It's immensely satisfying to share my work in these little essays with the people about whom I care most. It’s a harvest at the end of a long career. Without realizing it, I have been working toward the psychological capacity to share my life's work in this way ever since I started composing fifty years ago. It feels just right for me now that I'm in my mid-sixties.

Meanwhile, our culture was developing the technical capacity for this means of sharing. What times we live in, when I can write these words and you can access them, so easily!

I've tried sharing my work in many other ways: producing CDs and trying to get people to buy and listen ... coaxing radio stations to broadcast my CDs ... publishing and marketing the sheet music for my scores ... cajoling musicians to perform my work and pressing friends to attend a concert. None has been so effective and satisfying as devising these essays and sending them to people like yourself, via email.

The best thing is that you, as a recipient, have options: listen immediately or save the message until you have leisure to listen ... or delete it unheard. If you never get around to listening to the music, my feelings won't be hurt -- because I’ll never know!

The second best thing is: no commercialism. Nothing is being sold in these essays, no donations are solicited -- or ever will be. My music came to me for free, after all; at last I’ve found a way to share it for free.

Today, I’m passing out free French Toast. That's the name of the second movement of my suite entitled, A Little Breakfast Music . I wrote this music in 1976 for two couples, friends who played oboe, clarinet and violin. I wanted to give my friends some music the four of them could play together; there is no repertoire for that combination of instruments. The absence of a bass instrument and the subject of breakfast called for a light, supple music. Music that is sprightly, nimble, delightful.

French Toast is not French (in France, they call it pain perdu which means “lost bread,” i.e., stale bread, because French toast is always better if the bread you’re using is stale). but including that entrée in this suite gave me an excuse to write music that would sound French, music influenced by those charming French composers: Ibert, Francaix and Poulenc.

The influence is legitimate because I am the descendent of French immigrants. My French Huguenot ancestors arrived in Boston in 1737. Paul Revere and Davy Crockett were also descended from Huguenots. Good company!

That was a long time ago, but I love to think that, in my heart, I remain a Frenchman. It's one of my folies.

To hear the second movement, "French Toast," from A Little Breakfast Music played by oboist Robert Franz, clarinetist Phoenix Malek and violinists Brandon Christensen and Corinne Cook, click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

Rick Sowash
Cincinnati, OH
Oct. 5, 2014

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In 1976, not long out of Music School, I wrote a suite for four friends who played treble clef instruments — an oboist, a clarinetist and two violinists. With no bass instrument, the content of the piece had to be light-weight. Usually “light classical” is the term applied to comic operettas, but this is a chamber work, entitled A Little Breakfast Music. Each of the five movements depicts an item we’d be likely to eat for breakfast.

You’re invited to partake of the last movement: “Honey on English Muffins.” Duration: 7 minutes, 22 seconds.

The movement opens in 4/4 with the sweetest, syrupy-est tune I could conceive, fashioned entirely from rising sixths. That’s the “Honey” music, a ‘honey’ of a tune.

Next come the English muffins. At 1:55 the meter changes to 6/8 and the musical style turns English. We hear a country jig in the manner of Ralph Vaughan Williams (a British composer whose work I admire).

The music jigs happily along, moving in and out of various keys, major and minor.

Then, at 6:30 the “Honey” music returns and is heard simultaneously with the English jig. Both tunes are sounded at once as the honey is poured onto the muffin.

Voilà! Enjoy!

I love this piece for its tunefulness and because it expresses the exuberance of a 26-year-old composer, free at last from the constraints of Academe, writing what he likes, with no professors or fellow composition students looking over his shoulder. He has found his authentic voice and is having a blast, discovering what all he has to say.

To hear "Honey on English Muffins” from A Little Breakfast Music played by oboist Robert Franz, clarinetist Phoenix Malek and violinists Brandon Christensen and Corinne Cook (recorded on my CD A Portrait at 50), click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

Rick Sowash
Cincinnati, OH
Jan. 10, 2016

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Years ago, on NPR, I heard a scientist say, "Half the battle is asking the right question."

It's also true of creative work. When artists ask themselves intriguing questions, creative ideas come a-tumbling.

Mozart's most famous string piece is Eine Kleine Nachtmuzik -- A Little Night Music. I asked myself, What about music for the next morning? What would that be? Eine Kleine Frühstück Muzik? -- A Little Breakfast Music? What instruments and what tunes would express that?

I thought about what I like to eat for breakfast and asked myself how these items could be depicted.

What about orange juice?

We don't drink much O.J.; just a little glass, please; the movement must be short. Duration: 1:42.

Orange juice is a pick-me-up, an eye-opener; the tune must be a bugle-call, a RISING tune; it must say, "Wake up!"

Orange juice is brightly colored; the piece must be in a sharp key, played by treble instruments, no lumbering basses, cellos or bassoons; I scored it for oboe, clarinet and two violins.

It must be a bit sour, a bit dissonant, but pleasing, the way orange juice is.

It must sound like morning; it must have that fresh, sunny, American sound we hear in Copland's best-loved pieces.

To hear Orange Juice, the opening movement of "A Little Breakfast Music," played by oboist Robert Franz, clarinetist Phoenix Malek and violinists Brandon Christensen and Corinne Cook (recorded on my CD "A Portrait at 50"), click on the link above.

Rick Sowash
Cincinnati, OH
December, 2013

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I am, to the bone, an Ohioan. And an amateur Ohio-ologist.

Awhile back, in one of my Sunday morning emails, I began with this:

“When a presidential candidate said, “Ohio is an amazing state!” I thought: “The claims are true; this candidate really is a liar. I know a thing or two about the Buckeye state and the only thing here that amazes me is Serpent Mound.”

A friend and fan who enjoys these emails replied to remind me of Ohio’s great public library system, asserting: “Ohio is the only state that supports local libraries and thus any Ohioan can patronize any local public library.” She is right. Ohio’s public library system is amazing; Cincinnati’s has the highest circulation rate in North America; I live just six blocks from the Main Library, an amazing resource. When I became friends with the former children’s book editor of the NY Times, she told me, “Ohio’s public library system is the envy of the nation."

Another wrote, “Ohio cannot be Hawaii. ‘Amazing' can take various forms. Wendell Berry wrote an essay in which he cautions against the emphasis on 'showpiece' parks and natural sites, addressing the danger of overlooking the humble beauty around us, when we only preserve places that are so obviously glorious."

Well said and true enough. Wendell Berry is what the Japanese call “a living national treasure.” Who am I to gainsay a great soul?

Still, the candidate was lying. The pronouncement that ”Ohio is amazing” was not about humble beauty, public libraries or Serpent Mound. It was pandering.

The reasons I differ with the candidate’s assertion don’t arise from a comparison of Ohio’s scenery with that of other states. Nor am I forgetting the truly amazing achievements of certain Ohioans, such as Wilbur and Orville Wright.

I am thinking chiefly of Ohio’s attitude toward new ideas.

Take for example, the idea of raising of the minimum wage in Ohio so that service industry workers could earn an income just above the poverty level. This issue speaks to me. Last Fall I left my part-time position as an ‘art guard' at the Cincinnati Art Museum. Eight years earlier, I began at the minimum wage. By the time I left, incremental raises had lifted my pay to $8.25 per hour.

For me, working as a museum guard was a gentleman’s pastime. But some of my fellow guards were trying to earn a living from that job alone. Ironic, that “the working poor” should be engaged to protect paintings, sculptures and objets d’art worth billions.

You must have heard: some cities and states have raised the minimum wage to $15. Ohio would never be the first to experiment with anything so ‘amazing’ as that. Our governor, despite commendably articulating a Christian concern for the poor (sparking immediate criticism from his fellow party members), strongly opposes raising the minimum wage, as does the majority party in both houses of our legislature. They say it would be 'bad for business.’

How about a penny tax on bottles of sugar-sweetened beverages? Fine for folks in Berkley, California if that’s how they want to try to reduce the rate of obesity. (Psst! It’s working.)

A nickel deposit on glass bottles?

High speed rail connecting Cincinnati, Columbus, Cleveland?

A Johnny Appleseed National Monument?

Roadways paved with solar cells?

The town of Fitzgerald, GA planted pecan trees in every yard. After a few years, instead of paying a city tax, the citizens simply gathered the pecans and turned them over to the city, which sold them to pecan buyers, thus funding the city government. The residents of Fitzgerald paid zero city taxes. Pecan trees won't thrive in Ohio’s climate, true. So … walnut trees? Good idea? I don’t know. Just sayin’ ...

Some cities plant hardwood ‘shade trees’ along the streets. How about planting apple trees, providing free apples to anyone who wants to pluck them from the branches or gather them up from the ground? Good idea? I don’t suppose Ohio’s apple orchard industry would think so. Understandable.

Not all new ideas are good ideas. Still, can we be open to new ideas? How about considering twenty new ideas and then choosing the best one?

Oh, me-oh-my-oh. Not in Ohio.

Ohio is wary of new-fangled notions. ’Twas ever thus. Mark Twain observed, “If the world should come to an end, I’d want to be in Cincinnati because everything happens there ten years after it happens everywhere else.”

Only when about two-thirds of the other states have succeeded in doing something new, only then will Ohio begin to consider it. Buckeyes have an unwritten policy opposing anything that might just maybe seem edgy to somebody somewhere, no matter how enthusiastically others might favor it.

Even when we do achieve something great, it’s in the face of fervid opposition. Last week Cincinnati inaugurated its new 3.6 mile electric streetcar system, connecting two parts of the historic downtown. The proposal was passionately decried and fiercely opposed, from the start. The citizenry launched multiple petition drives against it. Our current mayor proudly campaigned as the proposals's most vociferous opponent. Our current governor’s transportation panel stripped $52 million of federal funds which had been made available for the project and which would have extended the streetcar’s route so as to connect the downtown to the University district. The governor takes a dim view of public transit.

Cincinnati’s new streetcar squeaked into existence by the skin of its teeth, within hours of a deadline to qualify for the remaining federal funds.

Yet other cities such as Portland, San Francisco and New Orleans, have long been famous for their streetcars. (Note that all three are coastal cities.)

Streetcars are not a new idea, not even here. Cincinnati had an electric streetcar system for 62 years (1889-1951) without collapsing into fiscal or cultural chaos. And this new one is so modest. Just 3.6 miles. In 2002, a 60-mile system was proposed that would have connected nearly all of the city’s 52 neighborhoods, costing a mere half-cent hike in the local sales tax. Cincinnati voted it down, with a whopping 68% opposed. Why would such an obviously good idea face such an uphill struggle for acceptance here in Middle-America, here in Ohio?

When I was a county commissioner in northern Ohio I strongly supported the conversion of an unused railroad track into a bike trail that would connect the municipalities of Bellville, Lexington and Mansfield. The opposition was immediate and furious. At public hearings, people whose sons had been in my Scout troop, screamed in my face. A bike trail, they said, would bring trespassers, drugs, burglary and rape. Cyclists would poop on their lawns; property values would plummet. Plus, paradoxically, they were certain that NO-body would EVER use it.

In spite of a vicious campaign against it, which included heavy-handed vandalism, like bulldozing piles of dirt over the proposed path, it passed by a hair. Mind, this was WELL AFTER rail-to-trail bike paths had popped up all over the country. Today, thirty years later, back in Mansfield, everyone loves ‘the bike trail’ and hundreds use it every day.

These stories are typical of Ohio. We say, “What? Be an innovator? Foster an “amazing” new idea? No thank you. Let the coasts innovate, if it suits their fancy. We know who we are and where we are: we’re in the middle, the center. Maybe, just maybe, after a long time, after a great many others have done it, then Ohio might — mind you, might — think about giving it a try.”

Why does Ohio have this attitude? It began when Ohio was the Wild West. Ohio's pioneers were a confluence of two disparate cultures: Connecticut Yankees and Virginians. The New Englanders viewed the Virginians as shiftless and lazy. The Virginians viewed the Yankees as grasping and Puritanical. But the hardships of the frontier forced them to look past their prejudices and get along. They managed it and in the process they devised a new kind of American: the Midwesterner.

Neither New England-ish nor Southern, Ohio remains determinedly centrist to this day. Midwesterners are famously friendly, but wary of new ideas.

Politically, this makes Ohio the preeminent 'battleground state.' Oddly enough, precisely because Ohio is the most typical, ordinary, middle-of-the-road, centrist state, Ohioans, though they constitute only about 3% of the total population of this country, usually decide who will be president. That’s sort of amazing, I have to admit.

We split very nearly 50/50 on every candidate, every issue, every idea. We balance urban and rural, 50/50. With more cities boasting populations in excess of 50,000 than any other state, we retain a rural character; Ohio is thought of as a 'farm state.’ When Ohio tilts a tidge to the Right or a smidgeon to the Left, so goes the Nation.

Please don’t get me wrong. Ohio suits me just fine. As a speaker-for-hire, a presenter in schools, a writer and publisher of books about the state, and, yes, as a composer, I’ve had thousands of opportunities right here in Ohio. I’d not be churlish. I’m grateful and I’ve expressed my gratitude in various small ways, by trying to make my state a better place.

I see my life’s work, which you kindly allow me to share in these emails, as a completely characteristic product of Ohio. The music I’ve composed -- every note, phrase and chord — is, for better or worse, Ohio-ish. It offers nothing innovative or experimental, nothing “amazing." It simply extends existing musical traditions in pleasant, comfortable, respectful ways.

I was never an avant garde composer, never wanted to be. Call me a composer of the “derrièrre garde.” Call me an Ohioan.

Mine is the music you would expect to have been composed by a middle-class guy who grew up in the 1950’s, in Mansfield, Ohio, a rural county seat, a town, not quite a city. A Boy Scout who earned his Eagle badge (fifty years ago this month) and later served as a Scoutmaster. Married to my high school sweetheart for 44 years, I’ve been a faithful husband, a loving father and a law-abiding citizen. I have voted in every election, served on a jury and even held public office for a single term. I eschew vulgarity and deplore profanity. I’m an every-Sunday church-goer at a Presbyterian church where I am a Deacon and a tenor in the choir. I organize and chair the church’s annual Shrove Tuesday Pancake Supper. In short, I’m reliable, a fellow who keeps his word and pays his bills on time.

My music is well-crafted, occasionally funny, sometimes moving. No one is amazed by it.

Amazing? Debussy’s “La Mer,” Sibelius’ Fifth Symphony, Stravinsky’s “Rite of Spring,” Charles Ives’ “The Unanswered Question,” George Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue” … those works amaze.

Me? I’ve turned out good, solid, Ohio stuff. I’ve made people smile.

Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that!

Here’s an example. I’m inviting you to listen to "Eggs & Bacon,” the third movement from A Little Breakfast Music played by oboist Robert Franz, clarinetist Phoenix Malek and violinists Brandon Christensen and Corinne Cook. (Note the obvious: eggs and bacon do not amaze, but they sure are good!) click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

Rick Sowash
Cincinnati, OH
September 18, 2016

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Hello —

China! Tea. Rice. Right? You’d think so, but … well ...

More precisely, Taiwan! The furthest away from home I’d ever been.

I shepherded three cultural exchange tour groups from Richland County, Ohio, my native stomping grounds, to Taiwan and back. I had gotten myself elected County Commissioner in 1986. Our county had a sister-county relationship with Taipei, Taiwan. The other commissioners, one a mid-level United Telephone executive, the other a Dairy farmer, had no interest in our relationship with the Republic of China. So it fell to me. I made the most of it.

After Nixon’s 1972 visit to mainland China, the USA severed diplomatic relations with Taiwan. To this day we have no embassy there, though Taiwan remains our fifth-largest trading partner.

Thus, I, of all people, a composer who had stumbled into politics, found myself the highest-ranking American office-holder to visit the island in the seventeen years since Nixon had reversed our China policy. I got the red carpet treatment. The Governor of Taiwan greeted me in his office. I even met Lee Teng-hui, the President of the Republic of China, marking the only time I ever chewed the fat with a seated Head of State.

They didn’t seem to realize that a County Commissioner has no sway in the formulation of international policy. Maybe they knew but were too polite to let on. Maybe they thought my political star was rising and that I might someday become an American Grand Pooh Bah. If so, they were mistaken. I served only one term and never ran for office again. (Aside from visits to Taiwan, my tenure as a County Commissioner wasn’t much fun.)

Chinese don’t shake hands. They bow and serve tea. A dozen times a day, promenaded in parks, museums, schools, universities, governmental agencies, I was presented with tiny cups of delicious tea, piping hot. I drank it politely, toasting my host — the director, principal or bureaucrat-in-chief, as the case may be -- as he toasted me.
But when I wanted a cup of tea in a restaurant I could never get one. Instead, my hosts insisted that I drink fine wine during the meal and cognac afterwards.

It was the same with rice. The food was fabulous, vivid, piquant, colorful, imaginative, brilliant. Beyond describing. Each of the multiple courses was so flavorful that it begged for the palliative contrast of a nice pile of delicious, steaming rice alongside. Yet, rice was not to be had.

I could not understand this. What is Chinese cuisine, anyway? Great Stuff + Rice. That’s the equation. Right? Everyone knows that. But all I got was the Great Stuff. Never a grain of rice.

Finally, I pressed the issue, just a little. I politely insisted. I figured it would be easy. We were in a Chinese restaurant, for Pete’s sake, so they just HAD to have a pot of rice on the stove, back in the kitchen. All they had to do was bring me a bowl of it.

When my interpreter explained my request to the waiter, the fellow gave me a quick, odd look, then smiled, nodded and left. I thought he’d be back in a jiffy with my rice but when he returned a few minutes later he was rice-less.

The meal went on for a very long time, with numerous toasts and pledges of undying friendship. When I asked my interpreter about the rice, she whispered, “It’s coming.”

Finally the orange slices were served, the final item in a traditional Chinese feast. Then my hosts got up, accepted my thanks, bowed, bade me goodnight and departed.

A little cross-eyed from the cognac, I staggered to the restroom. When I returned, there, standing beside our empty table, next to my interpreter, was the waiter, holding a large bowl of rice.

“But, but, but …” I stammered. "I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t want it now. And I can’t take it with me. What would I do with it?” The interpreter translated, the waiter smiled, made a brief, pleasant remark and took his leave, rice bowl and all. Clearly, my refusal of the rice was no big deal.

Out on the sidewalk, I asked my interpreter to explain what the heck was going on.

“First,” she said, “it took a long time because they probably had to send someone to a grocery to buy the rice, bring it back and cook it.”

“What?”

“Yes. You see, a restaurant of that quality would never have rice on the menu. It’s the lowest form of food and no good restaurant offers it.”

“But Chinese people love rice, right?”

“Yes and we eat it every day. But an honored guest like yourself would never, never be served rice unless your hosts were so extremely poor that rice was absolutely the only food they had to offer.”

I was amazed. She explained a little more, saying, “In America, you often eat breakfast cereal, correct? But if you gave a dinner party for an honored guest who had come 13,000 miles to visit you, would you serve breakfast cereal? Even with your own family and friends, is breakfast cereal your Holiday Feast? No. It would be an insult to serve an item so humble, unless you had nothing else on your shelf.”

I began to understand. “Why did the waiter bring the bowl at all?”

“Because you asked for it. You’re the honored guest and if you ask for something, you’re going to get it, whatever it is. But you notice that the waiter did not appear with the rice until everyone else had departed. He did not want the others to see him bringing you a bowl of rice.”

It was a valuable lesson. Tea is not just hot liquid and rice is not just belly-timber. Taiwan is a long way from Ohio. The world is wide. Food isn’t just provender. It connotes, signifies, symbolizes. Different foods mean different things in different lands.

Think about that as you listen to my little theme-and-variations, entitled "A Variety of Herb Teas,” the final movement from A Little Breakfast Music, played by oboist Robert Franz, clarinetist Phoenix Malek and violinists Brandon Christensen and Corinne Cook. click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

Rick Sowash
Cincinnati, OH
March 19, 2017

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Excogitate? Why not!

Let's excogitate the monetary value assigned to a painting.

Young marrieds, we purchased is a delicate still life in oils. It depicts a basket of eggs on a wooden table, a shadow-crossed wall in the background. It is hushed, in a minor key, quietly monumental.

It was painted by Mike Wasemann, an artist of my generation and from my hometown, Mansfield, Ohio,. We eventually acquired four more Wasemanns. We cherish them to this day. A superb painter, Mike remained unknown and died young, I’m sorry to say.

We hung our first 'art purchase' in the tiny dining room of our first home, ‘the Little Yellow House,“ as we called it, on Fitting Avenue in Bellville, Ohio, Jo’s hometown, ten miles south of Mansfield..

A day or two later, Jo’s Grandpa Divelbiss, a retired mechanical engineer who lived down the street, stopped by. We eagerly led him to the dining room and showed him our painting.

He stared at it for a good while. The glisten of the basket’s reeds, interwoven and varnished, is delicately rendered; the depiction of the wall behind the basket, bisected by a dramatic shadow, recalls the delicately textured walls of Vermeer’s interiors; the ovoid shapes of the eggs are revealed with exquisite, intricate shadings. Clearly, this artist looked long, hard and lovingly at his subject.

Now Grandpa Divelbiss looked long and hard. We waited to hear what he would say.

At length, he turned to us. “How much did you pay for this?”

We told him. $65.

He directed his gaze back to the painting.

“Mphm!" he asservated. “If you want to look at eggs you can buy a dozen of ‘em for a dollar and when you’re done lookin’ at ‘em you can eat ‘em!”

Now let’s excogitate the monetary value assigned to music.

Music itself is always free. What we purchase is access to it. Sheet music requires engraving or computer notation, paper, ink, printing, envelope, postage. A recording requires paying for the musicians, the engineer, the studio, the graphic artist who designs the cover, the pressing factory, the envelope, the postage. To enter a concert hall, we pay an admission fee. But the music itself remains free.

So too, musical ideas come to a composer for free. I never paid a nickel for an inspiration. They’re not for sale.

How much money, then, ought I to have charged for the hard copy sheet music of my scores or the CDs on which my music was recorded? I felt a little knavish, assigning fees to my creations. What a relief to use the internet to share free PDFs and mp3s of my work.

How would Grandpa Divelbiss excogitate the matter? He was right about the painting, obviously, if all you want to do is look at eggs and then eat ‘em. He’d probably say, “If you want hear music, turn on the radio."

And a piece of music about eggs? I actually wrote one, the “Eggs & Bacon” movement from my suite, ‘A Little Breakfast Music’ for two violins, oboe and clarinet.

I can imagine: "Mphm! If you want to listen to eggs fryin’, you can buy a dozen of ‘em for a dollar and plop ‘em in a fryin’ pan. And when you git tired of listenin’ to ‘em sizzle, you can eat ‘em!”

A practical man! An engineer!

For Grandpa Divelbiss, for better or worse, everything was plain and simple.

To hear "Eggs & Bacon,” the third movement from A Little Breakfast Music played by oboist Robert Franz, clarinetist Phoenix Malek and violinists Brandon Christensen and Corinne Cook, click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

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This morning, French Toast is on the menu.

That's the name of the second movement of my suite, "A Little Breakfast Music." I wrote this music in 1976 for two couples, an oboist-violinist pair and a clarinetist-violinist pair. I wanted to give them some music that the four of them could play together; there is no repertoire for that combination of instruments. The absence of a bass instrument and the subject of breakfast called for a light, supple music: sprightly, nimble, delightful.

For me, at 26, the piece was a ‘grand gesture,’ a fancied snub of the avant garde and of the high seriousness of the academic musical establishment. Not that the avant garde or the academic establishment was following what an obscure composer in Bellville, Ohio wrote in his spare time. Still, for me, the piece was a milestone, confirming, at least for myself, my commitment to write memorable melodies with attractive tonal harmonies.

Too, I wanted to eschew the grandiose. I wanted to celebrate the beauty in things humble and near to hand.

Thus, French toast: golden, fragrant, agleam with maple syrup. What is more beautiful?

I know very well that French Toast is not particularly French. The Frenchies like it well enough, terming it "pain perdu,” meaning “lost bread”, i.e. “stale.” But it’s not particularly associated with French cuisine. It’s merely a practical use for stale bread.

Still, including a movement about French Toast in my “Breakfast Music” gave me an excuse to write music that would sound Franco-American, influenced not by the great Debussy and Ravel but rather by their charming kid brothers, the French composers of the next generation: Ibert, Milhaud, Poulenc and Francaix. I like those guys. They found ways to extend the French musical traditions they’d inherited. They influenced many American composers. Gershwin, Copland and Virgil Thomson took some cues from them.

Unlike George, Aaron and Virgil, I have a genetic connection to France. I am of French descent. (See photo in the postscript below) The Sauvage family thrived in France from time immemorial. Then they turned Protestant. My Huguenot ancestors fled the religious persecution to which Louis XIV turned a blind eye, curse his bones. (Were it not for the Sun King’s bigotry, I’d be a Frenchman.) After a hundred years in Holland and then London, my branch of the Sauvage line left Europe forever, arriving in Boston in 1737. A hundred years later they had moved to Pennsylvania changing the name to “Sowash” to accommodate their German-speaking neighbors.

I like to fancy that in my heart I’m still French. Such a conceit is what French people term “une folie,” an extravagant yet affable show of madness! Ha, ha. Who cares? It’s fun to embrace and extend a heritage of your own choosing. Three of my four grandparents were of German extraction, so I could have chosen otherwise. “it’s a free country,” as folks still say. I freely made my choice. Musically and otherwise, I decided to be Franco-American!

To hear the second movement, "French Toast," from A Little Breakfast Music played by oboist Robert Franz, clarinetist Phoenix Malek and violinists Brandon Christensen and Corinne Cook, click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

P.S. The voyageurs’ cap and arrowed belt are symbols of Québécois identity. I’m not French Canadian but, in colder weather, I don these clothing items to announce that I am a North American man of French descent. (The dogs are not impressed.)

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Smiles and laughter being precious commodities in dark times, let’s raise a glass of orange juice together -- a toast to celebrate my 71st birthday.

Which was yesterday. This is “the morning after.” No hangover for me, be assured. I cherish my apricot brandy on a cold winter’s evening but I live by the ancient admonition: Moderation in all things.

Caution made minimal my birthday celebration: a few cards and phone calls from our two children were the extent of it.

Like millions, I’m eager to get the vaccine and to escape this joyless Spartan lifestyle the virus has forced upon us. But no one seems to know where or how I can sign up for the injection.

I figure I could qualify as at least one of the following ...

1) a septuagenarian
2) a teacher (albeit on sabbatical)
3) a Living National Treasure

But even we in the L.N.T. community don’t know when or where we’re supposed to go to get the shot. Lacking guidance, we’ve taken to asking one another.

Merle called me the other day. I could only tell her, “How should I know?”

Yo-yo called too, late yesterday afternoon. When I saw his name on Caller ID, I let the phone answering machine handle it. He’s a sweetheart but he does go on and on — yack, yack, yack — and I had to get started on supper. I’ll call him back this afternoon after I’ve finished milking the elk.

:-)

Let’s return to the orange juice. You can join me in a toast, figuratively, by listening to the “Orange Juice” movement from my suite titled “A Little Breakfast Music.”

Too much orange juice is not a good thing. “Just a small glass, please,” we say. My ‘O.J.’ music is brief. Duration: 1:42.

Orange juice is a pick-me-up, an eye-opener. Thus, the tune had to be a bugle-call, a RISING tune, a tune that says, "Wake up!"

Orange juice is brightly colored; thus, the piece is scored only for treble-clef instruments: oboe, clarinet and two violins. No dark basses, cellos or bassoons.

The music, like the juice, must be a bit sour, a bit dissonant, yet pleasing.

Above all, it must sound like morning -- that fresh, sunny, American sound we hear in Copland's best-loved pieces.

To hear Orange Juice, the opening movement of "A Little Breakfast Music," played by oboist Robert Franz, clarinetist Phoenix Malek and violinists Brandon Christensen and Corinne Cook (recorded on my CD "A Portrait at 50"), click on the link above..

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

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Jo is a night-owl and rarely shows her face before late morning.

‘Twas an owl!
The emblem of Wisdom, they say.
‘Tis only at night that she rambles about.
She sleeps through the whole of the day.

Jo doesn’t “sleep through the whole of the day.” Just until noon. Plus a nap in the late afternoon.

I cherish a good afternoon nap, too, but at the hour when the sun comes up something in me awakens and there’s no going back to the Land of Nod.

So we very rarely see one another in the morning and it’s just as well.

Here’s an anecdote I like about Winston Churchill.

During a press conference, a reporter made bold to say, “Mr. Prime Minister, sir, directing the empire’s war effort, your schedule must be very full. Do you and Mrs. Churchill find any time to pass in one another’s company? For example, perhaps the two of you enjoy breakfast together?”

Affecting his most magisterial manner, the great man gave the reporter a long look over his glasses. Then he said, “Many years ago, when we were first married, Mrs. Churchill and I DID have breakfast together on one occasion … and it was such a disagreeable experience that we both resolved never to make the attempt again.”

I love the quiet of the morning, my solitary coffee, the NYTimes. I enjoy sitting alone in a rocking chair in the pavilion at the center of our upper garden in the cool morning hours. I look at the noble trees. I keep a very long bamboo pole within easy reach. When a squirrel climbs up the birdfeeder, I like to extend the pole and try to tap the squirrel’s tail. I never succeed but it is a gentle way of fending off the creatures. Never fear; they quickly return. I’ve never seen a skinny squirrel.

For me, morning is the best time for creative work, such as writing these weekly e-pistles.

This week French Toast is on the musical menu. That's the name of the second movement of my suite titled, A Little Breakfast Music . I wrote this music in 1976 for two couples: an oboist, a clarinetist and two violinists. I wanted to give them some music that they could play together; there is no repertoire for that combination of instruments. The absence of a bass instrument and the subject of breakfast called for a light, supple music: sprightly, nimble, and hopefully delightful.

French Toast is not French (in France they call it “pain doré,” meaning “goldened bread”) but including it on the ‘menu’ of this suite gave me an excuse to write music that would sound French, music influenced not by the grand masters Debussy and Ravel, but rather by the charming French composers of the generation that followed those giants: Ibert, Francaix and Poulenc.

The French influence on my music comes naturally. My French ancestors arrived in Boston in 1737. Their descendants served with Washington’s Continental Army, I’m proud to say, and helped win the battle of Yorktown. French sailors sharing the same family name -- cousins, perhaps? -- served on board the French naval vessels that prevented the British army from escaping the Yorktown peninsula by sea.

That was a long time ago but I love to fancy that, in my heart, I remain a Frenchman. It's one of my many little “folies.”

To hear the second movement, "French Toast," from A Little Breakfast Music played by oboist Robert Franz, clarinetist Phoenix Malek and violinists Brandon Christensen and Corinne Cook, click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

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A friend who is learning to play the harp wrote to me:

“You know how to ‘make/build music.’ I’d like to do that, too, but in such a way that it wouldn’t sound like someone else’s music. How would I go about that?”

Don’t you love it when you really know the answer to a question someone asks you?

My reply:

It’s easier than you might think.

On a blank piece of paper, draw ten staffs (five parallel lines), each about two inches long. Draw a treble clef on the left end of each.

Now, on each staff, draw five or six or seven whole notes on the lines and spaces. No flats or sharps. No meter, no measures.

Remember, after every note you indicate, you will have three, and only three, possibilities. Never more, never less. You can:

1) repeat the previous note,
2) make the next note higher (a lot or a little) or,
3) make the next note lower (a lot or a little).

Just choose. At random. Don’t over-think it.

You’ve made ten musical shapes. Play them on your harp.

Which do you like best?

Play that one over and over, adding some rhythmic variety; ie., make the first note a half note, maybe, and followed by three quarter notes, then another half, etc. Try something else. Add a sharp or a flat. You can’t go wrong. Fool around. Have fun. You’re not following a recipe; you’re inventing.

Suggestion: make the highest note the longest note.

Now draw a new staff and write it down, as best you can, with the rhythms and any accidentals you’ve settled on.

Voilà! You have created your very own musical phrase. It will not “sound like someone else’s” because YOU chose it and YOU shaped it. The reason this one appealed to you more than the other nine, and the reason you shaped it the way did, is because you were unconsciously guided by your particular set of musical memories and preferences.

That musical fragment, mirror-like, reflects your unique identity.

Now make a second phrase, repeating the first phrase either just as it is or a step higher or a step lower. Give it a twist at the end, an unexpected note, a new direction.

Now make a third phrase that is as long as the first two phrases combined Going higher yet? lower yet? You decide.

Now you have half of a melody. Repeat the whole thing, again with a twist at the end. You have made a melody all your own.

Now it’s time for a contrast. Whatever you’ve done so far, avoid doing it again. Do something different. If you’ve been in a major key so far, maybe go into a minor key. If you’ve been using legato notes so far, maybe use staccato notes. If your opening melody is rising, make the next section descend. If you’ve used mostly half-notes and quarters, time for some eighth notes, maybe some dotted rhythms.

Next, repeat the first phrase so that it finds its way back to the tonic (that’s the first note on the scale, the “do” of whatever key you’re in). This gives your tune closure.

Again I say, “Voilà!” You’ve written your own music and, guided by your particular set of musical memories and preferences, you’ve done it “in such a way that it wouldn’t sound like someone else’s music.”

That really is all there is to writing a tune.

What about the harmony? Any note of your tune can be one of the notes in the chord underneath it. Suppose you have a “C” in your tune. A “C” is obviously the bottom or ‘root’ of a C major chord. It can also be the middle note of an A minor chord. It can also be the top note of an F major chord. Try all three beneath the “C” in your tune and decide which you like best. Do the same with all the other notes in your tune.

If you like, the harmony can change with every note. Or a single chord can underpin several notes before changing. Up to you.

Isn’t it exciting to have complete freedom to make a thing the way you want it to be? How often do we get to do that? Rarely.

Your piece may not compel admiration, may not be considered “great music.” That is not for us to decide. It’s up to other folks to confer or withhold their ‘seal of approval.’ We won’t worry. If they like it, fine. If they don’t, tough beans.

But what if “they” don’t like it?

When someone writes a hateful critique of my music, I think, “Well, they wrote a review. I wrote a piece of music. Which is the robuster accomplishment?”

Put it away for a week or two. Then consider it anew, pretending it was written by someone who is asking you to help them improve it. Tinker with it, muck it up, monkey around, try something different here and there. What if you held that long note even longer? What if you inserted a few notes to delay your arrival on the high note? Polishing is fun!

When you’re satisfied, you’re finished. Now write another tune. It will seem less strange and new this time. You’ll start to get the hang of it.

See?

Easy-peasy.

Make a pot of hot tea and enjoy it as you listen to my little theme-and-variations, titled "A Variety of Herb Teas,” the final movement from A Little Breakfast Music, played by oboist Robert Franz, clarinetist Phoenix Malek and violinists Brandon Christensen and Corinne Cook. click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

I'd love to know what you think about this music; feel free to reply if you're inclined. But please don't feel that you are expected to reply. I'm just glad to share my work in this way.

As always, feel free to forward this message to friends who might enjoy it.

Anyone can be on my little list of recipients for these mpFrees (as I call these musical emails). To sign up, people can email me at rick@sowash.com, sending just one word: "Yes." I'll know what it means. To unsubscribe, reply “unsubscribe.”

Rick Sowash
Cincinnati, OH
April 24, 2022

P.S. Two weeks ago I shared the links to a PDF and mp3 of “The View from Carew,” the second movement of my clarinet concerto. A few days ago a Turkish clarinetist named Orkun Uyar, sent me the link to a youtube he made of his rendition of the same work, playing the reduction I made for clarinet, cello and piano, substituting a bass for the cello. To see and hear the work performed in an exquisitely beautiful recital hall in Istanbul by Orkun along with bassist Asal Altay and pianist Begüm Sarısözen Alpaydın, copy and paste this link into your browser:
https://youtu.be/PTfN0QHEmfs

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Young people talk funny.

I enter the pharmacy and approach the counter. Before I can say, “Good morning,” the pharmacist says, “Pickin’ up?”

I answer in kind, “Yep.”

“Date uh birth?”

When asked this question, I have a standard reply:

“January the 16th, 1950, a night of high wind and wild portent.”

The pharmacist registers no response.

When she pushes the meds across the counter, I say, “These pills are supposed to help me stop making dumb jokes but so far they don’t seem to be working.” The pharmacist gives me a look. I add, “The doc says it takes a while for them to kick in.”

“Well,” she says, “I hope that works out.” Maybe she didn’t really hear what I said.

In a restaurant; the server refills my coffee cup. “Thank you,” I say. The server never says, “You’re welcome.” Instead: “No worries!” or “Not a problem!” or “You’re fine!”

If I have occasion to say “Pardon me,” a younger person will reply, “You’re good” or “It’s all good.”

In a crowded movie theatre, I asked a seated couple to please move over one seat so that my family -- a party of five -- could sit together. The male half of the couple looked me in the eye and said, “We’re good.” They wouldn’t move. Jerks. I considered saying something like, “Actually, you are not very good at all or you wouldn’t decline the opportunity to do this small favor for a stranger and his family.” But I demurred.

Back to the restaurant. I order bacon & eggs and the server says, “Perfect.” It’s the same at the bank. I ask to withdraw $100 and the teller says, “Perfect.” Either that or “Awesome.”

Really?

I prefer “perfect” to “awesome.” Bacon & eggs and $100 can be perfect but never awesome.

I’m inviting you to listen to "Eggs & Bacon,” the third movement from A Little Breakfast Music played by oboist Robert Franz, clarinetist Phoenix Malek and violinists Brandon Christensen and Corinne Cook. Click on the link above.

What do you say to that? “Perfect!” “Awesome!” “Not a problem!”

If so, then I say, “Whatever.” :-)

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

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Something different this week ...

Please join me, by watching a 7-minute video, on a short tour of our home plus a chat in our garden to introduce the music I hope to share with you today.

To view this video, copy and paste this link into your browser:
http://www.sowash.com/recordings/mp3/short.tour.of.our.home.mp4

To hear "Honey on English Muffins” from A Little Breakfast Music played by oboist Robert Franz, clarinetist Phoenix Malek and violinists Brandon Christensen and Corinne Cook (recorded on my CD A Portrait at 50), click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

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Food and music. There are a multitude of connections there.

Many of the best musicians and most astute listeners I have known have cherished the making and tasting of food as much as the making and hearing of music.

When the topic of food comes up in conversation with a musician or a music-lover and they reveal their interest in food, I am struck by their intelligence.

Have you ever noticed how, when someone says something you agree with, you think, “My! How intelligent that person is!”

When the opposite situation arises, you think, “What an idiot!”

Me, too. All of us ‘foodies’ are, after all, “only human.”

But wait! Pardon me, please, for that an unfortunate word-choice.

Last Sunday, New York Times food writer Sam Sifton wrote:

”“Foodie” is a smug, unpleasant word, a diminutive, patronizing expression that reduces a person’s keen interest in the delicious to a silly fascination with cooking and eating.
“Foodie” is condescension wrapped in affectionate disdain, even for those who embrace the identity. Please avoid its use.”
He is right and I apologize. Forgive me, Sam. I ought to have known better because I’ve had the same thought although I never quite put it into words.

Thus, agreeing with him, I think, “How intelligent this Sam Sifton is!”

His dissuasion, however, begs the question of what would constitute a satisfactory term. He does not suggest an alternative. What would it be?

"Food enthusiast?"

"Food lover?"

“Food whisperer?”

Or just … "Into food?"

None of those quite do the job.

Might I propose an alternative?

Fuddhist.

Just kidding. (But it IS funny, don’t you agree?)

Reminds me of an exchange in the TV series “The Detectorists.” The chatacter played by Toby Jones is busily scanning the ground with his equipment in hopes of locating precious metal objects when a woman comes up to him and naively asks, “Are you a metal detector?” He scoffs and, pointing to his equipment, he says “THIS is a metal detector! I am a detectorist!”

Speaking of music and food … to hear the second movement, "French Toast," from my suite “A Little Breakfast Music” sweetly played by oboist Robert Franz, clarinetist Phoenix Malek and violinists Brandon Christensen and Corinne Cook, click on the link above.

There's also a link to a PDF of the score.

I'd love to know what you think about this music; reply if you're inclined. But please don't feel that you are expected to reply. I'm just glad to share my work in this way.

As always, feel free to forward this message to friends who might enjoy it.

Anyone can be on my little list of recipients for these mpFrees (as I call these musical emails). To sign up, people can email me at rick@sowash.com, sending just one word: "Yes." I'll know what it means.

Rick Sowash
Cincinnati, OH
Aug. 4, 2024