Be Water, my Friend

One Sunday June 1st, my piano students had their summer recitals.

I’ve been teaching for five years now and we do our recitals twice a year. However, this time was special because at the end of the summer, I’ll be leaving dirty ol’ Edmonton behind and shacking up in Vancouver to finish my degree. It was the last recital I’d ever get to do with these kids. Some of them have been taking lessons with me since day one, some of them since month one. Some of them have only been with me for a few months, and it was their first recital ever. Some of them aced their pieces, others had trouble. Some were playing “Turkish March” and “Maple Leaf Rag”, others were playing “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and “Hot Cross Buns”.

I was so proud of every single one of them.

It’s not easy to get up onstage in front of your family and peers and a pile of strangers you’ve never seen before in your life. We had a pretty good crowd, probably around 100 people. For many kids, going up and playing in front of other piano players who might be better than them is terrifying. So regardless of “how well” they played, my heart leaped for joy and I had a big shit-eating grin plastered on my mug as soon as they ascended the stage and planted their buns on that piano bench. I tell all my students that being a little nervous isn’t a bad thing, because it means you really want to do a good job. Nerves should be the sparks to your passion-gasoline, or some bullshit.

After the performances I was asked to say a few words to the crowd. A sort of “sending-off” for everyone, even though I’m still going to be teaching until the end of August. So I went up, cracked a few goofy jokes, told everyone how hard the students had worked and how much courage it took to get up there and jam. I think I might’ve actually said “The piano bench is like a trench, man” and somehow I got a laugh. I’m an idiot, but for some reason, it works.

Partway through my little spiel, I noticed something is wrong. One of the ladies in the front row, Nicholas’s mother looks very confused. I’ve never made a speech at previous recitals. What’s the deal? When I mention my move to Vancouver, she burst into tears and had to leave the studio. I saw Nicholas in the crowd and gave him a Look. He mouthed “oh, crap.” He’d forgotten to tell his mom that I was moving away. I’d told him and his dad, but the news hadn’t reached his mom for some reason. Nicholas and I have been working together for four years now, since he was barely taller than my knees. We get along really well and his parents told me that having a young adult influence in his life has done wonders for his social anxiety and self-esteem. Nicholas is into Lord of the Rings, Batman, Elder Scrolls and Black Sabbath so he’s like the little brother I wish I had sometimes.

Anyways, the incident got me thinking a little bit. About my roles as a teacher and the impact that I might have on some of these kids, and in turn, on the parents as well.

I fucking love teaching piano. I love working with kids on a one-on-one level. I love seeing the light bulbs go blinkity-blink in a student’s eyes when a difficult concept comes to life in their mind and fingers. It’s a rush, and it’s stronger and more rewarding than any drug. I work six days a week in my studio, but I don’t even call it “work”. when about it to people. I mean, I sit on my arse and help young people make music and their parents give me money, are you even kidding me right now? Awesomeness. And yet, I’m a total idiot goofball dorkus-malorkus duncykins in the studio. When I’m not teaching kids how to play their major scales and “Let it Go”, I’m quoting Bruce Lee and telling kids to think about dead spiders when they curl their fingers and making fart jokes (usually following an actual fart, I swear to Oden it ain’t me, most of the time) and yet, moms are bursting into torrents of grief in public because I’m leaving? Man. That’s a kick in the big ol’ heart-of-hearts-of-fockin’–HEARTS, dude.

I’m gonna miss these kids. Every single one of them.

Even little Marty who (for real) punched me in the dick last month.

That little bastard rocked the shit out of a Bach minuet on Sunday.

Anyways, that’s all I got. Teaching rules, kids are fun, I’m an idiot who worships Bruce Lee and Tony Iommi. I’ll leave you all with one of my favorite quotes that I use on all my students. It’s great for all aspects of life, not just kicking ass or playing Beethoven Sonatas.

“You must be formless, shapeless. Like water. When you put water into a cup, it becomes the cup. When you put water into a teacup, it becomes the teapot. Water can flow, or drip, or creep, and crash. Be water, my friend.”

 

‘Til next time, Dragons.

Books + Brekky

This is how I start my Tuesday

Breakfast of semi-scrambled eggs (which is what I get when I fuck up sunny side up eggs) seasoned in Garam Masala, plus banana, strawberries and toast w/honey peanut butter.

Yesterday I started reading Imaro by Charles R. Saunders. Really fun sword and sorcery with an African setting. The stories were originally published across the 70’s and 80’s, this is the first of three books. Imaro is often compared to Robert E. Howard’s Conan. Howard is an obvious influence on Saunders, but where Conan is an adventurer with lofty aspirations who does pretty much whatever the hell he wants, Imaro is a troubled young warrior, hated by his kinsfolk for something his estranged mother did. Saunders, being of African descent himself, injects tribal warfare and a vivid re-imagining of the Dark Continent (Called “Nyumbani” in the books) with a character who is an outcast among his own people. Shit, there’s even a prophecy involved! The prose is fifty shades of fockin’ purple and there’s enough adverbs to give pause to a herd of stampeding gazelle, but so far the stories are a grand time in the Schoole of Olde.

I’m working on a fantasy novel and series of short stories about a mercenary captain and his ship, so I picked up Scourge of the Seas for a little research on buccaneering history to help myself out with ship anatomy, battles on the high seas, naval politics, period dress, life on the water and all that fun stuff. This is a great, high-quality book that works through The Golden Age of Piracy, providing historical background and dispelling some of our favorite sea-faring myths along the way. Isn’t learning fun?

What’chu reading on this glorious Tuesday?

Wokmania, Derby, UK

Back in 2008, I was on a tour of Germany and England. The primary lure of the trip was the Heavy metal festivals Wacken Open Air and Bloodstock UK, but I got to spend a lot of time being a goofy-ass Canadian tourist with a couple high school buddies over the course of three weeks.

This is Bloodstock

Bloodstock UK is located just outside of the city of Derby, which is pretty much smack in England’s soft, gooey center. We’d met a couple guys in Germany who lived there, so we decided to go out with them for a night on the town before hitting up the festival. We started boozing in the afternoon which carried on well into the edge of night as we bounced from pub to bar to club and back again before landing in our hostel, memories hazy feeling Eh-Oh-Kay.

At one point in the night, we were stumbling around Cheapside and Friar Gate in the city’s center. On one corner was a church, one of those towering motherfuckers what’s been there for centuries. It was around 9:00pm on a Thursday night in August. Now, being Canadian heavy metal nerds, my mates and I love ancient shit. I ask if we can check out it. Jon, our local guide told us “No mate, it’s not that cool,” but we ignored him and wandered over there anyways. Without thinking, I pulled open the massive iron-framed door.

People were inside the church. They are sitting at booths and table and corralled around lamps that shimmer with heat waves. The smell hits us. Jon fills us in.

“This church was built in the 1600’s. A few years ago it was bought and turned into a Chinese buffet. It’s called ‘Wokmania’.”

This is Wokmania

We were dumbstruck. Angry. Shocked. Even a little bit frightened. I wanted to grab a pair of chopsticks, pluck out the manager’s eyes and use them for garnish in a bowl of won-ton soup. It was like someone had squatted down and dropped a big, steaming coiler inside such a beautiful piece of history. The place wasn’t even nice. I seethed. Then we remembered.

We hadn’t eaten dinner yet.

A few minutes later, I caught myself saying “This is so fucked up! This is so wrong, on so many – Oooo! Ginger beef!”

Sometimes you just gotta roll with cultural discordance.

Greece is the Word

Last week I got my tickets for the Up The Hammers festival, taking place in Athens in March 2015. I know it’s ten months away, but HOLY SHIT GREECE, people. Fuckin’ GREECE, like are you even kidding me? Every time I look at my ticket, shining and silver, I get a little higgly-piggly-wiggly feeling. You know, down there. Greece has been a bucket list destination ever since I saw Disney’s Hercules as a little gaffer. A land of ancient heroes, larger-than-life monsters and vast temples? The country was practically made for me. I’m gonna be back in University when the trip happens so I’ll probably have to keep it simple, two weeks or less. Whatever. One full week of nerding out in the Agora and the Acropolis, book-ended by two weekends of Heavy Metal bliss. For a geek like me, it don’t get any better.

Thus far, my top attractions of Greece are looking something like this:

– Delphi + Temple of Apollo

– The Temple of Hephaestus

– Gorging myself on slow-roasted lamb smothered in tzatziki

– Getting hammered in taverns that are older than my country

– Seeing Atlantean Kodex, Doomsword, Manilla Road, Omen and many more!

– Island-hopping with my European mates

If anyone’s got some travel tips for a mild mythology+history buff in regards to the city of Athens and surrounding areas, I’d love to get in on them. Please. Teach me your ways.

 

Throwback Thursday: Tygers of Pan Tang

You think you know how to rock? You don’t. You think you know how to roll? Get bent.

Sit down and strap in, ’cause John Sykes [Thin Lizzy, Whitesnake] wants to give you a lesson in riffcraft. This is NWOBHM from the glorious early 80’s when “Heavy Metal” was barely a squabbling toddler raised by an abusive Ritchie Blackmore and “Hard Rock” was something more substantial than an empty Black Sabbath shirt and an Orange amp.

Everything about this album rules. Extra Penbanger points for horizontal-striped blue/white t-shirts, burning solos, hip-swangin’ vocals and some serious wink-wink-nudge-nudge action to Michael Moorcock.

“If you mess around with fi-yah, you’re gonna getcherself burned”

I Remember Ragnarok

I turn the corner at Falconer Street and crash into someone running full-tilt the opposite direction. My elbows scream in pain as they rake the ice. I roll to my knees, cussing and grunting. Mist seeps from a nearby storm drain. It’s one of those nights where the city lights reflect off the flying snow and the clouds, nearly as bright as day.

The dude who ran into me is still standing. A bear of a man; bearded, broad, leather-clad. “Tyr! There you are,” he rumbles, swooping down and effortlessly hauling me to my feet with one arm. His other arm is carrying a sword. Shining. Sharp.

“Whoa, whoa!” I say, backing away.

He opens his mouth to speak, then stops when we hear the pad of many feet, coming fast. The big guy runs in the direction I came from, shouting at me to follow, and I do. My arms burn from my fall. A pair of howls rip through the snow and dance in the wind, deeper and more bloodthirsty than one I’d heard in any movie.

“Don’t look back,” the man says.

We duck around and into the alley behind Penny’s Pawnbrokers. The older guy whirls around. He’s got a gaping shadow where one of his eyes should be. His half-gaze lingers on my hands. “Your sword, Tyr?”

“Er–”

“Nevermind. We hold our ground,” He says,  shoving a long dagger hilt-first into my hand. “You take Garmr, Fenrir is mine. The others shall be here soon. What I wouldn’t give for a sturdy oaken shield on my other hand, eh?” His good eye lights madly beneath his brow.

“Listen man, I don’t know what–” I stop talking because a pair of shadows block out the streetlight glow. Blue-black fur, matted. Slavering jaws. Teeth.

“Fenrir is mine,” the one-eyed old man repeats before closing the gap between himself and the wolves in a wild leap. His broadsword cuts through the falling flakes. I run before the blow lands. I hear the thud of steel against hide and flesh, the snarl and snap of battle. They die away behind me until the only noise is the crunch of snow beneath my feet. I know how that story ends.

Tuesday Reads

I like to have one non-fiction and one fiction book going at any given time. I’m about halfway through both of these, as of 8:00am on this rainy morning.
“Days of Grass” is a sci-fi novel documenting the lives of a colony of humans hiding beneath the ground from alien invaders who conquered the Earth nearly 150 years ago. Think what “War of the Worlds” might have been if the aliens didn’t get sick and die like a bunch of wimps shortly after invading. Protagonist is a plucky lass who walks the talk and likes to break the rules.

South American Mythology has been an interesting read thus far. They separate the continent into seven regions based on the distribution of myths. There are a handful of myths that permeate (almost) the entire continent and many of their “heroes” are bungling tricksters who seem to create the Earth by tripping over their own feet and making a great goddamned mess of things. Some of the legends aren’t anything special, but a few have made me laugh or say “holy shit, that’s crazy” out loud. Some of these myths get pretty sexual, more so than your average Greek/Roman/Norse myths.

What are your Tuesday reads?

Music School

Practice Room 3B

Nothing ever sounded right these days. He ran his fingers up and down the neck of his guitar; his Les Paul with the battered red finish and ebony fretboard. It’d been with him since his seventh birthday. A gift from a wealthy uncle.

His buddy Dan once said that you start by ripping other players off until you can’t anymore. You get to that one lick you can’t learn, that one tiny latitude of skill you can’t pinpoint, that one insurmountable wall you can’t climb or demolish. You’ll say “fuck it” and you’ll come up with something new. You invent your own voice from your own limits.

Dan had called it “finding the truth within your lies”, or some bullshit.

Someone – a girl, strummed soupy chords and crooned in the room next door. He could hear her faintly through the walls, a voice like thick smoke. She didn’t sound quite like anyone else. The young man scowled.

How did it happen? Those notes, the arrangement, that sound?

Were they buried inside her all the time?

He put his guitar down and let her playing seep through the walls around him.

What lies did she have to tell before she found her own truth?