I started learning to play the string bass during the summer after third grade. It was 1970. Though I had expressed a preference for the violin, my parents wisely counseled that a tall young man should play a tall instrument. My dad never mentioned it, but I think he also had an affinity for the bass since he himself had played bass and tuba once upon a time.
Choosing the bass turned out to be wonderful, not so much for the visual effect, but because of the unusual versatility of the instrument. I’ve found myself playing orchestral double basses made of wood (or even fiberglass), and 4- or 5-string electric bass guitars with or without frets. Since learning to play the bass, I’ve lived in Madison, Pasadena, Omaha, and Rochester. In each city, bass playing has been an instant ticket to new friends, new venues, new musical styles, new trans-generational experiences, and new kinds of worship.
I’ve played at hundreds of rehearsals and concerts over 37 years. Some of the events were flashy: the Kennedy Center in Washington for the bicentennial in 1976, the grand opening of the Madison Civic Center, concerts with guest artists like Henry Mancini, a concerto concert solo with the Wisconsin Youth Symphony, in the pit orchestra for ballet with Rudolf Nureyev, jazz at a luxury hotel in downtown LA, side-by-side with session musicians leading worship at Lake Avenue Congregational Church in Pasadena, in the orchestra for “Bye Bye Birdie” at Caltech, playing with the Rochester Symphony.
Other musical memories are more colorful: dressed like an Egyptian at a musical homecoming skit in 1978, bluegrass for 5th graders with Wild Erp and the Pheasant Branch Creek Boys, youth orchestra concerts at nursing homes and prisons, praise music performed for a hostile crowd on State Street at the University of Wisconsin, rock and roll on a stage as roaches walked across the wall, in a bar behind chain link fencing, playing gay clubs in both Madison and Omaha, recording blues in a chilly studio on new year’s day in 1995.
The gift of music lessons can change a life. It changed mine. Though I’m no professional musician, I know that I was meant to play music. Worship music has become my greatest passion—I sometimes wonder if it is why I was born. Apart from my family, here is where I find the deepest joy of my life.
There is no doubt that my other favorite genre is chamber music. Perhaps my most cherished memories are of performing Handel’s Messiah. This tremendous (and lengthy) oratorio was composed in 1741. The text was written in English, capturing the essential biblical passages describing the prophetic revelation of the incarnation of Jesus Christ. It is seldom played in its entirety and it is often played (and sung) pretty poorly. It doesn’t seem to matter. It is as if it is not about the performance itself, but about the privilege of sharing the power and significance of the message of the work. I’ve played Messiah dozens of times over the years, in places across the country. I love it partly because the small orchestra seldom involves more than one bassist. This player must be attentive, collaborative with a cellist or two, and willing to play with velocity and precision in both quiet and loud passages. In short, the technical challenges involved in playing string bass in Messiah are a blast.
Ironically, the transcendent aspects of Messiah have struck me most powerfully through the several performances I have played at churches in rural Midwestern towns. A combined local volunteer choir typically hires a few vocal soloists and a small orchestra for a community Messiah concert. These events were always quite remarkable. I always found myself trying to visualize the composer confronted with the spectacle.
My favorite memory of this kind was from the early 1990s when we were living in Omaha and I was playing too much music. I played in chamber music ensembles, a pop/gospel music group, and a swing band, not to mention blues with “Jacob’s Creek,” a quintet featuring Dave Barry’s brother, Sam. That winter I was hired for a holiday Messiah concert in Red Oak, Iowa in an old stone church near the small town square. The church had a labyrinth of backstage rooms and a tall traditional nave with a mixture of interior wood and stone and a tremendous echo along with a musty smell. The place had seen better days. We rehearsed the work with the choir and soloists during the afternoon. The choir members represented about six small churches from the area, and all had donned white shirts with dark pants or skirts accented by various red and green ties or sashes for visual impact (which was achieved). They were all ages and all shapes. A few could sing pretty well. Choir volunteers had produced and served a chicken dinner with cole slaw in the church basement before the concert.
A few details about this particular night are etched in my memory. It was extremely cold. To my great surprise, the church was packed 30 minutes before the concert was to begin. The audience was buzzing with excitement. Many of the pews were obviously occupied by farm families. The men wore their work clothes, including multiple layers and heavy boots. Cold winter air hung on their coats, and bits of straw and mud were visible on overalls and shoes. There were kids. There were elderly folks in wheelchairs. I wore a tuxedo and was more than a bit concerned that this earthy crowd would neither enjoy the music, have the required endurance, nor appreciate the finer points of Messiah etiquette. After all, what business did we really have forcing these aristocratic and pretentious King James verses on struggling rural farm families in this cold Iowa town?
It turned out not to matter in the least. Amidst the mingling scents of too much lady’s perfume in the choir and a bit of manure out in the pews, the concert began. The audience sat in rapt attention, from the youngest to the oldest. Aged farmers with gnarled hands leaned on canes. Care-worn and sun-browned faces watched every move. Nobody left the church to do the milking. I could see that this was a long-planned, long-anticipated event.
We eventually arrived at the “Hallelujah” chorus. It is traditional for well-read and erudite audiences to rise in hallowed (slightly pretentious) silence for this particular selection. The origin of this custom remains obscure. I had no expectation that word of this formality would ever have reached rural Iowa, especially two and a half centuries after the composition of the piece. Indeed, the audience seemed content to remain seated. Then, to my left, I eyed one particular elderly farm couple sitting on the aisle. He wore overalls and a blaze orange cap. She had an apron and sweater and had undoubtedly been cleaning up after dinner in the church basement earlier. If they’d had a pitchfork between them, they could have posed for a repainting of Grant Wood’s “American Gothic.” Instead, without so much as a glance at each other, they rose silently in the crowded room, standing together in anticipation of Handel’s “Hallelujah” chorus. In amazement I found myself smiling. The church audience, from the youngest to the oldest, rose in solemn response to the farmer and his wife.
When I hear discussions of the universal message of Handel’s Messiah, it is this scene that always comes to my mind.
11.07
