When I was 17, I visited Oberlin College, the school where my mother went. The two-day trip was a powerful experience for me in many ways, and left an indelible memory burned in my mind. First, this was my first visit to a college. I went there, had a lesson with the organ professor, and spent the night in the dorms as a guest of a current student. Oberlin really puts the “liberal” in liberal arts (and that’s probably a gross understatement), and the people I met left a strong, positive impression on me. In that two-day and one-night trip, I went to a midnight organ concert, played Quake with other students on the college network (this was a brand new experience for me – it was just 1997, after all), went to the art museum, and went to one of the weirdest and best movies I had ever seen.

The Umbrellas of Cherbourg is … well, I don’t know how to best describe it. It’s a French-Jazz-Musical-Opera-Art Film. The colors are truly technicolor and exaggerated to the point of being obnoxious. The story is heart-wrenching. Michel Legrand‘s film score is awesome: at times hilarious – like the opening number, an upbeat jazz number where the hero, Guy, sings about fixing cars; at times so corny that it traverses the corny spectrum and becomes good again – like the strings’ main theme; at times, somewhere in between – like the love duet between Guy and Geneviève.

Seeing this movies as an impressionable teenager, accompanied by the witty and clever commentary of the Oberlin students, instantly made it one of my favorites. If you don’t know this movie, I would highly recommend seeing it. There’s nothing quite like it. I don’t know what exactly it is, but I like it.

When faced with such a senseless, horrible tragedy, we turn to music to help us find some peace, to help us heal, to help us move on.

A Requiem is a Roman Catholic mass said to pray for the soul of departed person. Today, Requiems are still said (and sung) in a liturgical setting; however, the beauty of the words and the human obsession with death have caused many composers to write their own Requiems, regardless of their faith (or lack thereof). Particularly famous Requiems include those by Mozart, Berlioz, Brahms, Faure, and Verdi – and ironically, none of these is known to have much, if any, faith. After those, there are a number of “underdog” requiems that are known by choirs, but not by orchestras. Among these is the Requiem by Maurice Duruflé.

This serenely beautiful work takes the melodies of the Gregorian Chant Requiem and dresses them up with lavish accompaniment by organ and orchestra. The result is a work that expresses the sorrow we feel when a loved one dies, but also a sincere hope in an afterlife. Unlike the more famous Requiems I mentioned earlier, Duruflé’s does not paint a terrifying picture of the end of time, with God as a cruel judge; instead, we are left with a calm, peaceful vision of heaven, where tragedies might be finally explained.

I am a composer – one of the many things I do to keep myself busy.  For some people, composing comes easy; for others like me, we struggle.

So whenever I hear the music of Felix Mendelssohn, I am filled with two intense emotions. The first is one of great joy and love, because his music is just so amazingly beautiful it hurts. The second is one of jealousy and anger because, dammit, I want to write like that! His music is structurally perfect but never too predictable, emotionally passionate without being saccharine. I think he simply wrote the textbook on what good music is. I dare you to find one less-than-perfect moment in the first movement of his Violin Concerto: