Viewing: Bill Matheny - View all posts

LULLABY 

the smell of the rain 
the sound of the train 
my dog by the fire 
home again
 

As a boy in rural Tennessee, Billy Matheny slept in an attic bedroom, the slanted ceiling only a few inches above his bed. The Matheny house had a tin roof that sang when it rained, and the sound of raindrops would serenade young Billy to sleep. So Billy treasured the rain. And when he grew up, he passed that treasure along to his own son like a beloved family heirloom. 

The rainstorms in Georgia were magnificent.  

At the first thunderclap, Daddy Bill would throw open all the doors and windows of our little apartment, so we could enjoy the breeze and wait for the rain. If I close my eyes, I can still see him, puffing his pipe in that wingback chair, his legs crossed casually, unlaced hushpuppies hanging off the ends of his narrow naked feet.  

Sometimes there would be soft music playing on the turntable -- James Taylor perhaps, or Miles Davis -- but usually we would just sit and listen to the rain as it came down out of the clouds, into the pines, and onto the red clay just outside our open door.  

I remember hearing the peaceful, percussive patter of raindrops on the kudzu, accompanied by the low rumble of distant thunder. The aroma of Daddy Bill’s cherry blend tobacco. The fresh scent of damp earth. A sensory symphony of sounds and smells. 

As the storm grew more intense, Daddy Bill would cheer the crescendo, appreciating nature’s performance.

Then he’d look over at me with twinkly eyes and say, “Welp, it’s really coming down out there, Little Bub. Let’s go for a walk.” 

And just like that we would venture out into the storm, splashing along the sidewalk together. No umbrellas. No slickers or galoshes. Just the two of us, man and boy, in our street clothes, soaking wet and laughing. The neighbors must have thought we were out of our minds.

Dad and I moved from Georgia to Arizona in the summer of 1977, just in time for monsoon season.

The Arizona heat was exactly as advertised -- damn near unbearable -- but those dramatic summer storms were something else. They cleansed the land, revitalized flora and fauna, and replenished our spirits. 

We knew that rain-walking would be a bad idea in the Sonoran Desert around Tucson. The topography is flat, vegetation is sparse and low to the ground, and lightning routinely strikes anything vertical.

No matter. We were thrilled to appreciate the monsoons from the safety of our screened-in patio -- an exhilarating, fully immersive experience.

The rain would pour down all at once in a heavy torrent, punctuated by brilliant flashes of crackling electricity that filled the sky, turning the saguaro cacti into stark silhouettes. The river beds filled up and overflowed their banks, flooding the roadways. Sheets of rainwater pelted our windows relentlessly. Peals of thunder rattled the adobe walls.

It was glorious. 
 

Over the years, no matter where I happened to live or travel, the rain has remained a loyal friend.

At Interlochen I would sit on the dock and watch raindrops dance on the surface of Green Lake. In San Francisco, where I lived for 20 years, it wasn't uncommon for the entire month of January to be wet. Even in Boston’s Back Bay, where winter weather vexed my college years, thunder showers were a rare gift. I would sit at the Trident Bookstore Cafe, writing letters, drinking coffee and daydreaming as stormy skies benevolently baptized the red bricks of Newbury Street. 

Rainy weather has been my welcome companion on the road, throughout the Americas, and around the world. Whether gentle or tumultuous, her arrival always feels like a personal message of support from the universe, assuring me that everything is going to be just fine.

Here in Washington State, where I now live with my girlfriend Sassy and our dog Scout, I have fully embraced my birthright as an avowed pluviophile! We receive about 73 inches of rainfall annually -- nearly twice the national average -- yet folks here seldom carry an umbrella. In the Pacific Northwest, rain is simply a fact of life. 

Now when I go storm-strolling with Scout, the neighbors don’t even bat an eye. They just wave to us as we splash along happily from puddle to puddle.  

Last month, we lost my father to Parkinson’s Disease. I miss him terribly, but I also feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for everything he was and will remain, in memory. Among his many life lessons, Daddy Bill taught me to love the rain.  

Shortly before he died, I received a surprise early birthday gift from Sass: my very own tin Rain Roof, professionally installed, affixed to the awning over my bedroom window.

Such a thoughtful gift. What a tribute! What a solace!

No one knows what the future may bring, but at least for tonight, all will be well.

Tonight the rain will come, and she will sing us a lullaby.

Tomorrow is a new day.

LONG IN THE TOOTH 

Welp, I just turned 55.  

Now eligible for senior discounts at the diner. 

Damn. The years really sneak up on you, don’t they? 

The recent loss of my father during the navel-gazing of quarantine has only served to amplify this existential angst.  

I get it. Winter is here. But am I ready? 

Fifteen years ago, right around my 40th, I remember feeling something similar about facing the autumn of my years.  

Below is what I wrote at the time.

Perhaps it still holds up. 

ADVICE TO SELF AT MIDLIFE 

Congratulations, you’ve made it to the halfway mark. 

So far, so good. Now consider this: 

You’re old enough now that they no longer praise your potential. All those years of encouragement about your bright future are over. It’s quiet now. 

At the same time, you’re not yet old enough to join the ranks of those you so admire, the wise elders. You’re not yet one of them. You don’t speak for the ages. Few look to you for inspiration or advice. 

These are the middle years. 

Your past accomplishments and your hopes for tomorrow mean nothing. All that matters is what you do now: 

Stay agile. Draw up plans, but be nimble enough to abandon them. Be persistent in fulfilling your vision, but also be ready to shift course based on the changing landscape. Be ever-evolving. 

Take care of yourself. You’re on your own, so be careful. Pace yourself. Cultivate healthy habits. Know your limits. 

Pay attention. It’s now your turn to provide encouragement. Learn to be a mentor. Look for opportunities to serve, celebrate and share.

RESOLUTIONS 2021: The Year of Renewal 

Health 
Drink water. Eat vegetables. Take naps. Pace yourself.  
Cleaner fasts, more colorful feasts, smaller portions. 
Spend more time outdoors: walking, riding, fishing. 
Expand vegetable garden with new crops. 
Get vaccinated as soon as possible. 

Music 
Prepare arrangements for Cascadia studio album. 
Compose Legacy suite showcasing Dad’s poetry. 
Add Patsy Cline material to DMG repertoire. 

Business 
Schedule fourth quarter touring engagements. 
Apply for touring and commissioning grants. 
Launch Cascadia crowdfunding campaign. 
Recruit five more private students. 

Personal 
Collect missing issues of Silver Age Green Lantern
Launch a new 30-day challenge each month. 
Publish a memoir blog post every week. 
Invest in home security. 
Practice gratitude.

A YEAR LIKE NO OTHER 

HINDSIGHT IS 2020

>Sigh<  What a year. 

Anxiety, uncertainty, sadness, frustration.

Isolation. Loneliness. Loss. Grief.

Hyper-vigilance. News-bingeing. Doom-scrolling. Self-medicating. 

Economic instability. Racial unrest. Joblessness, homelessness, food insecurity. 

Explosions. Invasions. Protests. Riots. Wildfires. Floods. Hurricanes. Murder hornets! Nazis! 

Police brutality. Political corruption. Voter suppression. Rampant stupidity. 

And all this during a deadly global pandemic.  

After such a year as this, can one possibly feel hopeful? Or grateful?  

For years I’ve made a modest living as a bandleader, traveling thousands of miles, playing hundreds of shows, employing dozens of musicians annually. And back in February, this was shaping up to be our most productive year yet! We had three different touring programs in the works, 217 confirmed gigs on the books, and plans for several exciting new creative collaborations.  
  
Then suddenly everything was canceled, and 2020 became a year like no other. 

THE DAMNDEMIC

For a horn player, the prospect of an invisible, airborne respiratory disease is deeply troubling.  

Some of my musical heroes were among the first killed by Covid. And many of those who recovered continue to suffer lingering symptoms of fatigue, mental fogginess and difficulty breathing.  

My conclusion: even if Covid-19 doesn’t take my life, it could very well take away my livelihood.  

I dared not risk contracting or spreading the virus. I put my affairs in order, updated my will, circled the wagons and canceled all non-essential activities. Sassy and I resolved to stay home, mask up, hunker down, and wait for the vaccine. We traveled nowhere, not even to the bedside of my father in hospice. That was especially difficult. But we were in lockdown. 

Keeping safe from Covid, however, was far from our only concern. 

FILTHY LUCRE

Unlike my colleagues with day jobs, I was a full-time musician in 2020 BC (Before Covid).  

I had no salaried teaching position, no private students. I made my living almost entirely from performances on tour.

When all our gigs were canceled, my family suddenly found itself with no income. 

How the hell were we supposed to pay our bills?! 

I thought of Art Farmer, my late, great mentor, whose wisdom has never steered me wrong.  

Art successfully reinvented himself many times over the course of his storied career. Among his invaluable life lessons, he taught that change is inevitable, and the key to survival is adaptability.  

“Eventually you learn,” he once told me, “to recognize change as the herald of opportunity.”  

Art died before the new millennium. He certainly could never have predicted what would happen to the performing arts in 2020 … but isn’t that the point?  

When the unthinkable happens, and all seems lost, new possibilities emerge. 

With that in mind, I reached out to a few trusted colleagues for advice. 

THE PIVOT

We came up with this strategy: 

    •    ask longterm clients to consider postponements rather than cancellations 
    •    where possible, convert to an internet-based, home business model 
    •    prioritize incremental income from streaming, royalties and residuals
    •    develop a range of new online digital products and services 
    •    leverage social media for advertising and virtual event promotion 
    •    sell digital downloads and custom commissions of new work 
    •    learn how to live-stream and begin playing “karaoke-style” solo shows 
    •    apply for every available pandemic relief grant and assistance program 
    •    cultivate a virtual network of individual patrons and supporters 
    •    build a virtual tip jar and begin soliciting individual contributions 
    •    launch a teaching studio and begin offering private lessons online  
    •    create distance learning curricula for music educators 
    •    present online workshops for college and high school music students 
    •    join with fellow artist/educators to produce a virtual arts festival 
    •    save money, cut costs, downsize, and sell off unwanted items 
    •    learn to do routine minor repairs on my instrument at home 
    •    plant a vegetable garden and begin growing our own food 

I’m delighted to report that we accomplished all these things and more

And with a little help from our friends, we managed to survive this turbulent year, optimism intact.  

Presently, as we prepare for the holidays at home, we’re filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude.  

GRATITUDE

We’re so grateful, for so many things. 

So grateful for my father, for everything that he was, and will remain, in memory. Grateful for his long, adventure-filled life. Grateful for his caregivers at Sedona Garden and Harmony Hospice. Grateful for his companion Nedra, and for everyone who visited, called, and loved him. Grateful that I was able to spend so much time with him over the years. Ever grateful for him, always.

Grateful for our health! We promise never again to take it for granted. 

Grateful for Sassy and Scout, for our little house, and the simple life we share. Grateful for home-cooked meals by the fire, and for the soothing sound of the rain on my new rainroof, an early birthday gift from Sass. Grateful to have a home at all, especially now, as so many are facing eviction. 

Grateful to all the essential workers, first responders, health care professionals, vaccine developers, farmers, truckers, delivery people and grocers who labored tirelessly on our behalf this year.  

Grateful for technology! As difficult as this quarantine has been, imagine how much worse it was for folks during the previous pandemic 100 years ago. At least we are able to stay in touch with one another! Grateful for many virtual heart-to-hearts via email, text and videophone! Grateful for Skype, FaceTime, Zoom, and social media. 

Grateful, too, for the things I learned during this solitary period of self-discovery. I found out, for example, that my work doesn’t define me. It turns out that I don’t actually need to perform to be happy. Grateful for this unexpected, but welcome, preview of my own future, and the opportunity to know what it will feel like when I finally get off the road and retire. I learned that the simple rituals of this rural life -- walking, reading, gardening, watching movies, listening to music, talking with a friend, playing with the dog, ruminating, puttering around the house -- these will be enough for me. How comforting! 

Grateful to everyone who voted in the recent election, despite the many attempts to disenfranchise voters. Grateful for the courageous poll workers, election officials, cyber-security experts and legal professionals who stood up against craven efforts to undermine the democratic process. 

Grateful, also, for all the brave investigative journalists, fact-checkers, whistleblowers, anti-racists, anti-fascists and compassionate activists who stand up, speak truth to power, and call out deplorable behavior. Grateful for decency. 

Grateful for family and friends, including several important people from my past with whom I reconnected this year. So grateful to have them in my life. Most of all, I’m astonished by all the good people who generously offered us help, even when we were reluctant to ask.

You kept our lights on and our creative fires burning.

You made sure that we never lost hope. 

So grateful for Adam, Amy, Andrea, Andy, Annabelle, Annette, Aragon High School, Arrivederci Wine & Jazz, Bill, BJ, BMI, Barbara, Benjamin, Beth, Bill, Bloomfield Hills High School, Bob & Sue, Brandon, Bruce, California Jazz Conservatory, Carlos, Caruccio’s, ChiChi & Kent, Chris, Clairdee, Curtis, Dan, Danielle, David, Debbie, Derek & Michelle, Destiny, Dick, Donna, Dorothy Jean, Earshot Jazz, Eastern Oregon University, Eric, Evan, Federal Emergency Management Agency, Flo, Fudgie, Geraldine, Grays Harbor College, Greg, Hillsdale High School, Hope College, Jack, Janice, Jazz Foundation of America, Jazz In AZ, Jazz Night School, Jeff, Jenny, Jerry, Jo, John, Jordan, Joseph, Josie Anne, Joyce, JP, Judith, Judy, Kander, Karen & Bob, Keith, Kelso High School, Kent, Kurt, La Grande High School, Larissa, Louise, Lower Columbia College, Lydia, Lynne, Mabey, Manieri Foundation, Marge, Mark, Mary, Mesa Community College, Michael, Michelle, Mike, Mt. Hood Community College, MusiCares, Nedra, Nine Mile Falls School District, Noal, Noir City Festival, Ott & Hunter Winery, Paradise Valley Country Club, Patti & George, Peaches & Rocket, Phyllis, Randy, Rick, RK, Rob, Ron, Ruben, Sam, Sandi, San Mateo Union High School District, Sassy, Scottsdale Unified School District, Seasons Performance Hall, Seattle JazzED, Sequoia Union High School District, Shanna, Shelley, Sheri & Julian, StageIt, Sue, Sumner-Bonney Lake School District, Susan, Swingin’ Sounds, Terry, Teutonic Wine Company, Tom, Triple Door, Vespers In The Valley, Western Washington University, West Valley College, Wind Rose Cellars, and Wilson. 

From the bottom of our hearts, thank you. We endeavor to be worthy, and pledge to "pay it forward" whenever and however we can. 

From our Quaranteam to yours: we appreciate you. Please stay safe, stay healthy, and remember that you’re not alone.  

We’re all in this together! 

Happy New Year!

~Dmitri

REMEMBERING WILLIAM D. MATHENY 

William Douglas Matheny

October 24, 1936 — December 19, 2020

William Douglas Matheny, 84, died December 19, 2020 in Tucson, Arizona.  

He was born October 24, 1936 in Nashville, Tennessee, the eldest son of William Ewing Matheny and Gladys Ella Bruce Capley Matheny.  

Bill attended Columbia High School in Columbia, Tennessee, where he distinguished himself as an honor student and a champion amateur boxer in the regional Golden Gloves competition.  

He majored in English and History at Belmont College (Nashville, Tennessee), earning his Bachelor of Arts in 1960 prior to studying Russian Language at Syracuse University (Syracuse, New York). He earned a Master of Arts In Teaching with an emphasis in Russian Studies from Vanderbilt University (Nashville, Tennessee) in 1971. 

Matheny served in the United States Air Force Security Service from 1961-63, and worked as a buyer for Castner-Knott Department Stores from 1963-70 before beginning his career as a schoolteacher. 

From 1971-78, Matheny served as Chair of the English Department for Brookstone School, a private college preparatory academy in Columbus, Georgia, where he taught English, Russian Humanities, Ornithology and Social Studies. A member of the prestigious Cum Laude Society, he was much beloved by his students, and was awarded the Columbus Chamber of Commerce “Star Teacher” award in 1977.  

Matheny relocated to Arizona in the summer of 1977, where he worked briefly in the Marana School District before becoming head of the history department at Green Fields Country Day School from 1980-89. In 1989, he helped to organize and lead a Green Fields student/teacher exchange trip abroad to Kiev, Ukraine. 

Bill was known for his intelligence, relaxed, southern charm, and curiosity about the natural world. An amateur poet, avid birder and accomplished naturalist, Matheny traveled extensively throughout North America admiring flora and fauna. He contributed to several annual bird counts for the National Audubon Society, and published the first official birding checklist for Graham County, Arizona. 

Throughout his life, Matheny generously shared his love of nature with others, inspiring many of his students, friends and family members to develop their own deep appreciation for the natural world. This is his great and lasting legacy. 

Bill is survived by his companion Nedra, his son Dmitri, stepdaughters Janice and Brenda, and his siblings, Jim, Maxine, Pat, Debbie and Dawn. 

In keeping with his wishes, there will be no funeral or memorial services.  

Those who wish to celebrate his life may make a donation in his memory to any cause or charity they choose to support.  

In Bill’s own words: “Look around. If you see someone in need, please try to help that person.”

IMPRESSIONABLE 



When I was young and asking the big questions, I learned most of what I still believe about loyalty, bravery and morality from the Silver Age superheroes in my comic book collection.

 

For real.

 

In later years I would travel internationally, study world religions, read classic works of philosophy and ethics, and even pay attention to my father's many lectures. I went to private school, public school, boarding school and the school of hard knocks. I'm an educated cat.

 

But to this day, when the world tests my mettle or challenges my sense of right and wrong, it's not Spinoza but my inner Green Lantern who shows up for the fight.

 

I've always been impressionable in this way. 

 

For example, I'm pretty sure I have a goatee because of the way Spock looked in "Mirror, Mirror." I know I started wearing dashikis in high school because of a picture I saw of Elvin Jones in Downbeat. I sport a beret on stage because Dizzy did.

 

Today, while watching Highlander for the godzillionth time, I noticed something about Christopher Lambert's home. Like so many characters in films of the 1980s and '90s, The Highlander lived in a loft.

 

It now occurs to me that my interior design preferences and bone-deep love of warehouse loft spaces and mid-century modern furniture are not based on anywhere I've lived or anything I've seen or studied. They don't reflect some sophisticated notion about the aesthetic requirements of an artist's life. They aren't because I need space to rehearse and create.

 

Nope. I learned about loft living from the movies. Dig: 

 

William Sanderson in Blade Runner (1982). Jennifer Beals in Flashdance (83). Lambert in Highlander (86). Barbara Hershey in Hannah and Her Sisters (86). Mickey Rourke in 9-1/2 Weeks (86). Tom Hanks in Big (88). Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally (89). Rosanna Arquette in New York Stories (89). Nancy Travis in So I Married An Axe Murderer (93). James Caan in Bottle Rocket (96). Ethan Hawke in Great Expectations (98). Julianne Moore in The Big Lebowski (98). Adam Sandler in Big Daddy (99). Christian Bale in American Psycho (00). Owen Wilson in Zoolander (01). Olivier Martinez in Unfaithful (02).

 

I want their cribs!

 

Thanks, Hollywood.

 

(Sure hope this flugelhorn thing works out.)

FROM THE ARCHIVES 

On This Day

October 24, 1935
William D. Matheny was born.
Happy birthday, Dad!



October 24, 1988
Fourth Stream
Chamber Jazz Ensemble
Berklee College of Music
Boston, Massachusetts

David Valdez, alto saxophone and flute
Ole Mathisen, tenor and soprano saxophones
Jay Brandford, bass clarinet
Garrett Savlok, trumpet
Mark Taylor, french horn
Dmitri Matheny, flugelhorn
Terje Nygaard, trombone
Julian Joseph, piano
Peter Herbert, bass
Jim Black, drums

FATHER'S DAY 



"A father has to be a provider, a teacher, a role model,
but most importantly, a distant authority figure
who can never be pleased."
—Stephen Colbert

"What was silent in the father speaks in the son,
and often I found in the son the unveiled secret of the father."
—Friedrich Nietzsche

"It doesn't matter who my father was;
it matters who I remember he was."
—Anne Sexton

TO AN AGED BEAR ~ N. Scott Momaday 



Hold hard this infirmity.
It defines you. You are old.

Now fix yourself in summer,
In thickets of ripe berries,

And venture toward the ridge
Where you were born. Await there

The setting sun. Be alive
To that old conflagration

One more time. Mortality
Is your shadow and your shade.

Translate yourself to spirit;
Be present on your journey.

Keep to the trees and waters.
Be the singing of the soil.

MY MAN ~ DM on Miles Davis 



I credit my father [a naturalist and school teacher] and his hip record collection for kindling my childhood interest in music. There was great music on our turntable all the time, from Rachmaninoff to Ray Charles.

According to Dad, one time when I was about five, he was spinning
Kind of Blue. I asked, "Daddy what's that sound?" When he answered, "That's Miles Davis, a jazz musician." I responded, "Well, that's what I want to be when I grow up!"

The story may be apocryphal, but Miles is still my man.

LOOK IT OVER by Wendell Berry 















Received a letter from Dad today,
poetry enclosed, as is his habit:

"Here's a poem by the Kentucky farmer Wendell Berry.
It may be almost the perfect poem for me,
so I wanted y'all to read it too..."


LOOK IT OVER


I leave behind even
my walking stick. My knife
is in my pocket, but that
I have forgot. I bring
no car, no cell phone,
no computer, no camera,
no CD player, no fax, no
TV, not even a book. I go
into the woods. I sit down on
a log provided at no cost.
It is the earth I've come to,
the earth itself, sadly
abused by the stupidity
only humans are capable of
but, as ever, itself. Free.
A bargain! Get it while it lasts!