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Constance (Connie) DeFotis (choral conductor), along with younger brother Bill DeFotis (clarinetist/composer/conductor, who died from the effects of MS in early 2003) and Allen Otte (percussionist/composer), were, along with me, part of the original coterie of students who gravitated to Herbert Brun at the University of Illinois in the early 1970's. It is Herbert and his disciples ('brunettes') to whom I playfully refer when I speak of 'orthodox' opinions.
LETTER 1: Connie was in her last year as conductor of the Harvard-Radcliffe Chorus when that chorus voted to sing Carl Orff's Carmina Burana as its final work that year. An arrangement of the accompaniment for three percussionists and two pianos was made, and Allen Otte's The Percussion Group of Cincinnati was brought in. And thus were Connie, Al and I to have a mini Illinois reunion in Boston.
Now Connie and Al made no secret of their disdain for composer Orff and his most famous work, calling it 'a turn-on for adolescents.' After the concert, I played devil's advocate and defended Orff to Al as follows: he (Orff) has an always-recognizable voice (something most composers don't have); and, in an era when German composers were writing serial music, he dared to write ostinati. (NB: Connie and Al did not sever our friendship for these heretical remarks.)
As a choral conductor, Constance is one of the very best. She is a perfectionist - as indeed she should be. But she tends to carry this to an extreme, viz: if the concert was not perfect in every particular, she considers it to be a failure. So, as the result of a single missed cue, I have seen her refuse to acknowledge applause; on another occasion (as the letter below describes) she did not even appear afterwards to greet her public. For these things I have gently mocked her at various times - to no avail, I fear!
The mention of orange juice in the PPS refers to the situation where, when Connie's father was found dead in his bed, there was a glass of orange juice on the night table.
LETTER 2: Connie and Bill come from a family of seven or eight children. Of these, no fewer than four have been stricken with MS. As this letter describes, Allen Otte revealed to me in confidence the fact that Connie had it. This letter is the breaking of that confidence.
Connie's brother Bill, like his sister, was a superb musician. Like Mozart, he also had a puckish sense of humor. As far as I know, the displaced version of 'Take Me Out To The Ball Game' was his concoction. I sprinkled this around in order to add some levity to the serious subject of this letter.
The anti-war poster which Connie offered me (I already had a copy framed in our house) was a blown-up version of a Daily Illini aerial photo from May 1972. BY coincidence, this one photo included not only Dorothy and me, but fellow composers CHARLES LIPP, BILL DEFOTIS - and HERBERT BRUN himself. The march took up the entire width of a street - a clear violation of a police order to keep it confined to the sidewalks. But I noticed that Herbert was walking over to the side; in fact, he would walk mainly on the curb, only on occasion stepping gingerly into the street for a bit. For he was a German immigrant, not a U.S. citizen, and thus was fearful of jeopardizing his right to stay in this country. But it was comical to see the man who would brook no compromises on the subjects of language and music, equivocating when it came to the simplest concrete (so to speak) social actions!
10 August 2005
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LETTER 1:
23 May 2002
Dear Connie,
(Yeah, I know, you're 'Constance' to everyone else who knows you - including ex-boyfriend Al. So why am I being different? Perhaps I wish to hearken back to those golden days in Illinois when I first knew you and you were married to a guy who worked at Huey's. What? It wasn't as 'golden' as I recall??)
(I apologize for not writing this letter by hand. But my right hand has become sufficiently quasi-palsied [I am at least partly in love with the somewhat archaic sound of the word 'palsied' - to say nothing of coupling it with the quasi-archaic word 'quasi'] that the very prospect of writing a letter at present fills me with dread: it is so slow and excruciating that my flow of ideas [if any] is impeded. So I'll save the handwritten entries for my Journals, where the lack of credible ideas has never seemed to bother me! [An exhaustive amount of self-examination makes up for the dearth of ideas - or such at least is my fervent narcissistic hope.])
(Will everything in this letter be in parentheses? I don't know. But wouldn't you like a letter which is nothing but a series of asides?)
So where were you after the concert, Connie? Dorothy and I (but essentially Doro) looked for you high (upstairs) and low (downstairs) but to no avail. Were you hiding again, cowering from the dual nemeses of what you regarded as an imperfect* performance of a piece you despise? (*So said Al afterwards. I did not detect this.) Do I have to playfully admonish you again, as I did when you refused to bow? As there are at least 30 different ways to bow, are there not as many ways to appear after a concert? How about a wry sardonic smile as you greet people? And when someone exclaims over how much they love That Piece, you need only reply humorously, 'You're nuts!' Yes, you could have a grand time for yourself - and maintain your integrity, if that's so important for you. (The other alternative: to just simply decide that you had a great time conducting the piece and to enjoy yourself unabashedly.)
Which is what I did during your concert (enjoy myself unabashedly.) It was wonderful to once again be present at a concert of your's, Connie. Whatever you thought privately of Carmina Burana, you gave it your total conviction. Realizing that I wouldn't have to worry about the quality of the performance, I was able to listen to the piece itself, which I hadn't heard since I sang it in college. And, even as most of the piece came rushing back from the past, I listened to it anew, with post-herbertian ears. And what was the result? I became, so to speak, auditorily schizophrenic. On the one hand, I found no way at all to defend the piece by any of the usual criteria (anti-communication, etc.) It seems mainly calculated to produce effects, there seems to be little actual musical content, it's all sung in unison, etc.
That's on the one hand. You're not going to like the other hand, Connie. At the very least, you will probably respect me less, More likely you'll simply despise me. You may never speak to me again (I would not like that!) Ah well - that's the chance one takes in voicing - unorthodox - opinions. Anyway, here it is: on some level, I like the damn piece anyway! And the reason(s) may be unexplainable, because the effect on me is (gulp) visceral. Yeah - what I call 'the Nutcracker Syndrome': you've always liked a certain piece, and you've long ago exhausted its information-content, and yet each time you hear it, it seems fresh and alive, and you can't tell why. You can attempt to analyze what is responsible for its magic - scoring, voicing, etc - but ultimately what I'm talking about is unexplainable; you peel back layer upon layer and what you're ultimately left with, like an onion, is - nothing. Sounds anti-intellectual, I know. In my defense I'll say (in all modesty) that, in my theory classes at Illinois, I was the best damn analyzer (accent on anal) of anyone. Yet what gnawed at me was the sad fact that, ultimately, we were not getting at the essence of, say, L'Apres Midi d'un Faun, but only its surface (its structure - or one we imposed.) Perhaps I am speaking about a last frontier of analysis here - to find a means of describing in objective terms that which hitherto has merely produced hysterical gushing...
Are you still reading, Connie? If so, I'd like to say how much I enjoyed seeing you and Al the other night. In fact, I was wont to regard this visit as something like a miracle: it has to do with not having seen either of you for so long and the fear of being out of certain loops and all the paranoid rest. So it was indeed wonderful. There are only a couple of things I regret. One is, that I didn't ask detailed questions about Bill's piece-idea for your chorus. (I also wonder whether he's able to use computer music software, or whether - Delius-like - he needs an amanuensis - you?) Another is that I didn't explicitly tell you how happy I was (and am) that you were able to get the position at William & Mary, and thus be near Bill.
I also regret something else - what I call the Excessive Humor Syndrome. Oscar Wilde ran into this at his trial when he went just a bit too far with his humor (as is inevitable if you always attempt to be witty) and thereby lost the sympathy of jury and spectators. In my case the other night it all might be summarized by the quaint expression, "The Situation is Hopeless-But-Not-Serious." I think that if anyone with M.S. makes such a statement, one of the following must be true: (a) He isn't really all that sick (yet) and can thus afford to be glib about his disorder; (b) He's getting sicker but he's too stupid to realize it; or (c) He knows he's getting sicker, but he's willing to temporarily discount all that for the bravado of a comic flourish. Now I think that I coined this expression in stage (a), but it also was mouthed in state (b). I think the other night I was in stage (c): that is, I am starting to be truly concerned for my developing weakness and the loss of faculties, and so The Situation is Becoming a Bit Serious. But the comic flourish beckoned, and who can resist it? I should have, given Bill's situation. In other words, I should have been sensitive. Please accept my apologies.
(My mother used to say, in exasperation, "You don't always have to try and be funny, Teddy!" My reply to her would be twofold: (1) "It's not easy to be funny all the time"; and (2) "What do you mean, try?!")
Well, Connie, my very best wishes on your sojourn South. I hope that you not only expand your musical repertoire, but your repertoire of ways to bow and ways of appearing post-concert. Dorothy and I will be thinking of you.
Love, Ted
P.S. - If for no other reason I'm glad you did the Orff because it made it possible for TPG to come and play with you. Now what other choral composer would have given you this excuse?!
P.P.S. - This is the very first time in my life that I've used the word visceral - in any context. You should be flattered!
P.P.P.S. - Please don't go to bed leaving a glass of orange juice by your bed: you'll be accused of making a suicide attempt!
LETTER 2:
18 April 2003 Friday PM
Dear Connie,
Me out to the ball game take,
Me out to the park buy!
I just wanted to tell you how good it was to hear your voice the other day when you called me completely out of the blue1. You sounded good - relaxed and cheerful. We had been concerned about you, of course.
As well, it was kind of you to go out of your way2 in order to offer me Bill's poster of the anti-war protest3. As I recall, Bill is amusedly staring at something to his right. I'm glad Herb didn't - curb - his tendency toward physical equivocation that day: a natural shrimp, he stands out all the better, thanks to that added six inches of height!
Me some peanuts and Cracker Jack I,
Don't care if I ever go back so!
So I have a confession to make, Connie: I KNOW. Yeah, I wheedled it out of poor Al4, who was loathe to yield up any information; but I twisted his poor little thin arm until it became clear that to resist further would be to risk the loss of his percussion career5.
I think I know how you feel about the secretive-thing: when I thought6 I had this disorder the first time (around 1981), it was horrifying for me to think of other people finding out about it - especially my Mother. Fifteen years later I was more philosophical about all that. Of course, it helped that my disability was gradually (key word, this: it gave me time to accept - and adjust) becoming more obvious7. But I still recall the feeling of shame when I had to appear to various people in a wheelchair for the first time.
Anyway, I hope that I don't offend you by confiding that I know. So why am I doing it? Out of an urge for a New Openness, I suppose. I wouldn't feel right the next time I saw you if it wasn't clear that we not only knew this about each other, but as well shared the common experience of a profoundly personal life-changing illness. Then we could speak about It to one another as little or as much as we please.
It's root
Root root for the home team if;
They don't win it's a shame so!
We think of you often, Connie. Please call us when you're in town this summer.
It's one
Two three four balls you walk
At the old8 ball9 game10!
Love, Ted
Footnotes:
1 I always wondered what this purported and proverbial 'blue' was - and where it was.
2 Isn't a phone call 'out of one's way'?
3 Yes, there were some key people missing at that protest - you and the Ott, for two. I suggest you and he get together for a screening of 'Start The Revolution Without Me.'
4 He was here to play in a concert at Tufts recently and stayed with us.
5 Actually, the truth is more interesting, in that I had to play sleuth. I had asked about your sister Alexa, and Al told me she died last year. Then he added that another of your brothers had the disorder*, "...and that makes four in that family." Was he being sly, providing an oblique clue? Or did he slip up? At any rate, I badgered him for that fourth name - but (am I naive?) never dreamt it was you. (Yes - and then I had to promise I wouldn't let on to you that I KNEW. Ah well, I broke my promise to poor Drummer Al**.)
* I prefer this rather innocuous term to the horrific-sounding 'disease.' Or the rather prosaic 'disability.'
** The irony here, of course, is that YOU probably KNOW that I KNOW. I mean, don't you-two share all this kinda stuff with each other? (But do I KNOW for sure that YOU KNOW that I KNOW? No.)
6 I probably did have it. As often happens, it proceeded to remit for 15 years or so.
7 So when I began walking with a cane-chair, people began to notice, even ask about it. ("Is something wrong with your back?" "Yes, Asshole.") The irony here is that, when I was wont to let my Mother finally find out - and even welcomed it - she was too senile to notice anything was wrong. Darn!
8 I don't know about the game, but this song got mighty old some time ago!
9 If I had stuck to the original words, should it be called 'the old strike game'? )
10 I'd like to think that Bill would have liked this 'correction'. But perhaps not: maybe he'd think I was just desperate for a consonant (happy?) ending. (Hmm - what exactly constitutes 'a happy ending' anyway?)
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