thunderously and it was still warm. Then it was 2:50 and time for intermission.

Whisked back on stage at 3:00, I finished out the program, playing eight more songs, and just feeling great. I played some pieces better than I had ever played them before. When it was time for “Adieu,” I was genuinely sad that it was over. I’m not ready to stop! I went off stage, and when I went back on, the audience was standing and applauding. I played “Searching” for an encore, and then it was over.

It wasn’t until we were on our way to Little Italy for dinner that the cold symptoms reappeared. I couldn’t taste my wonderful dinner very well, but my satisfaction in the performance left me full and warm.

By the way, my dad (who rarely misses a concert) said it was the best he had ever heard me play.

--Becky Archibald
(written May 10, 2006)

I’ll Have What She’s Having

A few months ago, the parent of a former student asked if I could see her daughter (who was now a college freshman) over the summer. “She really misses you,” said the mom. “She’s had a bad experience with her piano teacher at school. Her teacher won’t allow her to put any expression into the music until she has mastered all the notes.”

Being a person interested in world peace, I restrained myself from driving several hours, hunting down that professor and choking her. I had worked so hard with this beautiful young girl, who came to me when she was maybe 15, to help her learn how to interpret and feel and express herself. It was wonderful watching her evolve from the passive (“tell me what to do”) to someone who brought her own ideas to the piano bench.

When “Kaitlin” stopped by for her first summer lesson, she played a Chopin Waltz she had been working on at school. There are a few rules I impose on myself as a teacher: 1) Never interrupt a student’s first performance at the lesson, and 2) Always say something positive after the performance. So after listening, I held back from mentioning that I felt she played the piece as if she could care less about it. And instead, asked her what she would like to improve on. She said she wanted to understand how to interpret the very beginning.

So now was the time to remember Rule #3: Avoid answering questions – allow the students to find the answers themselves. I held back from sharing what I was thinking and asked her, if the music was in a movie, what would be happening in the scene? What do you picture?

“A bright yellow kitchen, like from back in the 50’s.”

This was not at all the answer I would have given. The beginning is full of angst and loneliness and is in a minor key. Again, I held back and kept probing. At what point does the scene change? When is it different from bright yellow?

She didn’t really know. So we moved on to the next section. I asked her to play the melody, and asked her to describe the mood.

“Very bright and happy and sparkling.”

Is this different than the first theme? Which one is the brightest, Theme 1 or Theme 2? She said, “Theme 2.”

I offered, “Would you consider saving the bright kitchen for Theme 2 and come up with another picture for the Theme 1?”

That, as they say, struck a chord with her. And then an idea came to me that was so exciting it gave me chills. This time, I couldn’t hold myself back. “What if the beginning is a memory of the bright yellow kitchen, a memory of how lively and happy things used to be in that room?”

I think one reason this excited me so much is that the idea came out of our collaboration. At first, I didn’t see a bright yellow kitchen at all. But Kaitlin did, so I listened to her and worked with her to understand what she meant. When the “memory of the kitchen” idea hit me, it gave me chills because it made me realize she was right. The beginning has this interesting mix of sadness and brightness which I hadn’t noticed, and both need to be brought out in order to fully interpret the piece.

From there, Kaitlin was much more able to make choices about interpretation. Should I use pedal, she asked? I said something like, “Keep seeing the scene. Do you see it as misty and dreamy? If so, see if the pedal helps. Keep adjusting until you get what you want.” She found that light pedaling on beat 1 and fluttering throughout the measure was helping her achieve the appropriate sound.

Perhaps my rule #4 as a teacher is: Remind yourself to keep discovering. I had to allow myself to not know all the answers. I had to wait for the student to find things on her own. I’ve learned to be ok with that, especially after experiencing the rewards that patience can bring.

The middle-school-aged student that followed Kaitlin arrived early, so she watched the last 10 minutes of the lesson. When it was her turn, Annie said, “I want to play what she’s playing.” I look forward to hearing how both girls interpret the piece in their own way.

Extravagance – Art, Clothing, Music?

I wasn’t expecting to be moved by a hat made in Africa topped with a 4-ft long crocodile carved entirely out of wood, I was just trying to extend our stay at the IMA since it was frigidly cold and Delaney needed more exercise…

At first, I was thinking, how could anyone wear something so cumbersome? Why would they spend so much time shaping and carving, making the crocodile look so true to life? I moved on to the ornate bowls made of brass and wood, and rings with 2-inch-long pointy stones that you wouldn’t want to see on the finger of someone’s hand you were about to shake. And then I came upon the pièce de résistance – a mask/headpiece/hat with probably a dozen hand-carved figures atop, each being around 8 inches long and highly detailed. I was astounded and confused…why would anyone make this or wear it?

Our next stop was Contemporary Design, featuring sleek chairs and couches, sleeker bowls and vases. After a few steps in this space, I had a greater appreciation for the exhibit we had just left. The glare from the shiny, sparse objects was hurting my eyes and even making me angry. We got outta there quickly, found a bench in the sun and sat for a while to process what had just happened. There was something about the extravagance of the African art that affected me in a surprising way. A bowl, a ring, a spoon, a comb – not just functional but things someone spent time with, worked over, infused with spirit and life.

When I was in my 40’s, my go to outfit was a simple black t-shirt and khakis, and if I needed to dress up, I wore a black dress. But my friends in their 50’s were wearing colorful, flowery clothes and carrying ornate purses. They made me smile, I thought it worked for them, it just wasn’t for me. I do see a transition, though, now that I’m…catching up a little...

On Facebook, the thing to do lately is to post an old photo on Thursdays. As I was rummaging through pictures, I noticed a pattern in my CD covers over the years. They have gone from black to color, from shy to bolder. My 1st cover was in b & w, wearing a black dress, my arm artfully covering my body, with one bare foot exposed. The next was a step up, sepia-toned (but wearing black and covering myself, my hands clasped together.) The 3rd shows half of my face, the rest of me hiding in a closet, and in the 4th I’m halfway hidden in a fireplace. CD #5 you can see all of me, but it’s a caricature. My newest one, released last year, is the boldest ever – my arms are free, I’m fully extended like a dancer, I’m jumping in the air, I’m smiling, there are flowers and color everywhere (and I’m in France!) (Interesting, I had just turned 50 when we did the shoot.)

I’m wondering how these realizations about extravagance can play into my music. How can I enhance this? What bold steps do I need to take? What are some ridiculously extravagant musical projects I could undertake?

Notes on “Dos Para Dos,” suite for Violin and Piano, by Becky Archibald

I. Melaza en Enero (Molasses in January)
Melaza en Enero is, well, slow, sultry, sweet and syrupy (but in a good way.) Looking back through the piece, I am surprised at the complexity on paper of something that (to me) goes down so smooth. The opening 32 bars (constructed from four 8-bar phrases of varying chord progressions in various keys) have more of a melodic plan while the next section (starting with solo piano and utilizing the same chord progressions) is based on improvisation. This piece is another stop along the way of my search for freedom through jazz.

II. con jamón (with ham)
It started with a memory of something embarrassing that happened to me during a jam session in an 800-year-old castle in France…
It was 3 a.m., the usual time the group of international jazz students came together to jam, and my first time to participate. I didn’t know the protocol – it seemed like everyone was just playing randomly. When there was a pause, someone said to me, “Start me a groove.” New to jazz, I didn’t know what he meant, so I started improvising, looking for something cool and groovy. He gave me a disappointed, almost angry look and said, “No, start me a groove!” This was not the kind of environment for a “lesson,” there was not a place to step aside and have him teach me. I just kept trying and failing. Finally, I was saved by a guitarist who “started the groove” properly.

There is much more to tell but it needs to be kept a surprise!

Ascending, the violin/piano duo who commissioned these pieces, asked for something funny, so first I worked on funny, then racked my brain for a title. Towards the end, as I was writing a suggestion to “Ham it up!” in the score, I thought, hmmmm, this just might work…)

Watch for a youtube video soon of their January 9 premiere in NY!

PlayThing

I wrote this a couple of months ago when I was feeling sorry for myself about who knows what, and decided to see if I could switch my thinking by writing about how lucky I am...

I am thankful for the piano that sits in my living room. Almost every piece of music I have written was at that thing. Over the past 20 years, so many kids (and adults) have touched it and made their own music.

It is the best toy in the world. It represents opportunity. It invites me to play and explore. It represents past, present and future. Songs can be coaxed out of it that remind us of our past, and worlds that have never been created before can be found by sitting and dreaming and pushing the keys.

I often want to “upgrade” to something bigger, blacker, brighter and shinier. But parting with it might be a little scary. What if I can’t write as well on something new?

I am thankful that I continue to be drawn, magnetized to this big plaything. And just when I think all the ideas are already thought of, a new one comes to me, just because I took time out of my day to play.

Just Listen

I write stories to remind myself of moments when I did the right thing as a teacher, so (hopefully) I won’t blow it the next time.

Working with a 9-year-old at his piano lesson, I flipped through his book to find the next song to learn, while he poked around at the keys, letting his fingers land wherever they wanted. Playing two notes in each hand, he hit upon a very cool chord and began playing an interesting and complex rhythm, trading off between his hands. He kept it up for quite a while, with me still turning pages and thinking about what I should “teach” him. When I found a good song, I asked if he would like to hear me play it. I noticed that as I played, he wasn’t really listening. (Wow, that's never happened before!!) He was busy tapping his legs with the same rhythm he discovered earlier (obviously because he didn’t want to forget it.) Luckily, I stopped what I was doing, and had him play his idea again. "Can you teach it to me?" I asked. It was quite difficult for being basically a two-measure pattern, but he patiently stayed with me, breaking it down so I would understand it better.

When I finally had it down, I suggested he record himself playing, so that he could play along and come up with a melody over the rhythm. To demonstrate, I got him going on his rhythm again and I improvised with him, high on the keyboard. This went on pretty much until the end of the lesson – we were having so much fun. When his fingers finally tuckered out, I thanked him for teaching me his pattern, and said, “We made music today.” And he agreed.

Thoughts on Jazz and Online Dating

I had a big thing come up where I was to perform and be interviewed on a TV show. I’m pretty sure that on well-known talk shows, the hosts are prompted with questions beforehand and the guests come prepared to tell certain stories. So I decided to be really professional and come prepared with a clever insight about the language of jazz. Unfortunately, the interview was so short that there was no way to work in my material. Later, I tried it out on a musical friend, who said, “yeah, that would have been funny.” Since it may be awhile before I have the opportunity to test my idea on TV, here’s what I was thinking:

People talk about jazz being a language, and learning it is similar to learning, let’s say, French. It’s important to listen to how others speak, how they phrase their sentences, where they put their accents, so that when you try to converse, you don’t sound as silly as Inspector Clouseau, (“Did you say ‘meen-key?’) And it’s not just about pronouncing things correctly. A big component of learning to speak a language is learning how to listen, and respond wisely, thoughtfully and, when you’ve really got it down – cleverly.

Let’s compare this concept to the conversation between two people on a blind date. They met on match-com or some such site. The guy has been rehearsing all week what he is going to talk about. He has one phrase worked up that will definitely wow his new friend and maybe help take things to a deeper level. So as the two are talking, the guy is trying to gently manipulate the conversation so that he can work in his impressive sentence. But the woman won’t stop talking about her cats. The guy just can’t wait any longer, so he finally blurts out:

“WHEN I WAS IN HIGH SCHOOL, I WAS ON THE DIVING TEAM, AND I SAVED SOMEONE’S LIFE.”

Good date or bad date? Well, sorry, game over. The evening ends early, and the woman tells her friends, “He was such a jerk, all he talked about was himself. He didn’t hear a word I said.”

Generally, in conversation, we are able to be so flexible, because we are comfortable with the language. When someone throws in an unexpected line or phrase or pun, we can fairly quickly switch gears and respond in a way that makes sense.

Thankfully, in jazz, we are not booted off the stage for playing a well-rehearsed phrase at the “wrong time” in our solos. In fact, the thoughtful and generous musicians I play with have such incredible listening skills, they can take any “new ideas” in my playing and make them seem right. Maybe I will try out a little riff of four notes, and think that, ugh, that didn’t work, I meant to play a B instead of an A on the last note. But the person next to me responds by acknowledging the A, repeating the A, testing the A, and helping me feel like the A was actually interesting. He’s saying “ooh, let me try and see what I can do with that” or “I hadn’t thought of it that way, I see what you mean.”

Probably one of my favorite performance moments this year was at the Chatterbox Jazz Club in October. Playing with the incredible Sandy Williams on guitar, Fred Withrow on bass and Gene Markiewicz on drums. At one point during the soloing, Sandy stopped playing, and asked Gene to stop, which allowed Fred and I some space and freedom in our improvising. Sandy spontaneously yelled out “Yeah, Becky!” during a moment that I was being very experimental. When he started playing again, he responded by repeating and toying around with some of my ideas and of course making them sound brilliant.

When I wrote these thoughts down a few months ago, I couldn't come up with a conclusion...

What Also Inspires Me

I’m inspired by places I’ve been (Once is Not Enough) and the journey itself (The Long Ride Home.)

I’m inspired by composers (From Mozart to Me, LVB-Bop, Waltz, Anniversary Waltz, Jaggedy Rag, Dizzy ‘N Groovy. . .)

I’m inspired by musicians (Just One Note, le tour de Jack, 5/4/3/2/1, Spring, My Knee Mo’, The Right to Swing, Let’s Try it a Second Time. . .)

I’ve written music for birthdays (Lullaby) and anniversaries (Anniversary Waltz.)

Words can set me off (Egg, Chips (and Beans), Fre(n)ch Frei Fugue.)

I’ve dedicated music to students (Blues for Kathryn) and teachers (Biddle Liddle.)

My music can be scary (Haunted) exciting (Thrill Ride) or soothing (Peace.)

I’ve written in order to learn something new (Midnight at Monteton) and about things I already know (I Know.)

And, of course, I write about love (Moved with Love, Romance, If You Only Knew, Delaney’s Song, Just Like That, At Home, 40’s Love Song. . .)


I’m not done writing yet. I can make something special for you (Call Me.)

What Inspires Me

I’ve been inspired by artists (The Artist) musicians (B-3 Blues) composers (Sailing with Ludwig) interior designers (I’ve Got Designs On You) trains (Listen Up) bicycles (Cultural Trail Theme) the weather (One-O-Four) the seasons (Leaf Movement) and months (Rocktober.)

I’ve written about hope (The Light at the End of the Blues) and despair (Unspoken.)

I’ve been inspired by people’s names (Wise Guy) what they wear (Deux Chapeaux) and what they say (Lip Service.)

I’ve written music for beginnings (The One I Love) middles (Interlude) and endings (A Song in the Key of DAVE.)

My music can be a little sweet (A Little Sweet) or really mean (A Really Mean Boogie-Woogie.) Or a bit of both (Bittersweet.)

I’ve been inspired by family (Daddy’s Kind of Rock) friends (Still Something to Say) and people who anger me (What Might Have Been.)

I’ve written music to cheer myself up (Lemonade) and to cheer up a friend (Squeeze the Cheese.)

I can do tongue-in-cheek (Seriously Blue) lighthearted (Jaggedy Rag) and laugh-aloud funny (Sumthin’ Funky.)

I’ve written about searching (Searching) and finding (I Got It.)


I’m not done writing yet. I can make something special for you (Call Me.)

Creating the Cultural Trail Theme

The first thing I imagined, when asked to write a piece for the dedication of the Indianapolis Cultural Trail (ICT), was a “fiddler in the street.” Perhaps because my friend Dean Franke (Assistant Concertmaster of the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra) is such a willing and able participant for any wild thing I dream up. I couldn’t decide if he should be on a rooftop (that’s been done) or in a tree, or actually on the trail. I began working on ideas that were positive, jazzy and energetic (words that Brian Payne, founder/leader of the ICT, used to describe the mood he was looking for.) And I promised Brian I would find a way to incorporate a bicycle into the piece.

When writing, it’s good to just write, without analyzing what you are doing. Get it all out before you look at the whole picture. I had fun adding clarinet, trumpet and saxophones, and a cool, contrapuntal bluesy section developed from the main theme. But when I stepped back, I was uncomfortably disappointed. After all that work, I didn’t want to admit I was wrong. But I was wrong. Instead of upbeat, the piece came off silly, like something King Louie might have danced to in “The Jungle Book.”

Back to square one, I considered a sketch I had written just after a meeting with Brian, which, at the time of writing, I didn’t think would work. When I teach composition classes at Anderson University, we discuss ways to create mood and feel. Armed with Brian’s words, it would seem that using a major, happy key and creating a melody that traveled upward in pitch would be the best bet. I found it interesting that in the case of the Cultural Trail Theme, I ended up with more satisfying results by doing the opposite of what music theory tells me should work. The piece is in a minor key, and the melody is based on a descending line. Who knew!

Besides getting the main melody right, I had other hopes and goals for the piece. I hoped that I could write something with the right mix of complexity (to keep myself engaged during the writing process and to help the piece remain intriguing after multiple listenings) and simplicity (so that I can whistle it when someone asks me how it goes.) I hoped that it would work to have different sections in the piece sort of match up with various activities on the trail (walking, running, and gliding on a bike.) I hoped that I would be happy with the end product, and also, hoped that the other players and audience would enjoy it.

As the piece evolved, my ideas for instrumentation evolved and changed. When I finally had the bike puzzle figured out, I asked Jack Brennan, an ISO percussionist, if he would demonstrate some instruments, so that I could choose ones that would match the sounds I was making with the bike parts. He invited me backstage before a rehearsal and went around hitting and shaking each of their hundreds of objects until I found the right match (a guiro for the wheel ratchet and vibes for the handlebars.) Freshly inspired, I wrote the percussion parts later that evening.

I ended up writing the piece for 12 instruments – trumpet, sax quartet, vibes, congas, guiro, piano, bass, drums, and “cycla-phone”(what I dubbed the “instrument” made of bike parts) - and assembling the best team I could ever ask for to perform at the premiere.

• The Intro and Main theme – With the idea of “building” in mind, the piece begins with percussion (using bike parts and some “legitimate” percussive instruments.) Horns are added one by one, building excitement toward the main theme. With elements of a fanfare, the main theme is introduced by the trumpet and answered back by a saxophone quartet.
• B section – It has an unusual meter of 5/4, which gives the phrases more length. I was envisioning a bike race – not the beginning of the race, but later in the race when the bikers seem to be gliding. I actually studied a youtube video of a bike race while having this section playing in the background, to make sure it was a good fit. The section features long tones and rich harmonies in the saxophone section.
• Jazz interpretation of Main theme – A variation of the main theme returns, but this time it is tighter, brighter, quicker and jazzier, with the horns taking turns improvising on the theme.

Even though the piece took over two years to write, I try not to think of my mistakes as a waste of time. They are part of the journey. They help me understand what I don’t like, so that when the right thing hits me, it is obvious.

Watch the World Premiere- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OE0q4wG5y8

By the way, I wrote “A Little Sweet” for Dean Franke, to make up for booting him out of this piece. Watch his Feb. 14 performance with Ingrid Bellman . . .
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fxcu5jdDm7U

A Grammy For Me, World Peace For All

Ever since I can remember, I’ve watched award shows, and dreamt of being there, hearing my name called and humbly accepting whichever one they offered me. Oscar, Tony, Emmy, or Grammy – I pictured the clothes I would wear, and imagined the speech I would give (no script, off the cuff, yet very moving.)

I’ve been writing music for over 15 years now, and haven’t put out a CD since 2007. It’s not that I stopped writing. I’ve just shifted my focus. Rather than concentrate on making great music, I’ve been studying people who have won Grammys and analyzed their speeches and followed their Twitter feeds. So now, I really feel strongly that I will not only be a contender, but that I can win the Grammy this time around.

I will be releasing my new soon-to-be award-winning CD in just a few months. I would give you a little sample of the tracks, but that would take some time away from my Grammy campaign. Just know that the new tunes are amazing – and please vote for me!

People have asked about the recording process and what it was like to work with some fabulous musicians in Indianapolis. Believe me, there are some great jazz players in this town. And I look forward to having them join me at the studio just as soon as I get the tunes down on paper that are spinning around in my head.

At parties, friends say to me, “Let’s hear one of your new songs!” And I say, “Oh, you’ll hear them alright, just as soon as I win that Grammy!” This gets them so excited! “Wow, you’re up for a Grammy? That is amazing! Can I go with you? What are you going to wear!!!”

The songs that have almost formulated in my mind are absolute hits, you just wait and see!

In this day and age of social media and networking, I’m sure everyone who reads this knows someone who knows someone that is a Grammy voter. So, please spread the word. Vote for Becky Archibald! Feel free to direct your friends to my website at www.beckyarchibald.com. Everything they need to know about my music is either there or going to be posted there as soon as I win!

Music is universal. It crosses all boundaries and connects and comforts us. I really believe that the music I will soon create can help guide us toward a more peaceful planet.

Thanks in advance for your vote. And please send me some love (in the way of cash) so I can buy this fabulous dress I have my eye on. When I win, I need to look the part!

Peace,
--Becky

Are You My Audience?

People often ask me, “Who is your audience?” I guess if you are reading this, you are who they inquire of. So, please tell me a little about yourself, so that I can pass it on to the next person who asks.

I ran into a friend who I hadn’t seen in years. She said, “You have no idea how much your stories mean to people. Please keep them coming!” So one answer, when asked the question, “who is your audience?” could be, “I’ve been told that I have no idea.”

Not only am I supposed to know my audience intimately, I am expected to be able to sum up who they (as in, you) are within 15 seconds. Even if I tried to describe the personality of one of my friends/audience members, I would have trouble doing it in 15 seconds.

“Well, this one guy that often shows up at my concerts always has a great big smile on his face. He has an accent but I can’t quite tell what country he is from. He brings a different person with him each time, so maybe he likes to expose his friends to. . .”

Oops, I ran out of time.

But hopefully this gives you a broad picture of who my audience is (that is, if I have an audience of one) (but hopefully not) (I mean, one plus a friend of his) (whom I know absolutely nothing about.)

I learned awhile back never to say, when asked the “who is your audience” question: “EVERYONE!! People of all ages, hairstyles and musical preferences have promised to attend one of my concerts someday and/or read my stories!” That would be like, when filling out a list of skills on a job application, saying: “EVERYTHING!! I have proven skills in every area of every type of work known (or yet to be known) to man!

Specifically, people want to know who my music-listening audience is, as opposed to my blog-reading audience. And of the music I’ve written, who is my solo piano audience vs. my chamber music audience vs. my jazz audience. And of the jazz, who is my bebop-listening audience vs. my blues audience vs. my fusion audience vs. my funky audience vs. my in-the-style-of-Monk audience.

It may be wiser of me to generalize my audience rather than pinpoint specific food allergies or personality traits, so that no matter who is reading this can see themselves clearly, such as:

“My audience is very hip, witty, youthful, attractive, brilliant, sarcastic, INFJ, ESTP, and generous (but never to a fault.) They are loved and admired by each person they come in contact with.

Yep, that’s it, that’s the one. Plus, I can say it in less than 15 seconds.

Becky Archibald

P.S. Important note to my audience: Be watching. . .my new jazz CD. . .coming soon!

The ISO Has Made My Life Wonderful

I feel like I’m watching Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life. Everyone’s talking about how the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra is being forced to jump off the bridge – from their current status as full-time orchestra, to some sort of shadow of their former selves, as part-timers. And then I wonder – what would it be like if the ISO never existed?

From my personal experience as a pianist and a composer, it’s hard to say where I would be without the encouragement early on from many of my ISO friends. Fresh from receiving my master’s degree in piano performance in 1990, I moved back to Indiana and began teaching at the University of Indianapolis. After a few years of talking about composers in my music appreciation classes, I inadvertently became a composer. At first, I was writing and performing piano music, but eventually, I started writing for other instruments. When I finished my first string quartet, Michael Schelle, Professor of Composition at Butler University, suggested I show it to some musicians in the ISO who champion new music. I made a cold call to Ingrid Bellman (cellist) who said she would be happy to read through the piece. She rounded up a quartet, which included Dean Franke, assistant concertmaster. They asked me to meet them at the Hilbert Theater during their break so that they could play it in front of me. It was an incredible deal, having such fabulous musicians play my music. Hearing the music come to life, and hearing their encouraging words about my work, gave me the inspiration to keep doing what I was doing, keep writing. The piece was one of the winners in a regional chamber music competition, and received a live radio performance on NPR in Nashville, TN.

One spring day, I was inspired to write a cello/piano duet that I titled “Spring.” I made a “warm” call to Ingrid this time, and she asked me to drop off the piece at her house. She called the next day, but I wasn’t home. This was at least 8 years ago, and still today, I have Ingrid’s message from that day saved on my answering machine. She so passionately talked about the piece and why it resonated so much with her. When she came to my house to rehearse, I was so moved by her performance (and so was my hardwood floor, which vibrated its approval when she played.) Ingrid suggested I write more music of the seasons, so I ended up writing a suite called “Seasons” for cello and piano. Through the ISO’s education program, Ingrid and I have played these duets many times and worked with hundreds of children. ( I was the first composer that the ISO brought on as a partner artist.)

Of course, Ingrid introduced me to her husband, David (principal clarinet) who played the first clarinet piece that I wrote, a trio for clarinet, French horn and piano titled “I Know.” He and Rick Graef (French horn) recorded the piece with me and really made it their own. When I asked Marvin Perry (principal trumpet) to play a new trumpet/piano duet with me, he not only made it sound incredible, he also helped me with a compositional decision. I knew a particular section needed the trumpet to be muted, but I didn’t know which mute to use. He said something like, “come on over, I have 14 of them.”

When I started writing jazz, I met more ISO musicians who I found out were interested in playing jazz (and who were quite good at it.) Having my jazzy friends Jim and P.J., along with Ju-Fang Liu (principal bass) Dean Franke and Mark Ortwein (bassoon, bass clarinet, saxophone) in my home to play my new tunes and improvise together was so exciting, and again, their encouragement inspired me to continue writing.

I could have written about how much I have enjoyed listening to ISO performances over the years, and how important music is to the community, and what a treasure we have to hear musicians of this caliber come together week after week for amazing performances. I could have talked about how much we need to support the arts, because if we don’t have art and music and artistic expression, we don’t have life. I could have talked about the hundreds of thousands of children the musicians in the ISO have encouraged and inspired through their teaching and performing. But instead, I wanted to share some of my personal experiences with members of the ISO. Passionate, brilliant, funny, generous and kind people who have come in and out of my life and my living room to play with me and encourage my growth as a musician and composer. Incredible musicians who love and are inspired by the music of the masters, but also believe in the importance of the creation of new music.

This is what the ISO has meant to me, and I am just one person. I have to wonder how many stories are out there, and what the impact looks like when you multiply it by the thousands of people who are not only audience members, but people who connect to the symphony in so many other ways.

At the end of the Jimmy Stewart movie, when he thinks all hope is lost, the whole town shows up with donations. Here’s hoping that before it’s too late, we find a way to save the ISO.

Becky Archibald
September 9, 2012

In a Different Room (But Maybe Not an Empty Room)

This morning, I was flipping through a forgettable magazine that comes free with the newspaper, and came upon a story about a student who was in trouble at school, and made to sit alone in a different room. The student began to dance and, well, they didn’t really give any details or tell much of the story or say who it was, but supposedly the student found her calling and because a famous choreographer. Not a well-told story, but it did get me thinking. . .

A few years ago, I spent the night at a friend’s lake house, all by myself. My family and her family had been there the night before, but since I had a performance nearby the next day, and everyone else had to get back home, it made sense for me to stay – and believe me, I was SO looking forward to it. I had hoped to take a nice walk around the lake after saying our good-byes, but it was cold and rainy. So I went back inside and . . . looked around . . . and it dawned on me . . . there is no piano here! I don’t know what to do with myself without a piano. At home, I can’t wait for everyone to leave the house so that I can sit at the keys for hours, writing, practicing and studying. But what do I do when I am left in a different room, really alone??

I bet you are thinking that I will say I started writing poetry and wrote the piece that caught the eye of an important publisher and launched my career as a poet. Or that I found some art supplies and an umbrella, and painted a beautiful lake scene during the storm, which went on to win prizes and launched my career as a landscape artist. But, neither of these things happened. What did happen is rather embarrassing to admit. We don’t have cable TV at home. We don’t have a large TV screen. We don’t have a satellite dish. The lake house had all of these items. I ended up flipping channels for hours, finding nothing on, until settling into the classic film, “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner” (which was actually pretty good.)

What I experienced at home last week was luckily quite different. My son was away for a week doing volunteer work. My daughter had just started day camp. I had my first taste of real freedom and aloneness in about a year and a half. It was so . . .different. It took me awhile to find myself again. I was writing words and writing music, maybe not my best, but I was remembering and experiencing the bliss of just doing it. In a few days, I noticed some improvement, especially in the music. One morning, I spent what seemed like hours (because it was) just trying to find the right tempo for a section I was working on. It seemed perfect until I put on headphones and listened while walking. The problem was that I meant to write something that I could walk to – but the pace was too slow. When I re-taped at the right walking speed, the melody sounded too rushed. Oh no! I kept adjusting until I could make a clear decision, and luckily, I didn’t have to rewrite the whole thing. I was happily obsessing over the minute details of composition! Yeah, I had found my calling again!

So, back to the bad student-turned-dancer. I agree that one can get closer to finding their calling when they are alone. But one also needs the right tools to experiment with when they are in that different room. Or not necessarily the “right” tools, but at least a reasonable facsimile. The student had a dance floor. I kind of need a piano. (Or at least a tape recorder to sing into. Or some pots and pans to bang on. And some manuscript paper and a pencil. . .) And no one can find their calling with a TV remote (except maybe Loren Michaels or Steven Speilberg or Jerry Seinfeld or Taylor Archibald or. . .)

--Becky
June 26, 2012

Wait and Hope

One of my missions in life is to inspire creativity in others. I can’t force this on anyone, or even expect it to happen. I don’t have a magic formula. All I can do is be there, and wait and hope. I could say the same thing about my own writing, whether music or words. I can’t force it to happen, or know whether I will be happy with what comes out that particular moment. I don’t have a magic formula. All I can do is be there, ready with paper and pencil, and wait and hope.

My cellist friend Ingrid and I took our chances a few months ago, hoping to inspire students at the Indiana School for the Blind in their artistic endeavors. Our plan: To perform my music during their art classes and talk about where my inspirations come from, to talk about our instruments and why we chose them, and to wait and hope. The art teacher also had a plan: To help the students create tiles out of clay, with their own unique patterns and textures, that he would weave together into a large work of art, to be installed permanently on the campus. (How cool is that!)

About midway through the first day, the principal stopped by and asked, “Is it making any difference?” I said that this was hard for me to answer, since I had never watched the students in art class when they didn’t have a live musical performance to (possibly) inspire them as they worked. When I posed the question to the art teachers, they said that the students usually have trouble getting started on a project. They wave their hands and call out for help at every point along the way. But with us present, the teachers were amazed at how well the students were able to work independently. They sat down and dug their hands in and worked it!

I was particularly amazed with the profound thoughts the students shared with me about music. I wish I could remember the exact words he used, when one particular 16-year-old boy talked deeply about how much music meant to him. Many of the students came forward to put their clay-caked hands on the instruments. We loved seeing the delight in their faces while they plucked the strings and caressed the keys.

We don’t really know what difference we made that week. We don’t know if some students went home that day and wrote poetry, or improvised music, or used their imaginations in a different, more imaginative way. But we came, we waited, we hoped and we played the music. And we look forward to seeing the culmination of their work on the campus sometime this fall.

Becky Archibald
June 20, 2012

Remembering Chuck Workman

Remember Chuck Workman

I used to listen to Chuck on the Sunday Morning Jazz Show, WTPI. When my first CD came out, a friend suggested I send it to him. I jumped out of my seat when I heard him play “Searching.” He was the very first to put my music on the air. Later he called to interview me for a NUVO article. What a wonderful voice to hear over the phone!

Over the years, I have done many radio interviews with Chuck, and he has written many articles about my music. He believed in me so much, he helped me believe in myself. He really floored me with the headline pictured above.

I called him every time I had something big coming up, and he always called me back to hear the latest. I was even planning on calling him today. . .

I’m not quite ready yet, but when I am, I will enjoy listening again to the tapes of our radio interviews. His enthusiasm was so sincere, and so infectious.

The last time I saw Chuck was at the Jazz Kitchen, just a few months ago. I watched him eat a really big dessert (that I was hoping he would offer me a bite of.) We talked and talked about music, of course. I remember him saying that he felt like he was in New York, as we listened to one of our great local jazz groups – The Farrelly/Markiewicz Quartet.

Chuck, thank you for your love of music, your kindness and your generous spirit. I miss you already.

Becky Archibald
March 26, 2012

Answer: In the State of Wonder

The next time someone asks me the question, “If you could pick any place in the world, where would you like to live?” I am going to say, “In the State of Wonder.” And that doesn’t mean the State of Confusion, as in, “I wonder what is going on??” where we squint our eyes and scrunch up our faces and feel lost or overwhelmed. I’m thinking of the childlike state of open-mindedness and endless possibility.

The other night, I watched a documentary about Evelyn Glennie, an amazing percussionist who lost her hearing as a child. She and fellow musician, Fred Frith, improvise music together (on both traditional and makeshift instruments) in a cavernous warehouse in Germany. Fred especially seemed like a giant kid. His eyes, his face, were so relaxed and open as he experimented with sounds on his guitar. He seemed to be having such a great time, and made it all look so easy.

It reminded me of what I saw when teaching my first Composition Studio Class at Anderson University. I had worked with my students individually, but not as a group, so I wasn’t sure what the dynamic would be. I did know, though, that they were very, very bright, so I had better come up with something good. So the first thing I said was,

“Today we are going to play a game called ‘Work the Room.’”

I asked them to find objects in the classroom that they could make a sound or noise with. After experimenting with the sound, they were to write down what they discovered, so that someone reading their instructions could replicate what that they did.

I was so pleased to see each person immediately enter the State of Wonder: big eyes, lips parted, slight smiles, relaxed breathing and childlike curiosity. There were no “instruments” in the room (except an upright piano that was off limits.) Instead, the students toyed with mini blinds, and projector screens, and chairs, and drawers, and music stands and erasers on the chalkboard. I won’t go into phase 2 or 3 of the game, which emphasized the importance of not assuming anything when communicating on paper, because I want to focus on the playfulness that happens prior to the decision-making.

When composing, if I happen to notice that I am momentarily in the State of Wonder, I sometimes say out loud, “I love writing music!” So far, this has not snapped me out of my trance. Instead, it reminds me of how much fun I am having, even though I haven’t solved all the problems, and am still considering many possibilities. (Actually, maybe I should say, because I haven’t solved all the problems.)

If I don’t spend at least part of my day in my “home state,” I feel lost, and also, feel that I may have lost something. What if I missed out on a brilliant insight that could have come to me, if only I had taken the time for it?

Last month, a 7-yr-old student decided to write a new piece for the recital that was coming up in a few days. I watched and listened as he invented the whole thing, right in front of me. He doesn’t really like to title his pieces, but I went ahead and asked what he wanted to call it. We shared a comfortable silence for at least a full minute as he pondered the question. I’m okay with this seemingly long chunk of time, because I know that it is a precious thing, and potent with possibility. Finally, he said, “I got it! It’s called, “Float, Flutter, Fly.”

Wow! Not only was his title a perfect fit for the rhythm of his theme, it was also a beautiful parallel to the actual creative process. Floating in uncertainty leads to a bit of fluttering when the idea hits, and then you are ready to fly.

Creative plus Happy does not equal Crappy

The other day, I wrote this note to myself: “Creative people must model creativity and the creative process by approaching every aspect of their lives in a creative way.” Not to put pressure on myself or anything.

This morning, as I was ironing Christmas stockings (since it’s the 23rd, I thought maybe we should decorate a little) I realized I had blown it yesterday with one of my piano students. I was trying to help her master a passage with what I knew would be the perfect “technical” approach. I worked her and worked her (in a calm and patient way, of course) reminding her to take more time, go slower, think before pushing the notes. I can’t believe I went so far as to ask her to temporarily turn off her musicality and approach things mathematically. Wow, what was I thinking??

While getting that last crease out of the stocking my mom made for me as an infant, I saw the light. Because my student is so bright and so musical, I could have made the whole experience much more fun for her if I had utilized her gifts by suggesting that she come up with a new rhythm for the passage. This is something I do all the time when I am trying to perfect my performances. I find places where I need to pause in order to give myself time to find my notes, and then make a little game out of it. Maybe a measure in 4/4 time becomes 7/4 time, but that’s ok, I’m just doing what I need to do to get things right, without turning my practice session into something dull, dry and scientific. Sometimes, these games actually provide ideas that become the seeds for the next composition I will write.

Temporarily shutting off my creativity equals following a recipe to a T, and not listening to the suggestions from my inner voice (hmmm, maybe a little red pepper will add some zing to this apple pie – which it did, by the way.)

Temporarily avoiding new thinking may mean that I write a duet instead of a trio, because, by golly, I had planned a duet, and so what if this other voice is trying to coax its way into my piece. (Listen to “I Know” for Clarinet, Horn and Piano, from my Mood Swing CD) http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/archibald5

Temporarily shutting off our creativity equals avoiding fun and life and being surprised in the moment.

This is mainly a note to self, but for kicks, I thought I would share it with you. Merry Christmas and a Creative and Happy New Year!

--Becky

When Writing, Avoid Ending

• Hi! Good-bye!

• Once upon a time, there was a prince and a princess. They met, fell in love, and lived happily ever after.

• There was a mysterious murder in the village. The butler did it.

I just finished writing a piece of music for a friend I always had to hang up the phone on, because she didn’t know how to end a conversation. She would think of another question to ask or story to tell. Since it was her idea, I didn’t feel too bad about simply saying, “Karen, I'm hanging up now, good-bye!”

While composing, I was torn. I didn’t want it to end, because I was enjoying creating something for her. On the other hand, I needed to get it to her quick, because she is in the final stages of Alzheimer’s, and won’t be around much longer.

All I had to start with were two pretty chords that I found in a piece written for children, and a rhythmic idea. I wasn’t thinking about the fact that Karen is Irish, or that she had such a happy laugh, or any private jokes between us. I just laid my hands on the piano and started playing.

The first thing I hit was an A minor chord. My negative self, in its smarmy voice, announced, “Oh, that’s real original!” But I made a decision to let it start there, because, that’s where it started. And then more decisions were made, which is really what the writing process is about. Experimenting and trusting your judgment to make good decisions.

I continued playing and writing, trying to find a place for that chord progression I liked (which took many rewrites, experiments, and inversions of chords before I found just the right sound.) and for the rhythm I had in mind.

Something that has always been my mantra is “avoid ending.” Keep it going. Avoid things that make it sound like it’s over. Search for the search, the explorations, the unknown.

On what became the first page, I came to a place where I could easily have resolved a chord in the typical way. But in order to avoid ending, I had to keep toying with other possibilities. After finding my way through that section, I landed in new territory. I’m in E flat minor, and I want to have an interesting running figure in the left hand. I tried so many combinations of notes before hitting upon a series of 6 tones that felt right. I improvised for days with my right hand while my left hand repeated the 6-note figure, all the while having my digital recorder capturing the sound.

Well, after all of that playing, my left hand was getting worn out. I had made lots of what I thought were good decisions and got them all on paper, only to have to change something that seemed so clever at the time that I wrote it.

Some of my students don’t like wasting paper. I, on the other hand, think that writing all the experiments down and having lots of material to work off of, is not a waste at all. (I wish that I was neater and more organized, but that’s a different issue.)

When I visited Karen at the Alzheimer’s unit in August, she talked, she sang, and she held my hands so tight that I didn’t think she would ever let go. Finally, her daughter said, it’s time, she needs to rest, you can open your fingers and she will be okay. When trying to finish the piece, I had created several lengthy endings. My son, Taylor, suggested, “Mom, you should just end it, abruptly, like when you used to hang up the phone on Karen!”

If you would like to listen to the piece, titled “Still Something To Say,” I posted a video here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3vWg9VQWblE

And if you would like to hear about page 3 and 4 and 5, well, I could tell you story after story after story . . .