 Spring,
2001
Belated Greetings from the frozen
shores of Blue Hill Bay!
It’s been too long a while since I’ve written, I’m
afraid. Over a year, in fact. And though I know that most of you
have somehow managed to keep getting up in the morning and going
on with your lives, I am nevertheless very flattered by how many
people have actually asked me when my next newsletter is coming
out. Some have even said they’ve missed it. To say there’s
been a “clamor” would perhaps be overstating it a bit,
but I’m very honored that many of you do seem to have noticed.
To you I offer a tip of the cap and a promise to be a more faithful
correspondent this year.
You might be surprised, not only to be hearing from me at all,
but especially to be hearing from me at Valentines Day, when we
customarily focus our attentions on sweethearts and heart-shaped
candy boxes, and not on chatty newsletters from people we don’t
know. But perhaps you’ll indulge me when I tell you that my
theme this time is Love, the grandest theme of them all.
It is difficult to talk about love without seeming either presumptuous,
saccharine, phony, or worse, but I have noticed that as the years
go by that love emerges more and more clearly as the only thing
that matters. I’m sure you’ve noticed this too. After
all, it’s the oldest lesson in the book; love is all you need.
It’s just amazing to me, though, how profound the personal
discovery is, no matter how many times we’ve been tipped off
to it. You can read all the travelogues you want about Niagara Falls,
but to stand there yourself and hear the thunder and feel the swirling
clouds of spray, well, that’s what Niagara Falls means. And
you can listen to sermons and read wise books for decades, but when
you watch your child get on the school bus for the first time, or
say your final farewell to a parent, or watch the face of a bride
as she says her vows; well, that’s what love means. And it’s
been dawning on me that love is what life means.
“Now what in the world,” you very rightly ask, “has
any of this to do with buying a Paul Sullivan CD”? “Does
the innocent act of picking up a copy of 50’s Slow Dance mean
that I also have to be subjected to protracted paragraphs of platitudes
and personal epiphanies?”
Allow me to explain. I’m finding that this discovery in my
personal life is directly reflected in my musical life, and that’s
why I’m telling you about it. Last year I had some tremendously
exciting and gratifying musical experiences. What I noticed, though,
is that the excitement and satisfaction don’t correspond as
closely to the glamor and prestige as they once did. More and more
I’m finding that the deep human contact, the spirit, the sense
of connection-that’s what we make music for! After 45 years
I’m starting to get it--and that’s why I want to tell
you about it.
The life of a musician is sometimes a very peculiar one. As one
grizzled old sax player once told me, “Man, music is the only
profession where you can play at the White House on Monday and sleep
in the gutter on Tuesday.” And though I haven’t yet
gotten to those extremes, I know exactly what he means. Late last
year I found myself playing piano for thousands of cheering people
in the largest gothic cathedral in the world, the Cathedral of St.
John the Divine in New York City. The event was the 21st Annual
Winter Solstice Celebration, presented each year by my wonderful
friend and mentor, Paul Winter. It almost defies description. My
sincere advice is to make every effort to come next year. I promise
you you won’t be disappointed. Suffice it to say that by the
end of it my eyes were streaming as I joined forces with 20 or so
magnificent musicians from far-flung corners of the globe, the thunderous
full organ, the jubilant sax of Paul Winter, and the tidal wave
of three thousand voices in full song,as together we bade farewell
to all our yesterdays and welcomed the hope and promise of tomorrow.
Two nights after that, I was again playing the piano, under different
circumstances. I was accompanying the music teacher at my son’s
elementary school as he skillfully and patiently guided the various
classes and combos through their annual Christmas concert. The gym
was decorated to a fare-thee well, and all sixty four students were
almost unrecognizable with their velvet and satin dresses, body
glitter, disciplined hair and fancy neckties which, in the case
of the youngest boys, reached to their thighs and obscured most
of their shirts. Not to be outdone, the music director and I squeezed
into our tuxedos, and the parents, grandparents, teachers and friends
were similarly decked out.
Over the course of an hour, the students bravely battled their
way through all the Christmas standards; Frosty, Rudolph, “I
Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus”, and “I’m Gettin’
Nuttin’ For Christmas”, with a few instrumentals sprinkled
in here and there.
It was a concert you’re all familiar with. The inexpressible
sweetness of the children, the exchanged proud glances of the parents,
the Herculean labors of the director. The kids whose confidence
far exceeded their talents, and the kids with no confidence at all.
And all of us gathered in the bright gym in the little school in
the little town, whose entire population would have made up about
a quarter of the audience I had played for two nights before.
What struck me most though, as I thought about it before going
to sleep, was not how different the two recent concerts had been,
but rather how essentially alike they were. Yes, in many ways they
were a Grand Canyon apart, but the core, the essence, the gravity
which held them together, was the exact same in both cases, and
there is no better name for it than love, though it’s impossible
to define it. I may not know for sure what it is, but I’m
becoming more and more sure that it’s at the center of everything,
including all music.
So happy Valentines Day, and here’s to another year of lovely
music for us all!
River Music News
I’m pleased to announce that I have a wonderful new distribution
center for all of my recordings.
It’s a family business called Portland Shipping and Packaging,
located in Portland, Maine. They have a huge warehouse filled with
all kinds of things, including large piles of Paul Sullivan Cds.
They are in charge of filling all orders, from a single tape to
a thousand Cds. (They haven’t had too many orders like that
yet, but they’re ready for anything!) They’re friendly,
knowledgeable and have a good sense of humor. And they’re
crisp, efficient business people as well. So as they say in Manhattan,”What’s
not to like?” Give them a call and see for yourself. Their
number is 800-469-7225.
The End of an Era
Several years ago I wrote to you and let you know that the co-founder
of River Music, my wife Jill, was moving on start her own antiques
business. Not surprisingly, it’s been a great success and
she’s flourishing and happy. However, since she had been both
the brains and the workhorse here at River Music, I was at a total
loss to replace her. I put out an S.O.S in my newsletter, and lo
and behold, got an interested and interesting response from a couple
in Northville Michigan, John and Carol Merrifield.
After some exchanges of correspondence we all got together and
became fast friends immediately, and with hardly any arm-twisting
at all, John and Carol, who had just retired from a big career at
Ford, agreed to move to Maine and run River Music. John was our
marketing specialist and general manager, and Carol took over the
complicated and often disheartening job of managing our finances.
That was five years ago. Since then, John and Carol have become
extended family. We’ve spent many happy hours together, driven
thousands of miles together, whooped for joy and scratched our heads
in disappointment together. Watched our families grow and spent
long glorious summer days picnicking on sunny islands together.
One of their many strengths is that they say what they mean and
mean what they say. When they agreed to come I was so delirious
that I really didn’t pay much attention when they said they’d
do it for five years. That seemed like an eternity away. Something
to deal with it when the time came.
And now the time has come. John and Carol have been looking forward
to really retiring; traveling, cross-country skiing, kayaking, reading
and visiting their widely-dispersed children and grandchildren.
In short, whatever they feel like doing. Surprisingly enough, that
doesn’t seem to include activities like filling out quarterly
sales tax forms, counting inventory in a freezing garage, making
ten thousand phone calls to iron out the details of an upcoming
concert, soothing the ruffled feathers of a disgruntled distributor,
or cheerfully answering the questions of a customer calling from
California at 2 AM Maine time.
This is one of those situations in life where the words “thank
you” are so inadequate that I almost can’t utter them.
In fact, over the years I have thanked John and Carol so many times
that we’ve all become sick and tired of it. I even suggested
at one point that I could use a code, such as “855”,
to mean “I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all that
you’ve done for me today.” In fact, I did just that
on a couple of occasions. After a long drive home from a concert,
in their car and with them driving, I would get out at my house
and say good night, look at their exhausted, smiling faces and say
“That’s one great big “855”, folks.”
Luckily, they’re not riding off into the sunset. They’re
going to stay right here in Blue Hill Falls. I think if they ever
tried to move, the community would turn out and lie down in the
middle of the road to block their car, because they are the finest
people you could ever hope to meet, and everyone around here knows
it.
What they have done for River Music is truly heroic: endless hours
of hard, intelligent work, crises averted, deals deftly negotiated,
new opportunities created, and everything buttoned down and shipshape
“in Bristol fashion”.
But all that seems almost incidental now. The privilege of knowing
them and sharing life with them is the real gift, the real treasure.
And knowing that that gift will keep on growing is more than enough
consolation as they clean out their desks and switch off their phones.
I know that all of you who know them or have had dealings with them
over the years join me in wishing them one last, huge “855”
and a long golden retirement filled with health, peace and joy.
A Glance Ahead
Despite the terrifying prospect of running River Music by myself...(YIKES!!.),
I’m eager about this year in music. I have many exciting projects
on the docket, and I hope you’ll be able to participate in
some of them.
The year got off to a promising start with a call from an old friend,
David Benoit, who invited me to submit a song for an album he’s
making entitled “Songs Without Words”. Look for it later
this year on the Windham Hill label.
I’m also looking forward to many appearances around the country
with Paul Winter, including the Winter Solstice concerts in New
York next December. In addition to that, I have a handful of concerts
of my own (see my concert calendar).
I’m also thrilled to report that I’ll be working on
a collaboration this Spring with none other than the Rockettes of
Radio City Music Hall! I told you the life of a musician is peculiar.
Through Pilobolus, the dance company I’ve so often told you
about, I’ve been invited to write a score for a program called
“The Rockettes Out Of Line”, for which they have commissioned
other dance companies to create new work for the Rockettes. It premieres
in Las Vegas. Should be tremendous!
I will also be performing more of my “Music for Neighbors”
concerts, with the help of a company here called Maine Arts. These
are events for which I make several visits to a community, months
in advance of a concert. I meet the musicians of the area, the music
teachers, the local organizations, and the school teachers, and
together we construct a concert which features not only me and my
group, but the local artists as well. I write arrangements which
spotlight the various talents, and we all get to work on learning
our parts.
The week of the concert, I arrive in town a couple of days early.
I go to the schools and listen to the various ensembles and soloists,
and play for them, and talk with them about what it’s like
to be a musician. Later in the day I might play at a nursing home,
along with whatever other musicians might be able to join me. Saturday
afternoon we might have an open invitation percussion workshop,
for people of all ages and talent levels. Bill Friederich, a magnificent
percussionist and human being, makes everyone feel right at home,
and before long the entire group is blazing like a bonfire.
Saturday night is the big concert, with local guest artists from
8 to 80 years old. Everyone, including me, is very excited, somewhat
nervous, and absolutely elated when it’s over. We wind things
up on Sunday with participation in a religious service, either a
regular Sunday service in a local church, or a specially created
ecumenical service later in the day. The whole point is what I refer
to as “cross-pollination”, by which I simply mean bringing
a community together through music. People who might never otherwise
meet, or know of each other’s talent. My goal is for people
to say at the end, “Gee--I didn’t know she could sing
like that!”, or “Wow, I never sounded that good before!”
I’ve only done it a couple of times so far, but it has worked
better than I ever imagined it would. I hope I’ll be able
to do it in your community some day.
Well my friends, that’s more than enough. To those intrepid
souls who have gotten this far, I offer my sincere thanks.
Your friend in music,
Paul Sullivan
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