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Musical Memoir - VI. Coda

As my semester abroad was nearing its conclusion, several noteworthy ventures remained on the horizon. I was propelled with a breakneck pace through weeks where I traveled straight to work from after an early morning international flight, the means for my nomadic existence strapped to my back in a backpack fitting airline carry on dimensions. Andalucía one weekend, Belgium and Amsterdam the next, and onto London, Edinburgh, and Dublin, where I lingered in hostels with other wandering travelers, reluctantly making my way stateside. I distracted myself from my impending departure by packing my schedule as full as my luggage; adding in as many extra memories as could fit, the way I strained the seams of my suitcase to accommodate the extra bulk of souvenirs and gifts I had picked up along the way.

While most of my travels had been on my own, and therefore completely up to my planning and discretion, I had signed up for a group trip with my study abroad program, an exchange for just over 72 hours across the Straights of Gibraltar in Morocco. This was the perfect trip to let someone else take charge, as I got to experience so many more facets of authentic Moroccan culture and interface with locals in a way I would never have been able to on my own. 

I boarded the plane to Rabat (a short flight less than two hours away from Barcelona), not sure what to expect despite reviewing the detailed itinerary countless times with my fellow intern Cat during our breaks at the office. Even the most open mind in the world would have been unprepared to receive the abundance of culture and compassion that we would during this unforgettable weekend in a land so very different from where we came from. 

“مي يامور مي يامور بعدي عليا بور فابور راك عندك واحد تاني گول ها ليا و نساني مي يامور مي يامور بعدي عليا بور فابور راك عندك واحد تاني عيش معاه و نساني

(My love, my love Stay away from me, please You already have someone else Say it, and forget me My love, my love Stay away from me, please You already have someone else Live with him, and forget me)” -Nouamane Belaiachi, “Mi Amor”

After the last meal I shared with my host family in Rabat, the women of the neighborhood all gathered for an informal evening of festivities. The big main room, with purple walls hung with tapestries and lined with intricately engraved molding and doorframes, began to fill with the female friends of my host mom and her daughters. The patterned floor cushions and lounges which formed the communal dining space were soon occupied, and Cat, Jaque, and I worked on the delicious meal alongside our new friends. Unrestricted by cutlery, we used our fingers with the assistance of bread to grab warm, fragrant mouthfuls of Moroccan salads, stew, curry, and kouskous. Our delicate glass teacups, which were no bigger than shot glasses, were never empty, as our gracious Moroccan host mother kept refilling them with sweet mint tea. The heady aromas of spices and incense mingled in the laughter and conversation filled air. Each new arrival was greeted with friendly hugs and kisses and pulled into the ever growing circle.

In the absence of men, the women disrobed from their hijabs, and started up a spirited dance party before the meal was even finished. The teenage daughters were jockeying for the chance to pick the next song, flipping between music videos on Youtube. Cat, Jaque, and I were against the far wall, watching the dancers from behind a wall of food. The young boys that had been dragged along by their mothers took turns trying to outmaneuver each other, inventing dance moves to show off their athleticism and sense of humor. The women gyrated their hips to the rhythm of the syncopated dance music, a saucy mix of techno with the traditional Arabic melisma, their lose garments flowing as they twirled.

My tiny host sister, who was only 4 years old, came over to where we were seated, taking in the scene. With a big gap-toothed smile, she pulled my hands into her much smaller ones, and began swinging my arms to the beat. Giggling, she pulled me onto the converted dance floor. I waved forward my blushing American friends, who bashfully joined the dance. We were enthusiastically welcomed into the circle with encouraging smiles joined hands. 

We traded dance moves, took turns in the middle the dance circle, and took a group photo before the night was over. The people of Morocco are some of the most genuine, open, and warm, that I have ever met. Many farewell kisses were exchanged and that night we retired to bed with full bellies and hearts.

I left a part of myself in Morocco, unfinished business that must be attended to before I check out from this planet. I know how it feels to long for a place you met only briefly, to ache for faraway scents or flavors or the sensation of being surrounded by the secretive sounds of foreign tongues. I miss the feeling of arriving in a new place and sampling the air of another city, feeling my body settle into the rhythms of its distinct frequency. It didn’t hurt as much as I expected to pass that final screening through customs because I knew without a doubt that I would never stop chasing the chance to discover new places, until I someday discovered the one I couldn’t live apart from.

“Mais comment ça, le monde est tit-pe Tu croyais quoi, qu'on se verrait plus jamais?

(What do you mean, the world is little

What did you expect, that we wouldn’t meet again?)” -Aya Nakamura, “Djadja”

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Musical Memoir - V. Scherzo

I had completed the arduous process of applying for an internship abroad and it was finally happening—I would be living and working in Barcelona for 3 months. My memories of Barcelona are like the mosaics of the famed architect Gaudi: bright and colorful, chaotically scattered, and dazzlingly surreal.   

I was in Spain, but I was in Catalunya. The city had a distinctly cultural profile—cosmopolitan, progressive, bohemian, chic, artsy, urban. The city was constantly bustling but never rushed, the energy of 1.6 million people flowing at its own pace between the sandy shores of the Mediterranean Sea and the rising foothills of the Tibidabo mountain. Graffiti fills the crannies of this city; yellow ribbons are spray painted on Metro escalator steps, and tied around the curled steel of wrought iron windows. Here, the cobalt star of the Catalan flag for independence flies higher than the official Bandera de España. Calls for Libertát (freedom) were everywhere, despite Barcelona being one of the freest places I had ever seen. Catalans have a reputation for being fiercely independent, global-minded, and cultured. It was the perfect base for a semester abroad in Europe as a young graphic design intern.

 The first weekend, my fellow interns and I couldn’t help but get caught up in one of the tourist traps, lured in by the promise of free cover at the new beachfront club Shoko if we said we were on Aashi’s list. Shoko was an assault on the senses, pulsating strobes and dancers in impossibly high heels on platforms above the undulating crowd of sweaty dancers. We grabbed our cocktails and hit the dancefloor, shouting over the blaring dance music. A line of women in lingerie paraded bottles of champagne capped with sparklers through the crowd, destined for the VIP tables. I could feel the throbbing base in my sternum. Ever a wallflower, it took a shot of absinthe mixed with a couple drinks for me to get up the nerve to really start to move my body to the beat.

After a couple hours of vigorous dancing, we headed to the beach and kicked off our heels to feel the sand under our toes. Little did we know that this stretch of Barceloneta Beach was one of the worst on the coastline that bordered the city, (too covered in litter, due to its close proximity to the clubs, to compete with the velvety sands of Bogátell or Mar Bella), but we were too enamored with the place (and too drunk) to notice.

“Esquina a esquina, de ahí no' vamo' El mundo es grande pero lo tengo en mi mano Estoy muy duro, si? Ok, ahí vamo' Y con el tiempo nos seguimos elevando Que seguimos rompiendo aquí Esta fiesta no tiene fin Botellas para arriba, si Los tengo bailando, rompiendo y yo sigo aquí

(From corner to corner, we won't leave this place The world is huge but I got it in my hand I'm too tough, yes? Ok, here we go and with time we only keep rising May we keep rocking here This party has no end Bottles up, yeah I got you dancing, rocking and I'm still here)”

-J Balvin and Willy William, “Mi Gente”

The weekend of La Mercé—the annual festival celebrating Barcelona, featuring local artists in public venues all over the city alongside displays of Catalan traditions—was a time I will never forget. I marveled at the enormous human towers of castellers, watched circles of dancers in traditional dress dancing the Sardana in the square as a live band pumped out Latin jazz, and enjoyed the music of the buskers in every Metro platform and passage. 

That night, I ventured out to experience a Catalan tradition up close—the fire run, or correfoc. A demented version of a parade, the gates of hell are opened and devils roam the streets, wielding torches of fireworks. The spiraling end to their pitchforks rains showers of sparks on the crowd, which runs alongside the demons under the umbrella of sparkling lights.  Flammable clothing is not advised.

The last night of La Mercé, there is a fireworks display in front of La Fuente Magica and castle of Montjuïc. Perfectly synched up to music, the multicolored explosions are an incredible sight. I was nestled within a crowd of tens of thousands of Catalans, and a few young couples pulled me up onto the ledge of a tall concrete block where the view was better. They passed me some sparklers and we watched the pyrotechnics dance across the sky to Latin jazz. Suddenly, the music shifted, and a tribute to none other than Leonard Bernstein began (it was the centennial of American composer’s birth). Of course, the fireworks boomed out in unison to the familiar melodies of “Candide”. I laughed to myself at the serendipity being there, hearing Bernstein in Barcelona of all places.

“Báilame como si fuera la última vez Y enséñame ese pasito que no sé Un besito bien suavecito, bebé Taki taki, Taki taki

(Dance with me as if it were the last time And teach me that little step that I don’t know A good soft little kiss, baby Taki taki, Taki taki)” -DJ Snake feat. Selena Gomez, Cardi B, & Ozuna, “Taki Taki”

In Catalunya, even the dogs enjoy freedom as they stroll through city streets off leash. People here pretty much do as they please. I am trying to bring the same genuine and relaxed energy as I live my life back in the US.

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Musical Memoir - IV. Development

“Welcome to the city with too many roads You're not gonna know where to go Just follow all the pretty lights Get lost till it feels right The places you will go” -Patrick Watson, “Places You Will Go”

My sense of self was adrift. Living on my own for the first time, struggling with my surfacing bipolar disorder, and left with a tarnished vision of the world, I felt lost, alone, and out of control. I had just exited a mentally draining relationship, a toxic cycle of emotional warfare where I felt my words and body weaponized against me. I was searching for validation in all the wrong places, destructively offshoring the love I denied myself. Securing the funds through morally nebulous means, I got myself a ticket away from all the negative influences that were dragging me down, away from my little bubble and the catastrophic political upheaval of 2016. I was circling the drain of existential contemplation and coming to terms with the Earth shaking notion that the world was more unjust and ugly than I had naively assumed. Unable to cope with the personal nightmare of Donald Trump’s election to the presidency, I impulsively booked a ticket to visit an old friend in Vancouver the weekend of the inauguration.

Reuniting with my friend Abbi, with whom I had played in orchestras together for years, brought me back to less complicated times. It was so fun to finally be able to hang out minus the restrictions of adolescence; now we were young women who smoked pot and went out on the town in dresses too cold for the frigid air and heels. We hit a classy bar for dinner and drinks (the legal drinking age in British Columbia being 19), then to a comedy club to watch two of our sex-positive, feminist, stand-up idols perform. Afterwards we went to the Gastown neighborhood of downtown Vancouver, where the streets were barricaded to make way for late night foot traffic. We walked from one bar to the next until we settled on one to hang around until closing, sitting on barstools and flirting with a handsomely tattooed and bearded hipster bartender. I discovered one of the truly best drinking foods, Poutine. We ended the night drunkenly giggling over the ridiculousness of thigh chaffing tights and matte liquid lipstick, only to realize Abbi had left her wallet at the bar. We ditched the heels and ran back to retrieve it, barely catching the last bus back to her campus.

The next day we headed out, Sharpied posters in hand, for the International Woman’s March in protest of the Trump presidency. Joined by 15,000 others, we marched through the streets of Vancouver, plastering the newly built Trump tower with our protest signs. It was the first big protest I had ever been a part of, indeed, it was the largest single day protest in US history, joined by millions of supporting voices around the globe. It was an extremely empowering and heartening experience, and we commemorated it by seeking out one of the only tattoo parlors that was still taking walk ins. We got matching tattoos of the symbol for feminism as a reminder of the day and all it stood for.

“Always a riddle in the world she says Always a riddle inside my head Always a thing to wonder in the way we come to be Oh it's a big old place for me yeah It's a big old world indeed Kicking my heels and wondering how I've been here so long” -Ben Howard, “In Dreams”

In contrast with the boiling tensions at home, Canada felt like a friendly, laissez-faire, and polite cousin to America. Vancouver was an oasis, a heaving metropolis abutting Pacific Northwest splendor from every direction—the Puget Sound, the Pacific Ocean, the coniferous rainforests.

In one day, and without the guidance of my local friend (she had classes to attend), I hopped several busses and traversed over the inlet and past downtown to North Vancouver. I waited for the last bus, more of a van really, to carry me up to Lynn Canyon Park. 

What lay waiting for me was a place of dreams, a real life version of the fantastical Rivendale of Lord of the Rings fame or a Bon Iver album cover come to life. Here, the evergreen needles of massive conifers were always damp with the droplets left behind by rolling fog and the freezing mist that was created at the base of cascading waterfalls. Wooden stairs and boardwalks made a path through a canopy of pines, dotted with flourishing lichen and moss along with well-established patches of gritty, glacial ice. Sunlight filtered through the trees to illuminate the misty air before falling on dense, lush ferns growing from the dark soil and carpeting of old needles and fallen pinecones that covered the ground. 

Exploring my way into this beautiful wilderness by myself was so liberating. This place felt as if it should have been an impossibility—a rainforest where snow was ever-present, an entire world and a short bus ride away from the big city. I made my way to the park’s central attraction—the suspension bridge that spanned the length of the canyon right above the roiling cauldron of the biggest waterfall.

I stepped onto the first board, and despite all the assurances of the safety of the structure and rational assessments of the number of tourists that come here every day and leave unharmed, I still felt the thrill of adrenaline hit my body as I felt the bridge move underneath me. I stepped forward into the chasm, the bridge swinging and teetering with every step forward that I took. I looked down into the churning whitewater where tons of water surged over the edge of the cliff each second, creating a glacial maelstrom of a thousand shades of turquoise as each drop mingled together once again in the basin. I felt so small and powerless in the face of such magnificence, witnessing the tireless, eternal evolution of nature reinventing herself. I also felt the relief of realizing my own insignificance, of seeing the panorama of time eternal spread out before me in the form of this canyon, carved out of unyielding rock over years and years of the river relentlessly forging its path ahead. I took comfort in the water’s continual pilgrimage towards the ocean, indifferent to all the tiny lives that it passes by on its journey.  

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Music Memoir - III. Minuet

We were embarking on the bildungsroman of trips—after graduating high school, we were headed to Seattle for the week of my 19th birthday. Together, Maddie, Jeffry, and I had all saved up the money we needed for a round trip ticket from Denver to Seattle, several nights in Airbnbs and hostels, and enough to feed ourselves for a week. In this regard, we couldn’t help but splurge on coffee and meals at undeniably hipster/millennial restaurants. We walked all over the city, backpacks weighing down our shoulders and hips, marking ourselves distinctly as tourists. We intrepidly navigated the metro and bus system late into the night.

Bonded through the experience of creating symphonic works of art, music was inevitably something we discussed; revering and despising works in equal measure. When it was your turn to DJ, you stepped up to the plate and presented something that was edgy, beautiful, hilarious, masterful, groovy. Discovering great new albums or talented new voices was one of benefits of our close knit friendship. The aux cord was like the winding plastic veins of an IV drip that gave us life. We sang along to the farcical, falsetto la las (a la rock and roll records of the ‘60s, best laid out in Elton John’s Crocodile Rock) of a gem we had found from a weird indie band.

“Under the night lights You’re looking for some place to go (For some place to go)…

nah-nah nah-nah, la-la la-Laaaa nah-nah nah-nah, la-la la-Laaaa nah-nah nah-nah, la-la la-Laaaa nah-nah nah-nah, la-la la-Laaaa” -San Cisco, “Lyall”

One of the best birthdays, or days in general, was the day I spent in Seattle with my two best friends from high school. We splurged on an Uber to take us to the Japanese Garden that was on the edge of the city, and were rewarded with a curated yet organic maze of botanical paradise. We wandered, unhurried, through the paths in the 3.5-acre garden, soaking in the zen and natural glory of flourishing trees and flowers. We crossed bridges and stones over the running water was cutting its own paths through the landscape, filling the air with a gentle babble. We took photos in a bed of hydrangeas with globes as big as our face. We didn’t know the path ahead of us, other than the fact that it would be beautiful; we just meandered, completely present in the moment.

The next day, we took a bus to a train to a ferry to Lopez Island, 30 square miles of slow paced life just off the Washington coastline. Lopez is the “Friendly Isle”, where it’s customary to wave at passing cars. We rode my great aunt and uncle’s Jeep to their secluded little cabin. We pulled over to pick some of the plentiful blackberries that grew on thorny bushes on the side of the road, each of us filling bags with plump, glistening little purple-black gems of tart sweetness. We visited gorgeous beaches. One was covered with smooth, colorful stones that clicked gently over each other as the waves broke over them. Another was littered with innumerable shells, many of which were still intact, which we pocketed and wrapped carefully in our luggage. Lastly, a tranquil cove that was perfect for swimming even though the August waters were still chilly, with sandy shores covered with gnarled driftwood logs bleached by the salt and sun.

We met up with my cousin the next day, and he took us for a ride on his sailboat, where we drank straight from a bottle of wine he had stowed in the cabin. He brought us along to meet his friends who met every week for “Music Night”. Serendipitously, my instrument—a French horn—was waiting in the Island Library, which I checked out for the occasion. Not sure what to expect, we pulled up to a friend’s “farm” and were met with a scene that was more eclectic than I could have imagined. In the front of the farm, there were multiple school busses and VWs that were in the process of being refurbished into tiny homes. My cousin’s friend who identifies as a “hippie cowboy” led us around a tiny, bizarre village of outbuildings, a shingled barn, corrugated sheet metal outhouse, a large greenhouse for growing the green stuff, and a yurt like structure where he and his partner slept, which was hung with countless chandeliers of found deer and elk antlers. Mason jars fill of bud sat on every shelf. The hippie cowboy held a stem of marijuana between his lips, chewing on the end like a TV show rancher would on a piece of hay. He had some of the most formidable dreadlocks I’ve ever seen on a white person and wore an oversized flannel paired with a leather cowboy hat and boots. They brought us out back to a pen which housed around two dozen goats for a “goatie frolic”. We nervously laughed as we pet the goats, unexpectedly intimidating animals (who leaped nimbly onto rails a meter off the ground), with their marble like amber eyes, stocky bodies, and curved horns. As the last light of the day was quickly fading, we walked along a cow pen and were inspected by the farm cats who brushed up against our shins.

Finally, it was time for the long awaited Music night. We crowded into an outbuilding with my cousin, the farmers, and a collection of their “band mates”. This structure was like a cave, a low ceilinged hut constructed with stones of varied sizes, glass bottles, and other random artifacts all held together with loose mortar. The mortar was sculpted into humanoid forms in the corners of the tiny room. There was a binder of chord progressions and lyrics for songs by indie rock bands and a bottle opener masquerading as a little statue of a nun. A wood burning stove warmed the gathering, a motley ensemble of an accordion, a violin, guitars, a mandolin, a triangle, my French horn, and off-key singers. 

“And it's one, two, three On the wrong side of the lee What were you meant for What were you meant for And it's seven, eight, nine You gave your shuffle back in line And if you ever make it to ten, you won't make it again And if you ever make it to ten, you won't make it again” -The Decemberists, “Rox In The Box”

Even though the group couldn’t keep a steady tempo or stay on pitch in the vocal department, the sense of fun filled the air like the pot smoke. 

In the following days, Jeffrey, Maddie, and I chopped our own wood to make campfires, went to the farmer’s market, and made a Dutch oven cobbler with the blackberries. We threw rocks and swirled branches off a dock at night, bioluminescence lighting up the water at the movement. It was the perfect conclusion to an era of my life, after high school and before college, innocent and optimistic kids on the precipice of adulthood.

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Musical Memoir - II. Overture

When I was just ten years old, I started playing the French horn in the school concert band. Those first cringe-inducing attempts were the beginning of a musical journey as I advanced my way through junior high and high school to arrive successfully in a collegiate program. I dedicated myself to my craft, and began to channel my emotions into my passion for auditory expression. As I progressed through the stages of artistic development, I witnessed a very observable payoff—music was taking me places, to imagined worlds of drama and fantasy, through time and space, and even to concert halls continents away.

Music was my first international tour guide. Music opened my eyes to the immensity of the world, and fostered my nascent yearning to discover as much of it as I could. The hours I spent rehearsing built transnational pathways on which I was an eager passenger, my French horn secured smartly in the overhead compartment. 

I was so excited when my audition finally earned me a spot in the top youth orchestra in the city, especially because this group had the opportunity to tour internationally every other year. When the destination for the 2014 tour was announced, nearly everyone was ecstatic—we were going to Japan! Throughout our jam-packed two-and-a-half-week stay, the musicians would stay with three different Japanese host families. The tour would travel along the coast, visiting the traditional towns of Wajima and Suzu, before heading inland to the city of Fujiyoshida (which overlooked the famous volcano, Mt. Fuji), and finally onto the cities of Tokyo and Kyoto. My sister, parents, and I flew home after the rest of the group, lingering on the island to connect with my mother’s cousins in our ancestral homeland of Sayama-Saitama (where they are famed for growing the finest green tea in all of Japan).

The finale piece we played at our concerts was Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 4, four movements of undiluted orchestral bravado. The Japanese audiences met us with emphatic applause, presenting us with gifts at each show as a sign of their abiding hospitality. We intermingled with the orchestras of local high schools and played Radetzky March alongside giggling Japanese students in stylish, pressed uniforms. We even played side by side with Taiko drummers to premiere Fantasia for Taiko and Orchestra by renowned contemporary composer Eric Ewazen, which married the colorful voices of a symphony orchestra with the thundering, measured intensity of dozens of taught drumheads being struck in perfect synchronicity, the full weight of the drummers’ body behind every beat.

While touring the incredible country of Japan, I experienced innumerable unforgettable moments with my family and fellow musicians, many of whom were some of my closest friends. I saw towering, illuminated shrines that are paraded around the town once a year on the backs of several dozen brawny carriers and bright red, incense-filled Shinto temples built in the steep forested hillsides of the mountains. We spent long days at Tokyo Disneyland and a theme park based on the Edo period made famous by classic samurai films. I experienced the wonders of Japanese toilets and vending machines, and the relaxation of the onsen (Japanese bath houses). Japan bridges the worlds of age old tradition and rigid custom, and whimsical, modern inventiveness. The disorienting, pedestrian-choked streets of downtown Tokyo, illuminated on either side by multicolored florescent signs covered in Kanji characters provided striking contrast to the tranquil quiet of the forests surrounding the curving, tiled roofs of shrines, punctuated only by the regular ringing of gongs, tinkling of bells in the breeze, and the gentle flow of water through ceremonial purifying fountains. I will never forget the picturesque, postcard-perfect view of the outdoor amphitheater we played which framed the stunning Mt. Fuji in the distance.

Next year, my high school’s symphonic band moved into the spotlight as we prepared for our upcoming trip to New York City. The old adage of: “How do you get to Carnegie Hall?”, “Practice, practice, practice!” rang true as we rehearsed tirelessly for our set in the most prestigious of concert halls. After adding another performance of the great Leonard Bernstein’s classic, Overture too Candide, to the ever growing number played on the Carnegie hall stage each year, my high school bandmates and I went out on the town, soaking up the unmistakable big city energy of the Big Apple. We roamed through Times Square, discovered the miracles of 99-cent pizza slices and Junior’s cheesecake, and saw the musical Chicago on Broadway. We celebrated our successful performance on a river cruise around Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, where I watched the iconic silhouette of Lady Liberty’s outstretched torch outlined in the fading twilight, as the lights of the city brightened to counteract the impending night. We craned our necks to marvel at the painted celestial bodies of Grand Central Station, and drank in the views atop the Empire State Building and Rockefeller Center, where the innumerable twinkling lights of the city sprawling beneath us created their own industrial lightshow, like all the stars had been taken from the sky and spilled out over the ground.

Not many people can claim to have the experience of performing in Carnegie not only once, but twice, in their life, let alone while still in high school. I am among the privileged few to have been presented with this opportunity. The following year, I was returning with my youth symphony, as we embarked on our 2016 tour with destinations in the Czech Republic and Germany.  We reunited with the musicians from Wajima to fill the scarlet amphitheater of the most famous concert hall in NYC with the sounds of thundering Taiko drums interwoven with the strings, woodwinds, and brass of the orchestra. Candide inevitably made an appearance on this program as well. As we continued our tour in Europe, we brought the music of Americana to German and Czech audiences. From John Williams to Aaron Copland, brash fanfares and sounds from the wild west filled churches that were build centuries before the United States existed.

In Prague, we strolled through the Old Town in groups, perusing the handcrafted wares of the open air street market and waiting in the square for the animated hourly show put on by the mechanical workings of the giant astronomical clock. We crossed over the slow moving Vlatva river to the New Town via the Charles bridge, which was decorated with beautifully crafted sculptures every 20 paces or so. We posed for pictures in front of the layers of rainbow graffiti on the John Lennon wall and gazed over the brick-red roofs of the city. The dark red contrasts with the ochre and white buildings interspersed with the teal of oxidized metal. Prague, the “city of a Hundred Spires” is a truly magnificent sight, historical Gothic, medieval, and baroque architecture that survived miraculously unscathed through Europe’s many wars.

Our first stop in Germany was in the city of Leipzig. There, I visited the tomb of Johann Sebastian Bach, ate currywurst (curry ketchup with sausage and fries) and had my first cup of European coffee. From there, we toured the summer home of Prussian king Fredrick the Great in Potsdam. The palace was dazzling in its finery and the history nerd in me reveled in the experience of seeing the setting of my textbooks in person. 

The final stop on our tour was Berlin. We saw fragments of the Berlin Wall and witnessed how Germany contends with its weighty history as an essential part of its modern identity. Despite the heavy influence of drinking culture here, we weren’t supposed to drink alcohol while under the supervision of the youth symphony. I debated sneaking out of our hostel to drink in late night pubs with the Germans, but for fear of missing curfew I decided against it. However, I couldn’t find it in myself to refuse the oversized bottles of beer my German host family casually offered me as we shared dinner. The sparkling wine at our post-concert reception of our last show was even harder to resist, and I knocked a couple glasses back while surreptitiously avoiding the eyes of the chaperones. I toasted to all the great times I had experienced as a member of my musical ensembles.

I had been given so many incredible opportunities throughout my youth to glimpse the widely varied people and places the beautiful world has to offer. Music was my ticket to most of these opportunities, but more importantly, my musical studies taught me the value of dedication and perseverance. By working hard, I arrived at the freedom to do what I enjoyed. Speaking through a language that everyone can understand, I have communicated the most human sentiments through melody and rhythm to a crowd of many races and many places. These experiences opened my mind to the enormity of life and the countless manifestations of the human experience.

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Playlist Snapshot - 20 Songs that I Can’t Stop Listening To

People often ask the question: what sort of music do you listen to? In no particular order, some songs I’m really been jamming to lately:

#1- Glass Animals, “Season 2, Episode 3″

David Bayley often refers to his songs as “characters”. This song tells the story of a homebody who spends too much time on the couch, “Leftover breakfast, cereal for lunch; she’s broken but she’s fun; My girl eats mayonnaise; From a jar when she’s gettin blazed”. Bayley says he likes that people come away with different interpretations to his work, stating, “each person’s interpretation is 100% important. It’s much more interesting for everyone that way.”

#2- Cardi B, “I Like It”

I love the latin flavor of this song, and the memories it beings back as I heard it played around the world. Bad Bunny and J Balvin’s rap verses are a great example of how to lay it down in Spanish.

#3 - The Hollies, “We’re Through”

This minor, 4-part-harmony jam is straight from 1964. I was introduced to it through The Umbrella Academy; it really captures the energy of my favorite character, Klaus, played by may favorite actor at the moment, Robert Sheehan.

#4 - Original Broadway Cast of Hamilton, “Nonstop”

This snuck its way in again. Maybe it’s because it gives me motivation to meet my deadlines. 51 essays in 6 months? I take that as a challenge. 

#5 - The Wombats, “I Only Wear Black”

I listened to this album by the Wombats (Beautiful People Will Ruin Your Life) all the time during my commute and in the office at my internship last semester. The pop punk and upbeat vibe is true to the artists' sound but for me it represents a natural evolution of their style and is the best they have sounded; I don't believe there is a bad song on the album. This is the one that seemed to run through my head the most and I love the contrast of the sing-songy and kind of delicate vocals with the lyrics.

#5 - Arturo Márquez, “Danzón No. 2″

Over the years, I have played this piece several times, in both band and orchestra. I love the many moods of this song- sultry, bombastic, tender, playful, intense, and unmistakably Latin. No matter how many times I listen to or play this piece, it never loses its energy or brilliance for me. Gustavo Dudamel really loves this one and to be honest the Orquesta Sinfónica Simón Bolívar performance is one of the best.

#6 - St. Vincent, “Los Ageless”

I had a hard time deciding on one track from this St. Vincent album (Masseduction) but this one was the winner. I love the wordplay in the lyrics and the cynical perspective. I also love how it was used for the Season 5 premiere of BoJack Horseman; I think it perfectly encapsulates the theme of celebrity.

#7 - Panic! At The Disco, “Say Amen (Saturday Night)”

I love pretty much all of Panic at the Disco's discography as they have moved through their many phases. I really just love how this song showcases Brendon Urie's exceptional vocals with a big band, really allowing him to be very theatrical. while also showcasing the wild talent of his brass and wind players.  You can tell Brendon is straight off of Broadway. I also love to sing along to this one, and the Bari Sax part is so great, “Yeah, there's a couple fracks, but we got it. That's the shit, that's the shit, and, man, I saw you fuckin' lift that sax up towards the microphone and I fell in love! K, alright, one more time, here we go”.

#8 - Leon Bridges, “Pony”

Undoubtedly the best cover of the Ginuwine R&B classic. Leon Bridges can keep blessing us with his music as long as he likes.

#9 - Lana Del Rey, “West Coast”

Lana Del Rey is the queen of sad girl pop. I love this dreamy track which evokes vibes of a Manson Era California cool. 

#10 - Childish Gambino, “Summertime Magic”

Childish Gambino (Donald Glover) never fails to stun. I love the sound of the steel drums with the booming bass and leaning synths. Gauva Island has me dreaming of the Caribbean sun.

#11 - BTS, “Idol”

I guess I am having a bit of a K-Pop moment? I can’t fully call myself an “Army”, but I can’t stop replaying this banger. Nothing really compares to the polished swagger of a Korean boy band. 

#12 - Jimi Hendrix, “Have You Ever Been (To Electric Ladyland)”

Jimmi Hendrix’s impeccable guitar work and gentle voice both sooth and rock in this classic number.  Hendrix’s raw talent evokes the joyous abandon of late-60′s free-love and psychedelia. 

#13 - Beyoncé, “Formation”

Many thanks to Queen Bey for releasing Lemonade on Spotify. I can’t stop thinking about Homecoming either. Honestly I’m just glad I’m alive at the same time as Beyoncé. 

#14 - Ariana Grande, “needy”

Yeah, everybody loves the irresistible “break up with your girlfriend, i’m bored”, and has heard the unavoidable “7 rings”. However, “needy” is an overlooked gem on Ari’s latest hit packed album thank u, next. Ariana’s vocals always slay me, but this particular confessional is a masterclass in female pop vocal production. 

#15 -Watsky, “No Complaints No Conversation”

Watsky’s rapid-fire, slightly-lisped witticisms find an effortless groove over arpeggiated synths which connotative retro video games. He also expands his vocal reach, sounding quite good, and he doesn’t overdo the autotune for which I am grateful.

#16 - The Weeknd “Pray For Me (with Kendrick Lamar)

Still not over it-Black Panther was great on so many levels, and the soundtrack is just another aspect of a killer production. African American Rap superhero Kendrick Lamar’s songwriting influence is woven throughout the album. The Weeknd always brings it on vocals and I love the verse where everything else drops out so his voice can really shine. 

#17- Jonas Brothers, “Sucker”

Ok, how can anyone resist this one? I remember the days when the Jonas Brothers were hot shit, and to be honest, I don’t think they are over. The music video is also very cute and well shot, featuring the three brothers’ significant others.

#18 - Beach House, “Space Song”

This song aurally conveys the sensation of floating. This song brings me back to Razzmatazz when I saw Beach House perform live in Barcelona. Victoria Legrand has such a unique voice and I love the keyboard work.

#19 - RuPaul, “Call Me Mother”

RuPaul is incomparable. Love this campy, club-kid tribute to Ru’s legendary status as an LGBTQ+ icon: “queen, Shade machine, Gets the [?]; Best believe; Mother Ru”. She slays the complicated rhythms and brings joyful charisma, uniqueness, nerve, and talent to every listener’s ear.  

#20 - Gregory Alan Isakov with the Colorado Symphony, “Amsterdam”

I love this mix of classical with Gregory Alan Isakov’s singer songwriter vibes. I have also had the chance to perform with the Colorado Symphony, and I am familiar with the horn section, which is featured prominently with a soaring 4 part choir. In the final verse, I love how the whole orchestra crescendos and drops down to just vibes. 

[taylorwritesnonstop-blog]

Musical Memoir - I. Prelude

I have been on the road since I was in utero. I was rocking to rhythms of wheels spinning over miles upon miles of road from the time I was in my mother’s womb, in tandem with my amniotic sac and the movement of her body around mine. I was named for a State Park where my parents went on one of their first camping trips together when they were dating—Taylor Park Reservoir, outside of Crested butte Colorado, mountain ski town and wildflower capital. Before I could talk or walk, I was brought along on drives to far flung destinations. Most of the time I was a good traveler, but my parents still tell the story of a grating stretch where I would simply not stop bawling. I can only imagine my mom and dad frantically trying every trick in the book to quiet me down. I think I eventually fell asleep, lulled by the gentle turbulence of the car steadily advancing down the highway. To this day riding on cars, planes, and busses still makes me drowsy, often rocking me into a slumber despite my best efforts.

I grew up on road trips, hikes into the wilderness, and long overland excursions into the American West.  The car was always packed full of gear and amenities, our pop up Coleman trailer like a modern covered wagon pulled behind us over state lines; miles of dirt roads and baking asphalt freeways alike. My dad taught me how to pack for the unexpected and squeeze a remarkable amount of stuff into our car, trailer, & backpacks, like a life size version of Tetris. Over the years, we had identified the best gas stations to refuel and stock up on sustenance for the road—Spitz sunflower seeds, coffee, Snickers, and Twizzlers. We would pull over for rest stops to stretch our legs and hit the toilets (some that don’t flush with freezing cold seats that opened to a vacuous sewage hole). I would always joke with my sister that something was inside and would pull her in when she sat down to pee.  

Road trips always meant listening to Dad’s tunes, his iPod classic on shuffle, the cars speakers turned up to compete with the roar of wind through the open windows. I received an education in 70s classic rock, old school country, bluegrass, and poignant, gritty, singer-songwriters. We would always start off the drive by singing along to Willie Nelson as the sun started to break over the horizon, painting the early morning in streaks of sanguine pastels:

“On the road again, like a band of gypsies we roll down the highway, we’re the best of friends, insisting that the world keep turning our way, and our way, is on the road again” -Willy Nelson, “On the Road Again” 

Some might say being an adventurer is in my blood. My ancestors drove covered wagons into uncharted territory, foraging an intrepid path into the unknown. To this day my cousins and aunts and great uncles are some of the most well-travelled and worldly people I know. When I think about the type of life I want for myself, I have come to realize that I imagine myself adventuring into the most far flung, extraordinary unknowns the world has to offer.

[taylorwritesnonstop-blog]

Album Review: Janelle Monáe - Dirty Computer

Despite her rise to mainstream commercial and critical success, I had somehow managed to get through 2018 without the experience of Janelle Monáe’s Dirty Computer. The 33-year old released her third studio album on April 27, 2018, backed by production teams Wondaland Arts Society, Bad Boy Records, and Atlantic Records. The album was accompanied by an Emotion Picture of the same name a la Beyoncé’s Lemonade.

While Lemonade made strides empowering women, particularly black women, through their sexuality, Dirty Computer takes these feminist concepts a step further into intersectionality. Both the album and Emotion Picture center on the queer black female experience; the artist has been candid over her sexuality, stating, “Being a black queer woman in America...someone who has been in relationships with both men and women—I consider myself to be a free-** motherf**ker”. Monáe is honest with her audience in ways previously unexplored, straying into autobiography and baring herself, honestly and vulnerably, only to come out the other side fortified and hopeful.

Prior to taking the time to intentionally listen to this album, I would say that I have been Janelle Monáe adjacent for a couple years. I had seen her star in the 2016 Oscar Nominees/Winners, Hidden Figures and Moonlight, and heard her featured or sampled on other artists’ work. Of course I heard the controversy stoked by the right-wing hate-monger Ben Shapiro’s winging on the obscenity of the vulva imagery in the Pynk music video (which was released separately before the full album) and saw the SJW twitter clapback. As a member of the LGBTQ community, I knew that Janelle Monáe was a big inspiration for many of my friends.

However, I could not have expected how deeply this album would touch me. I plan to invest in a vinyl record, and that’s how I know it’s real.

The film, a visually stunning production starring Janelle Monáe (as singer, writer, musician, dancer, lead actor, and director), is a stunningly well-executed, fully-formed, artistic vision. The themes of automation, lack of privacy, and the pervasiveness of technology are presented in a dystopian near-future scenario, blending sci-fi with social criticism similarly to Hulu’s Handmaid’s Tale or Netflix’s Black Mirror.

“Pynk (feat. Grimes)” is definitely one of the highlights of the album for me. Grimes brings an alternative-pop grit to the single. Extremely sexual without being explicit, the restrained groove and digging guitar riffs back lyrics about the soft and feminine, the reproductive and anatomical. Flashes of lipstick, orchids, shells, and a bubbling a strawberry milkshake are interspersed with shots of Monáe and her Black Girl Magic backup dancers in “vaginapants”, covered in flowery gradient (pink) frills. It is refreshing to see black women who are so carefree, feeling themselves, and in charge of their sexuality, “Boy its cool; if you’ve got blue, We’ve got the pink”.

While the comparisons to Lemonade are inevitable, I found myself being reminded of another musical legend as I spent time with Dirty Computer. Prince makes his way into the funky guitar, sexed-up lyrics, and extravagant, gender-bending performance style. It is bittersweet that he never got to see the final product, but his presence is felt in the songwriting, none more evocative of his unique confidence than “Make Me Feel”.

I have grown into my womanhood at a time when progress clashed with traditionalism, melding my pluralistic, cynical worldview. I have grown up in a constantly fluctuating world of millions of lives projecting blue light from pixelated screens, witnessed the shrinking of privacy and authenticity. I have seen the omens of climate change in unprecedented natural disasters, watched too many massacres of schoolchildren broadcasted on the evening news, and looked on as the greed and corruption of the few have made life hard for the many. I have felt alienated, by my country, my body, the modern world, by the endless consumption of an automated capitalist culture.

Janelle Monáe provided us with the perfect antidote to the uphill battle we are all facing as we look toward the future. The artist has been open about her political views to the extent that she has involved herself in voting activism and encouraging her fans to be politically active—asking them to take charge of the future they want for America.

To anyone looking for a shot of confidence, a splash of wit, or just a really good song to jam out to, I highly recommend checking out Dirty Computer. Monáe has the stuff to become an icon for a generation, a rallying cry that resonates with not only those at the margins, but also seeps into the fabric of our popular culture to speak truth to power.

[taylorwritesnonstop-blog]

Michael Jackson: Superstar or Super Evil?

While for some, Michael Jackson represents a musical legend, inspiration, and a larger than life celebrity, I can no longer think of him as any of the above without also seeing his tarnished legacy. The “King of Pop” defined what musical stardom looked like for a generation. His distinctive sound, dance moves, and fashion set culture trends as his signature falsetto moonwalked its way into the hearts and minds of millions of fans worldwide. Everyone has heard the classic “Thriller”, and seen the iconic zombie-horror music video. However, Jackson’s monstrosity was all too real, and heartbreaking scandals that were hidden from the public eye for too long are finally coming to light. The 2018 film Leaving Neverland, which recounts the alleged sexual abuse two boys suffered at the hands of Michael Jackson, caused some die-hard fans to flock to the deceased singer’s defense, unable to reconcile these stories with their image of the musical talent. However, we ought to come to terms with the fact that such a well-loved icon was, in all likelihood, a predator.

The two part, nearly 4-hour film is built around the experiences of two boys, Wade Robson and James Safechuck. Now grown men, they and their families tell the story of their relationships with Jackson. Mesmerized by the fame, both the children and their parents were groomed to trust him, aided by the childlike and humanitarian public image that the singer cultivated. The documentary follows the cycle of abuse, watching how the molestation the boys went through went on to shape their future selves—still haunted by the sexual abuse orchestrated by a trusted family friend and a role model, the Robson and Safechuck families now have to worry about threats of violence from MJ supporters who don’t believe the stories they tell.

Robson and Safechuck recount the most horrific acts that could ever be done to a child. Bewitched by his Hollywood lifestyle and the extravagant world of the rich and famous, the kids lost touch of reality as Michael progressively alienated them from friends and family. The boys already felt they knew him from their close relationship with his work and knowledge of his celebrity persona, so they trusted him. His home, Neverland Ranch, was like a real life version of the witch’s candy house in fairy tales, set to lure in innocent children with its zoo, amusement park, movie theater, pool, gardens, and arcade. At the same time, Michael was helping them achieve professional and financial success; realizing their dreams of becoming a dancer, performer, famous. The abuse began so incrementally, pushing the limits a little more with each transgression, that the impressionable boys were easily seduced by the friendship and love that Michael provided.

While Michael Jackson’s role as an abuser is in my opinion indisputable, it is also important to see how he too was a victim. In all likelihood, he suffered a similar wretched fate as a child. It seems as if he never progressed emotionally beyond the limits of a young boy, a boy around the age of the ones he molested. Even though this in no way excuses his actions, we should also interrogate a system which allowed this thinly veiled abuse to persist for so many years.

Michael Jackson remained financially and personally successful even after several allegations of sexual abuse of minors had been brought to court. The public watched with a smile as he constantly surrounded himself with children and spent time alone with particular young boys who would accompany him on international tours. Safechuck and Robson, who met Jackson as child actors and dancers, were just a two boys in a never-ending stream of companions Jackson kept over the years. Why would any responsible parents allow their children to sleep in the same room as an adult man they hardly knew? What sort of parent would allow her son to speak for hours on end with a 33 year-old “friend” with whom sleepovers were a regular occurrence? Both boys’ parents look back on their allowances with regret and disbelief, acknowledging how they were blinded by their ambitions and the tempting luxuries Jackson offered. Under such conditions, it makes complete sense that a young boy who had been brainwashed into protecting his and Michael’s secret would deny that he had ever been abused when asked directly by parents and media—only to come forward many years later to claim the allegations were even worse than imagined.

Before we judge any of the victims of this widespread abuse, we must first imagine the incredible power of fame. The surreal nature of the experience made the families accept stories that normally would have been unacceptable. Imagine that Michael Jackson, world superstar, would come over to your normal family home for dinner. Michael Jackson, the icon, thought your son was special, and wanted to help him succeed. He was lighthearted and innocent, just like a child, and he and your son were best friends.

As much as we love to project celebrities into imagined roles and cast people as either heroes or villains, we should remember that no matter how much star power someone has, they are still human. That humanity comes with inherent moral ambiguity; classifying someone as simply good or bad is an exercise in futility. The bigger question is if we as the audience can still support the work of an entertainer with the knowledge of their misdeeds.

Now when I hear any Michael Jackson songs I can’t help but imagine the young boys dancing along to the choreographed routines, in full costume, like little versions of Michael Jackson. I am sickened when I see MJ’s hips thrust or gyrate, wondering how many children were molested to satisfy his dysfunctional sexual needs. When I watch the Jackson 5, and look into the innocent, smiling face of a talented young boy, I am saddened by the knowledge of what he would become. No matter how much of a musical genius he may have been, I cannot understand how Michael Jackson’s legacy could not be irrevocably tainted by hearing the stories in Leaving Neverland.