I had forgotten about these two short pieces for flute, ‘cello, and piano, written for my composition class at Oberlin Conservatory, back in 1972.  They seemed lively enough to keep, so I made a legible copy from the penciled antique.

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A little song about guns: in the first verse, Fred’s son shoots himself; in the second, Fred shoots his wife; and in the third, the singer suggests that Fred shoot himself, so we’ll be rid of him. The son of a bitch.

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This melancholy little piece features the Tremoloa, a curious instrument once made by the Manufacturers Advertising Company, which has a single slack string played with a steel bar. On its first performance, I was joined by David Gold on viola, Ralph Hamperian on tuba, and Doug Roesch on guitar.

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I don’t want to be the pope in Rome, Sitting underneath Saint Peter’s dome. When the cardinals come knocking, Then I guess that I’ll start locking My door, and send those hopeful clerics home. That’s the first of four verses; the accompaniment is slated for viola and tuba, but here it is in a form […]

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Uncle Bertie’s ankles are subjected to quite a bit of abuse in this song.  In subsequent verses, they’re bitten, kicked, broken, stung, and burned.  Finally, he’s eaten by a bear, leaving the ankles unharmed.  Poor Uncle Bertie!

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A round about time.

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I write musical acronyms by taking the first beat of every measure from a given piece.  For the first one, I chose Haydn’s sparkling piano sonata in C major, XVI/35.  The result keeps much of the character of Haydn, but is shorter and a bit more abrupt.  It’s still surprisingly coherent, though; Haydn’s clarity shines […]

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I’ve always felt sorry for Jesus’s brother James, destined to be overshadowed.  But then, he wasn’t crucified, either.  Here are the first four verses of six.

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I found a musical cipher on a tearsheet from an old encyclopedia, so I wrote a quatrain to try it out. This is what it sounds like.

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A round on one of life’s eternal truths.  

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