Musici qui cantant

This entry is part 15 of 17 in the series Guiding Hands

I was given the assignment to accompany choir in my early years at Kent. Let’s just say that it wasn’t a productive experience. I was glad when the semester was over. In 1987, I was assigned to be the accompanist for all choral activities. “Apprehensive” would be the right word to describe my feeling, even though I knew that I would be working with a new conductor.

There were three choral groups at school: KSU Chorale, a selected small choir of music majors; University Choir, a larger group for all university students and Kent Chorus, a community choir. Accompanying all three groups, I saw Dr. Shearer every weekday. Miraculously, from the first moment on, I had no problem following his directions. Eventually, I realized that he was guiding my arms with his baton.

Dr. C. M. Shearer came from Texas, a state where choral singing was part of life. Before moving to Kent, he also taught in Omaha, Nebraska, and was the chorus master for Opera Omaha. With natural silvery hair, it’s hard to tell his age. His upright posture made him look tall and in command.

Dr. Shearer noticed that students in Chorale lacked discipline and wasn’t making enough progress. But he still took time to make sure that everything was done properly—sounds, intonations and phrasing. Towards the end of the semester, it became apparent to everyone that there was still much to be done before the concert. He told students that it would be possible to catch up. However, he was also willing to let them fail in public if they wouldn’t put in the work. The concert came and the group wasn’t ready.

After the failed performance, students learned to be responsible and to participate. He began training the group to pay more attention to details. He made them sight-sing: first just some simple exercises up and down the scales; soon, some new pieces. He would say, “Read ahead; sing loudly; and don’t stop.” Of course, this meant that I would be sight-reading new pieces at the piano. And, the same discipline applied to me as well. Slowly, He taught the non-music majors to read. And, eventually, the town folks.

The choirs began to feel like families. The chemistry within each group, especially Chorale, grew steadily. By the time we went on a tour, everyone was excited. I remembered vividly when the bus arrived at our lodging for the first night, one voice started humming “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.” Quickly someone else joined. An improvised a cappella performance went on as we settled in.

Dr. Shearer had a humorous side. He enjoyed telling singer jokes. At the same time, he would tell students to work hard on their musicality so they would become “musicians that sing.” The last year that I played for him, Chorale studied and performed Bach’s motet Singet dem Herrn ein neues Lied, BWV 225 for double-choir.[1] We made sweatshirts with image of the opening page of the score and the phrase “Musici qui cantant.” The sweatshirt is still in my closet. And, I constantly talk to singers about the importance of studying their scores intelligently.

Fall of 1997, while teaching at University of Akron, I decided to study conducting and asked Dr. Shearer for guidance. He explained to me how the baton should become an extension of my arm. (So, the length of my baton should be in proportion to my arm.) We met weekly studying choral works and operatic excerpts. Although I was familiar with the basic patterns, waving my arms did not come as naturally as I would have hoped. Dr. Shearer was patient with me. He told me to think as if I was pushing against water. This would eventually make a lot of sense to me later.

On a Friday morning in early 2000s, I received a phone call from Dr. Shearer. He had a big concert that night and his pianist was running a high fever. I picked up the music to take a quick look; returned a little before the concert to go over some details with him. Together with the choristers, who never met me before, we gave a solid performance. Thanks to “Read ahead; play clearly; and don’t stop.”

When Dr. Shearer announces his retirement, alumni of the Chorale decided to hold a reunion, concurrent with the annual Yuletide Feast in December of 2007. After almost two decades of separation, most of us showed up and picked up the fun exactly where we left it. Dr. Shearer even let me sit at the keyboard during the rehearsal for a moment.

When not conducting choirs, Dr. Shearer spends most of his free time on woodwork. An aviator, he talked about to build a small aircraft with his son as his retirement project. I am glad to find out that his dream has come true (and more).[2] Both he and Mrs. Shearer, who always joined us in parties and performances, enjoy cooking. Whenever they tasted something new and wonderful, they would go out of their ways to find out how to make the dish. I am sure that their collection of recipes has grown tremendously.

Read ahead; sing loudly; and don’t stop!


[1] Singet_dem_Herrn_ein_neues_Lied,_BWV_225_Wiki
Singet dem Herrn, Vocalconsort Berlin
[2] Father-Son-&-Airplane

Eine Sommerreise (A summer trip)

This entry is part 16 of 17 in the series Guiding Hands

In early summer of 1990, having finished my doctoral coursework and completed my master’s thesis on Carl Friedrich Zelter’s Lieder, I started making plans for the following years. I was to pass my candidacy examswritten and orallater in the summer. I applied to study Italian at Università per stranieri in Perugia, Italy. Yet, what excited me the most was a trip to Champaign-Urbana, Illinois. Several well-respected professionals had told me that, if I really wanted to know more about Lieder, I should study with John Wustman. For years, I was bound by school requirements and didn’t think I was ready to approach him. Finally, I wrote to him, asking to study with him privately. And, he agreed to meet with me.

To treat myself, I first went to see a production of Benjamin Britten’s Peter Grime at Opera Theater of St. Louis. The next afternoon, with the powerful score still ringing in my head, I drove north toward Champaign in my little red Corolla hatchback. Without air conditioning, I rolled down all the windows so to not be toasted by the scorching summer heat. A recording of Schubert’s Winterreise (Winter Journey) performed by Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau and Gerald Moore was playing in a loop.[1]

I had chosen to play “Der Lindenbaum” (“The Linden Tree”), the fifth song in the cycle, as my “audition” piece with Mr. Wustman:

Der Linedenbaum

Am Brunnen vor dem Tore,
Da steht ein Lindenbaum;
Ich träumt’ in seinem Schatten
So manchen süssen Traum.

Ich schnitt in seine Rinde
So manches liebe Wort;
Es zog in Freud’ und Leide
Zu ihm mich immer fort.

Ich musst’ auch heute wandern
Vorbei in tiefer Nacht,
Da hab’ ich noch im Dunkel
Die Augen zugemacht.

Und seine Zweige rauschten,
Als riefen sie mir zu:
Komm her zu mir, Geselle,
Hier findst du deine Ruh’!

Die kalten Winde bliesen
Mir grad ins Angesicht,
Der Hut flog mir vom Kopfe,
Ich wendete mich nicht.

Nun bin ich manche Stunde
Entfernt von jenem Ort,
Und immer hör’ ich’s rauschen:
Du fändest Ruhe dort!

The Linden Tree

By the well, in front of the gate,
there stands a linden tree;
In its shadow, I dreamed
many a sweet dream.

I carved, in its bark,
many a word of love;
In joy and sorrow,
I was always drawn to it.

Today, again, I had to walk past it
deep into the night;
There, even in the darkness,

I closed my eyes.

And its branches rustled
as if they were calling to me:
“Come to me, friend,
here you will find rest.”

The cold wind blew
straight into my face.
The hat flew from my head.
I did not turn around.

Now, I am many hours
away from that place.
Yet I still hear the rustling:
“You would find rest there.’

Fischer-Dieskau & Moore

Partly, I wanted to work on the piece in memory of my father: I had known the tune since my childhood, as it was taught at schools with simplified accompaniment along with my dad’s translation.[2] Even then, I understood the wanderer’s nostalgia, his feeling of isolation and his desperation for peace. Often, I stood by the persimmon tree in front of our house, singing the song and wondering if I would in my later years suffer the same kind of loneliness as the wanderer.

Schubert’s beautiful piano writing was the other reason that I chose the song: Although the vocal line stays mostly unchanged in each stropheexcept for a minor phrase, depicting the cold blowing windthe through-composed piano part was descriptive. It requires technical precision and nuanced touch. As I drove, I was imagining playing it in my session the next day.

At about 20 miles south of Champaign, looking in the rear view mirror, I noticed some dark clouds behind me. Gradually, they looked more and more threatening. I pulled the car over; rolled up the windows; turned the music volume up and sped toward town. By the time I arrived in Champaign, the sky had turned green.

I had the habit of memorizing maps before a long trip. However, in complete darkness and torrential rain, I panicked. It was impossible to identify any small street signs. A large highway sign pointed me south toward “University of Illinois, Champaign-Urbana.” Slowly, I continued driving until there was corn field directly in front of me.[3] Based on my sense of direction, I made a left turn onto a two-lane road. When I saw a brightly-lit sign on the right side of road and a wide driveway, I pulled in. IT WAS A FUNERAL HOME. And, my cassette recording was playing “Das Wirtshaus” (The Inn).

Auf einen Totenacker
Hat mich mein Weg gebracht.
Allhier will ich einkehren:
Hab’ ich bei mir gedacht.

To a graveyard,
my path has led me.
Here, I will stay over,
I thought to myself.

Without blinking, I turned the car around. As fast as I could in the stormy condition, I traced my way back to the main roads. The storm blew over quickly. Flooded streets caused several detours. Eventually, I found the motel and settled in for the night.

Next morning, still trying to shake off my nightmarish experience the day before, I walked down the hallway of Smith Hall and knocked on Mr. Wustman’s door. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but definitely not the image standing in front of me. The gentleman who answer the door greeted me with a kind smile, charismatic yet commending. He wore khaki pants and casual shoes. I noticed his eyebrow right away—as thick and wild as my dad’s. There was an instant connection. A sense of comfort came over me.

I played the Schubert as well as I could. Mr. Wustman calmly said: “You played too fast and you have no sound.” Foolishly, I was glad that he didn’t say I was playing too slowly. But, his comment of “no sound” puzzled me. As if he read my mind, he said: “I am not talking about loud or soft. Music must have sound. . .” After working for about half an hour, he asked me to organize my thoughts. We discussed the important things in music making. Quickly, an hour passed. I asked for a second meeting. He said, “Yes.”

Although he didn’t ask me to make any technical change in our session, something in me was awakened. After returning to Kent, I went into my usual practice room and put my hands on the same piano. The sound came out of the instrument, like a powerful creature becoming alive after a long nap. Life was never the same from that day on.

I went to see Mr. Wustman with only one thing in mind: to learn. I didn’t know to be afraid. I didn’t know how ignorant I was. I was determined enough that the storm-and-the-funeral-home encounter didn’t cause me to have second thoughts. (Bad omen?) After returning from Italy, I moved to Illinois.


[1] Die Winterreise: Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, baritone; Alfred Brendel.

[2] Treated as a folk tune in strophic form, in our music books, the opening phrase of the third strophe was kept in major key.  “Lindenbaum” was translated as “bodhi tree,” perhaps an interpretation of mistranslated Japanese:
井旁邊大門前面, 有一棵菩堤樹. 我曾在樹蔭底下, 做過甜夢無數. 我曾在樹皮上面, 刻過寵句無數. 歡樂和痛苦時候, 常常走近這樹, 常常走近這樹.
彷彿像今天一樣, 我流浪到深更. 我在黑暗中經過, 什麼都看不清. 依稀聽到那樹枝, 對我簌簌作聲: 朋友來到我這裡, 你來找求安靜, 你來找求安靜.
冷風呼呼地吹來, 正對著我的臉. 頭上的帽被吹落, 不忍轉身回看. 遠離開了那地方, 依舊念念不忘. 我常聽見簌簌聲, 你會找到安靜, 你會找到安靜.

[3]For those who are familiar with Champaign-Urbana: I got off Interstate 57 and turned south onto Prospect Ave. Instead of turning left onto Springfield Ave, I kept on going. . .. I believed that I went as far as Windsor Rd.