This after­noon’s massive thun­der­storm caught me while I was out on my bike, so I ducked into a nearby Goodwill for shelter. My little brother (that is, younger & narrower) mentioned recently that he needed a tweed jacket (for what nefar­i­ous purposes I’m not certain) and in my idle browsing I found a handsome one made by Burberry. It appeared to be unworn—the pockets were still sewn shut. Once the storm let up I packed it into my water­proof pannier and set off, only to be met by another torren­tial downpour crossing the Manhat­tan bridge. I arrived home soaked, but the jacket was nice and dry. Upon further exam­i­na­tion, it wasn’t completely unused—there were two slips of paper in the inner pocket with Arabic script on them, inde­ci­pher­able to me except for the word TRANSTU. This turns out to be the Tunisian public transit system. So, some diminu­tive chap wore his spotless made-in-the-USA Burberry blazer on a trip to Tunisia, all the while with nowhere to stuff his wallet, and donated it the Goodwill imme­di­ately upon return­ing? Who the hell was this guy? Where else has that thing been? This is one reason a love buying from thrift stores, aside from the rela­tively prosaic fact that I bought my brother a Burberry blazer for $25.

Next in our ongoing series of “Strong-Smelling Summer Sauces”: salsa verde. I’ve been really inter­ested in this one lately. I’m not ashamed to say I learned it from Tom Colic­chio’s recipe in the ‘witch­craft cookbook. But really, you don’t need a recipe.

Salsa Verde

• garlic
• shallots (twice as much as you put garlic) 
• capers (enough)
• olive oil (to lubricate) 
• white wine or sherry vinegar (acid)
• salt & pepper (to taste) 
• parsley, flat-leaf (lots)

Dice up all the ingre­di­ents, put them in your mortar (or food proces­sor I suppose, but that’s not very photo­genic, is it?) and pound the mixture into a fine slurry. 

You can use this pungent condi­ment on anything you see fit. It’s espe­cially good accom­pa­ny­ing skirt steak, or any cut of meat flavor­ful enough to stand up to it. The other day I used it on a BLT in place of aïoli. Not bad!

Still puzzling over this remark from Judd Green­stein yesterday: 

I would get so torn apart if I tried to pass of those Hamelin Etudes as my latest compositions.

Judd’s refer­ring to these pieces by the Canadian pianist Marc-André Hamelin. They’re hyper-Romantic in a post-Liszty, totally non-ironic way. Let’s just say that if Rach­mani­noff was born too late, Hamelin is, like, an Egyptian mummy. 

Over dinner last night, Ted claimed that all the best perform­ers are also composers (apropos of the fact that six out of seven members of his band Delusion Story write music). Hamelin’s a good example. He’s one of my favorite pianists, one of the few I’d happily pay my own money to go hear. He plays a mean People United. He plays Beethoven. He plays insane, piano-dork stuff like Alkan and Sorabji. I think we can all agree that more pianists should be like him—curious, unpre­dictable, eager to exper­i­ment, just a bit weird. Maybe more of them should compose, too. 

Back to Judd’s comment. Isn’t he the guy who wrote a super-romantic piano piece and called it First Ballade? Yes, I believe he is: 

With respect to sound-world and pianis­tic writing, the piece is not so far from a Hamelin étude. So what makes Judd’s piece feel ‘refer­en­tial’ and not ‘hope­lessly out of touch with the compo­si­tional zeit­geist’? Is it because we bring to it our precon­ceived ideas of what kind of composer Judd is? Why does he get this priv­i­lege, and Hamelin doesn’t? I think I benefit from this same prej­u­dice. I’ve written piece after piece explic­itly refer­ring to Brahms/Beethoven/Chopin/Mozart etc., and people seem to under­stand it as a post­mod­ern collage type of thing. Funny, I don’t feel post­mod­ern when I’m writing it. 

Judd, is that you? You look terrible!

I don’t think Judd’s love for the piano, or my love for the piano, is that differ­ent from Marc-André Hamelin’s love for his instru­ment. It’s a matter of context. Judd and I both went to “compo­si­tion school”. We both live in Brooklyn and drink over­priced cock­tails and write pretty music. Hamelin’s old. His name sounds like he might be French. Should­n’t he write, like, spec­tral­ism or something?

I have always loved the sound made by a fresh loaf of bread. Today I wrote a song about it. 

Timo Andres: Fresh Bread

If you’ve seen me play in the past, oh, six months or so, you may have noticed me reading music off this newfan­gled contrap­tion called an “iPad”. Recently I added to this an AirTurn pedal, a little wireless switch that lets me turn virtual “pages” with my feet, which is good for those instances when I can’t spare a finger. Lots of people seem to like to ask me about this situ­a­tion post-concert, and it’s actually a really boring subject, so I thought it would make a great blog post. 

I didn’t get an iPad for the purpose of reading music. I got an iPad because I thought it was a neat toy, and my pops had an extra one. The music-reading evolved natu­rally as part of the compos­ing process—I’d write a little some­thing on my computer, and instead of hauling it over to the piano (which is all of 15 feet away) I started emailing PDF files to myself and reading them off the iPad. Hereto­fore, printing out multiple drafts was just part of writing a piece (I’ve found that composers tend to go through LOTS of paper) and I was glad to be rid of that step. Reading off the screen is not bad, either; while it’s maybe not as big as I would like, and can only display one page at a time (instead of two side-by-side, as with a printed booklet), it’s big enough for most normal-sized piano music. And who knows, perhaps some day there will be an iPad XL super edition. 

Initially I read scores in iBooks, which is the built-in eBook and PDF reading app that comes with the iPad. This became unten­able pretty soon. There’s no way to make anno­ta­tions in iBooks, and worse, there’s no orga­ni­za­tion system. You can’t rename anything or edit metadata, all your scores just end up there in a big pile. Enter ForScore (haha get it?), an app which several musician friends recom­mended to me. It’s specif­i­cally built for orga­niz­ing and reading scores, and has a ton of useful features—annotations, a metronome, page scaling/cropping, a built-in browser (oh hello imslp.org), book­marks, auto-repeats, and lots of deli­cious metadata. 

Unfor­tu­nately I don’t love ForScore. For all its eager­ness to help, the inter­face is really quite crude and awkward. It’s one of those deals where you constantly need to be in the right “mode” to do this and that, and select the right “tool”. It feels very old-fash­ioned in this way; I wonder if the program’s design­ers are Finale users. Say you want to mark a finger­ing: you’ve got to tap-and-hold to get into “edit mode”, make sure you’ve got the “stamp tool” selected, select a number stamp from the little palette, zoom in to where you want to place it (other­wise it’s hope­lessly inac­cu­rate), and press “done” to get out of edit mode. A bit more involved than, say, pencil and paper. 

Even worse: once you’ve gone to the trouble of anno­tat­ing a bunch of scores, you can only export them in the propri­etary .4sc format, other­wise you lose your markings. That sucks. The PDF file format supports anno­ta­tions and metadata just fine; ForScore’s reliance on its own format is a pretty trans­par­ent lock-in attempt. 

Here is what ForScore looks like: 

Turning pages on the iPad is easy enough with the tap of a finger, but some­times, of course, one can’t spare even that, which is why I bought an AirTurn pedal last month. It’s a very simple foot switch connected to a Blue­tooth trans­ceiver. The batter­ies in the trans­ceiver last for days, and you recharge the thing by plugging it into a computer with a mini-USB cable. The iPad basi­cally recog­nizes it as an external keyboard, albeit with only one key: Page down. Of course, this means that when you’re paired with the AirTurn, the iPad doesn’t show its onscreen keyboard, which is the MOST ANNOYING THING EVER. If you want to, say, send a quick email, you’ve got to discon­nect from the pedal in order to type on the damn thing. This, too, sucks. 

The hardware is pretty nice, and quite unob­tru­sive; I put the pedal to the left, next to una corda. It takes maybe a week to get completely used to this, but once you have, you’ll find yourself reflex­ively tapping the floor when it’s not there. I opted for the clear plastic pedal, which makes it nearly invis­i­ble to the audience; this is a good thing. It’s also nearly silent in oper­a­tion; I glued a layer of cork sheeting on mine just to dampen that extra “clack” you get with leather-soled shoes. You can connect a second pedal to go back­wards, but who wants to do that? 

Perform­ing, however, is where the iPad + ForScore + Airturn combi­na­tion shines. You can make a setlist in ForScore and it will auto­mat­i­cally move on to the next score. It’s also got a nice feature called “debounce”, which prevents you from acci­den­tally hitting the pedal twice and turning two pages. It’s really smooth, and of course, in perfor­mance is when it’s most impor­tant for the expe­ri­ence to be seamless and reliable. Just remember to charge your batteries.

I can’t stop thinking about that damned cover. I don’t like it, but I don’t know exactly why. It’s confronta­tional, and it doesn’t partic­u­larly offend me, but the very first time I saw it my reaction was “Not OK.”

The cover was designed by Barbara deWilde, who has done some wonder­ful work for Nonesuch in the past. Her work often conveys meaning with a certain blunt­ness or liter­al­ness, which is one of the pleasing things about it. My favorite is her design for Michael Gordon’s Weather:

If you’ve ever talked to Steve, or heard him speak (much less listened to the man’s music), you may agree that he can be simi­larly direct, often to the point of blunt­ness. I don’t have any “inside infor­ma­tion” on how this cover came about, but I can imagine it appeal­ing to him. As in: let’s not just use a photo of the twin towers, let’s use one of the most visceral, gristly, in-your-face photos that exists—the one where the plane is an instant away from the second tower. 

Anyway, they’ve already given ⁹⁄₁₁ the dreamy-and-elegiac treat­ment, with this beau­ti­ful cover by John Gall:

Inter­est­ingly, while the WTC ⁹⁄₁₁ photo­graph may have incited contro­versy, the typog­ra­phy is utterly appro­pri­ate: the titles are set in Gotham, the same font used by the ⁹⁄₁₁ Memorial, the Freedom Tower’s corner­stone, and on and on ad infini­tum (includ­ing, umm, this here cover).

So, if you don’t want that photo in your iTunes library, but you enjoy Gotham, then here, I made some­thing for you: 

UPDATE, 7/29/11: Bob Hurwitz has a typi­cally eloquent response.

Quick gig alert. This Saturday (July 23) at 8, I’ll be playing with Ted Hearne’s band Delusion Story at the giant post-indus­trial commune at 33 Flatbush Avenue (other­wise known as Exapno). We’ll be playing some of your favorite TedMusic (includ­ing Is it Dirty) and maybe a couple of brand-new tunes as well. The band is Ted (vocals), Leah Coloff (cello & vocals), Taylor Levine (guitar), Nathan Koci (accor­dion & keys), Ron Wiltrout (drums), James Ilgen­fritz III (bass), and yours truly on keys. There are some really stellar perform­ers in there.

If you’re not dead of heat­stroke by then, be sure to stop by!

In an conflu­ence of things I watched Persona and The Talented Mr. Ripley back-to-back this week. I love it when things juxta­pose them­selves just so as to illu­mi­nate each other. Minghella must’ve had Bergman in mind during this “Doppel­gänger” shot on the train: 

Why do you do that thing with your neck?

Neither movie uses this Schubert song, though, which seems like a missed oppor­tu­nity (or maybe it would’ve been too obvious?) Take it away, Dietrich: 

Franz Schubert: Der Doppel­gänger

Leica Lenses (English) from Leica Camera on Vimeo.

I just eat this stuff up.