On March 10, 2022, the angels in heaven double-checked the tuning of their harps and reviewed their music fundamentals because Ms. DeeAnn Gorham was coming home.
DeeAnn Logan Gorham (1946 – 2022) was a talented musician, an accomplished singer and pianist, who crash landed at East Texas State University in 1975 and continued to stir things up for the next 38 years
DeeAnn was “genuinely joyful, brilliant, intensely disciplined, keenly observant, serious, playful, and deeply loyal.”
Ms. Gorham was a diva; sophisticated, funny, and over the top but extremely no nonsense in her pursuit of being a respected university music professor. In her memorial service at Kavanaugh Methodist Church where she served as Music Director for many years, it was said that “DeeAnn was not only a musical virtuoso; she was also kindness incarnate; patient and loyal.” I and many others can attest to that fact that she was “genuinely joyful, brilliant, intensely disciplined, keenly observant, serious, playful, and deeply loyal.”
In college I was marginally funny and allegedly talented, but I was absolutely none of the other things that Ms. Gorham embodied. She was erudite, travelled, and most of all passionate about music. She, among many of my college professors inspired me to work harder and reach higher than I thought possible, or convenient.
One particular inspiration came in the unlikely form of Class Piano.
A harsh realization for many music majors is that in college one must take, and ultimately pass, piano class. I was a self-taught pianist who could play a pretty mean Smoke on the Water or the Theme from Shaft but otherwise I had no idea what I was doing when it came to real piano technique, sightreading, or music theory.
Unwittingly, Ms. Gorham became my class piano teacher. I suspect I was among her first students in piano class, which I had put off as long as possible. There was no more avoiding the inevitable. But taking her class turned out to be one of the most propitious curricular detours I had taken, because she was just what I needed at that point in my college career.
Among other precepts DeeAnn believed in the power of drill and discipline in the pursuit of musical excellence. I’ll give you an example.
“A proper diva would never arrive to a class on time.”
To begin, one must understand that a proper diva would never arrive to a class on time. She would rather glide into the piano lab promptly at eight-o-two every morning, her head erect as if balancing an invisible tiara on her head. She appeared with a load of books and papers in her arms, and an expectation that her pupils be seated and waiting. By the time she crossed the threshold, each student in the class was expected to have a page of note-book paper with lines numbered one to ten and their name and the day’s date printed legibly at the top.
As she casually organized herself—arranging books and papers on the desk and piano, she would call out different types of chords. Our task was to “spell” each chord (meaning the three or four individual notes that make up a particular chord) and scribble them down before she could say the next one.
“D-major” she would say with an upward lilt. “F-minor” she cooed somberly. “G-flat diminished seven” she purred in a subtle Mid-Atlantic accent. Each one delivered with a one or two second pause in between. It was the most stressful part of my day. Once she had given ten chords, we passed our sheets to the front of the class (curiously, she never checked the role because she now had a record of every person in attendance that day).
When we struggled, she would become frustrated and admonish us by blithely repeating “DeeFsharpA” in a rhythmic and lilting tone. “D-major is just DeeFsharpA” she’d say. “See, I can say it easily, DeeFsharpA” this time adding an operatic flourish of her hand. “It’s just DeeFsharpA.” And thus with a melodramatic sigh, class would begin. “Now, on to melodic minor scales in two-octaves please—ready and…”
This showed us that if we had to stop and give labored thought to the spelling of simple chords that the musical world would quickly move on with or without us. It was powerful. I still use this concept with my students today. It is a fundamental skill that many teachers overlook. Quickly knowing the parts of a chord is key to understanding tonal harmony and something every improvising musician must be able to do just to enter the playing field—much less the band stand.
“… before I was three, I knew that the major chord on flattened supertonic was D flat, F and A flat; in the key of C, of course.” Danny Kaye knew the importance of good chord spelling in the pursuit of love. With Virginia Mayo in the film “A Song is Born.” Only musicians will get this…
I can point to many significant turning points in my life and career, but encountering Ms. Gorham was certainly one of the most influential to my teaching. There were of course many other pivotal moments of which I am completely unaware, but this is one that stands out clearly in my memory.
When I began to make a name for myself, many of my professors and classmates at ET were surprised, but not DeeAnn. She continued to cheer me on. With every visit I made to ET, she was always there to support me and tell me she was proud of what I had accomplished as a musician. I am so fortunate to have been given the opportunity to tell her how much I appreciated her efforts on my behalf on several occasions before she passed.
DeeAnn’s influence on East Texas State University is also clear as evidenced by their flying of the University flag at half-staff after her death and naming the Green Room in the new Music Building in her honor along with colleagues William Gorham and Charles Nelson. These are small but meaningful tokens of esteem from a school to which she had given so much.
Her ET colleague Gene Lockhart remembered DeeAnn as being “very patient but with great expectations; not just in piano or in theory or voice, but in everything she did.” Carolyn Lockhart recalled that “DeeAnn and I had a lot in common as we both taught children’s choirs in our churches, and we were both very strict. DeeAnn didn’t believe in having screaming kids running around; she expected them to behave and take their singing seriously and this made her program even stronger and larger than many other church-based children’s choirs.”
Her syllabus for voice lessons provides a glimpse into her philosophy for the disciplined study of music. “It is truly impossible to maintain and continue learning, growth, and singing more beautifully without continuity and perspicacity.” I’m sure most of her students (if they were smart) turned to the dictionary upon reading this line in the syllabus to find the following definitions. “Perspicacity: The ability to understand things quickly and make accurate judgments” and “continuity: uninterrupted connection, succession, or union.”
Is it as simple as spelling chords in piano class every day until one becomes fluent in the building blocks of music? You better believe it.
She followed with a few more of her favorite musical quotes, but the one that seems most prescient today is from Robert Shaw who said “…in a world of political, economic and personal disintegration, music is not a luxury but a necessity… not simply because it is ‘therapeutic’ but because it is the persistent focus of man’s intelligence, aspirations, and good-will.”
And finally, a warning. “I, of course, assume that you are here, seeking a degree, because you want to sing, you want to learn. Attending university is a gift, and therefore, you would always practice more than is sufficient for your own personal, vocal, musical, and spiritual growth; however, just in case you need external assistance: please do not make the faulty assumption that I do not know when you have avoided practicing.”
Of course she knew! She always knew.
“Continuity and perspicacity.” DeeAnn Gorham, a musical life well lived.
I believe her obituary said it best. “DeeAnn was an accompanist in life and music, breathing with the performer, anticipating need, and remaining fiercely focused on the exact support required. She adeptly and happily provided that support to the musician, the birds, the flowers, family, and friends. She was so fully present, as she made certain every movement was in support of the other person. And joyfully did so.”
Thank you DeeAnn for teaching us the lessons of continuity and perspicacity.
Oh, and another thing.
The Mid-Atlantic or Trans-Atlantic accent was often used by actors and announcers in classic Hollywood film and theatre productions of the early 20th Century for its perceived sophistication and clarity. It was taught in elite Northeastern private schools to create a “standard World English” for the educated elite.
“Erudite, travelled, and most of all passionate about music.”
Adam Rathe, Deputy Features Director for Town and Country Magazine writes that “throughout the Golden Age of Hollywood, stars including Katharine Hepburn, Cary Grant, Bette Davis, and Orson Welles employed what’s known as a ‘Mid-Atlantic accent,’ a sort of American-British hybrid of speaking that relies on tricks like dropping ‘R’ sounds and softening vowels, in order to convey wealth and sophistication on the silver screen.”
The implication is that the term “Mid-Atlantic” means that it was born somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean between The US and the UK where it is said that “Nobody lives.”
“Why, what ev-uh do you mean Daaling?”
Note: There may be more to say about finding yourself upwardly mobile by simply changing the sound of your voice in a future blog…
Citations:
1Rathe, Adam. What Is the Mid-Atlantic Accent: Why Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant Sound like (Fake) Millionaires, Town and Country Magazine, Published 3 May 2020
2Widler, Billy. A Song is Born, film starring Danny Kaye, Virginia Mayo, Louis Armstrong, Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey, others, Samuel Goldwyn Studios, 19 October 1948
3Gorham, DeeAnn. Voice lessons Syllabus, East Texas A&M University, date unknown
4Definitions from Merriam Webster Online
5Lockhart, Gene & Carolyn. Telephone conversation with the author, 3 October 2025
With the start of a new school year a few days away, I begin to get excited about the prospects of the coming semester. In the academy, summer brings the opportunity to hit the reset button and by summer’s end, we should feel refreshed and ready to take on the challenges of another busy school year (You’ll notice I didn’t say rested).
As students return to the hallowed halls, I know that some are looking for a chance to redefine themselves, to develop new habits or break old ones or perhaps set some new goals. Maybe they hope to distance themselves from an unfortunate interaction (that most have already forgotten) or perhaps burnish their reputation as a dedicated student. Still others simply plan to take a few steps back in preparation for making some well-timed leaps forward.
All things are possible in the Fall. For me, Fall is a heady time that repeats every year and helps create the distinctive rhythm of my life. This rhythmic cycle is a tectonic movement that once felt slow and nearly imperceptible but now seems to gain speed with my every trip around the sun. Or as Jimmy Buffett puts it:
Every day’s a revolution Pull it together and it comes undone Just one more candle and a trip around the sun —Jimmy Buffett, Trip Around the Sun
In the metaphorical framework known as the “Four Seasons of Life,” Autumn is usually characterized as the second half of the life cycle but, In the Academy, Fall represents new beginnings. For many this could be a new year, new school, new job, new friends, new responsibilities, or new opportunities. So many things begin anew as golden summer turns to the orange and burnt umber of autumn, warm days, cool nights, and football under the lights.
Fall is ripe with opportunity! In our allegorical model Autumn can also represent a time of reflection, change, and transition, and depending on where you are in your educational journey (or life cycle) it may also involve some introspection about what your life might look like after the boys of summer have gone.
But as the semester approaches, I also begin to wonder what my students expect from their college experience. I ask myself “what do they want and how bad do they want it?” I know this because for most of my life I have struggled with the same queries. Identifying the “what” was never the problem, but it was the fundamental question that every person who aspires to something more in this life must ask themselves; “how bad do you want it?” In many cases the answer is, as singer and songwriter Don Henley would say, “not bad enough.”
So you wanna be a big baseball player?
As a kid growing up in East Texas, I wanted to play baseball but, not bad enough. I wanted to play football but, again, not bad enough. I wanted to be an Architect but not bad enough to put in the work to get good grades.
Then I joined the band. There I wanted badly to play the trumpet but no matter how hard I tried, it wasn’t going to happen. So, in 1969 I landed in the drum section. How bad did I want that? Not at all…
But in the Fall of 1970, and because of a loving and masterful band teacher, I got to start over. And in doing so I began to feel the early pangs of desire to become a musician; a real drummer. I had never experienced wanting something so much that it gave me an ache in the pit of my stomach thinking about it. Whenever I failed to measure up to that teacher’s expectations, it physically hurt. In retrospect, and in my own experience as a teacher, I suspect that it hurt him as much as it hurt me. I’ve had that stomachache ever since and it hasn’t subsided. I hope it never does.
I’ll admit that from time to time, I’ve felt alone in my journey but as I kept at it, I met more and more kindred spirits along the way. The first one was my childhood friend who had a four-track reel-to-reel tape recorder that lit the fire of my desire to write and record music. Then it was my fellow high school band geeks who wanted to put together a horn band to play the music of the popular group Chicago.
My high school bandmate and future college roommate, Lynn Childers, and I stayed long hours after school in the band hall transcribing and arranging their music and arguing about if we got it right or not. On Saturday nights we cruised around our hometown blasting music out of the windows of his Ford Mustang just like all the other kids except we were listening to Frank Zappa, Bill Chase, Buddy Rich, Mike Oldfield, Blood, Sweat, and Tears, and of course Chicago. We made music together because we wanted so badly to do it.
My grandmother knew all too well that wishes wouldn’t fulfill dreams. At home in Longview circa. 1950.
Whenever I got a new passion, something that I “really wanted” to do, my grandmother would say to me “wish in one hand and spit in the other and see which gets filled first.” Like so many East Texas syllogisms, it took me years to figure out what she meant.
Having survived the great depression as a young woman starting a family, my grandmother knew all too well that wishes wouldn’t fulfill dreams. She believed that the ability to achieve your goals only comes through action, dedication, and hard work.
I think she saw me struggling with the bellyaches of wanting to be a musician, but she worried that I didn’t have a strong enough work ethic to follow through on meeting that goal. By the time I figured out what she was trying to tell me, and I had begun to take her advice, she had passed away.
“Wish in one hand and spit in the other and see which gets filled first.” —Pattye Burgess Leverett
With Jimmy Yancey, the man who lit my fire. Back stage after a concert as guest soloist with the East Texas Symphonic Band, 2016.
Years later that same band director who lit my fire when I was 12 years old, told me that of all his students, I was the one that wanted to be a musician so much that I wouldn’t let adversity (meaning a lack of innate talent) or circumstances (coming from a poor family), prevent me from achieving my goal. He knew how badly I wanted it, even before I did. It was he who gave me the encouragement, the drive, and the push that my grandmother knew I needed. Thanks Grandma and Mr. Yancey.
A musician is all I can ever remember wanting to be. Longview Symphony rehearsal circa. 1975.
Since Junior High School, a musician is all I can remember wanting to be which is why I sometimes become frustrated with my students when they don’t appear to show the same drive and motivation that it took for me to get to where I am today. As a teacher, I have been surprised many times by how often students appeared to not—in my opinion—want it bad enough.
I’ve had students who loved being in band in high school, so they decided to continue studying music in college only to drop out the moment they hit a brick wall in theory class, or when they faced the inevitable scenario of practicing for hours and hours and not improving. Then, when their archrival—the one who never practices—makes first chair, it knocks the wind completely out of their sails. “It’s not fun anymore” is the reason most often given for dropping out. But again, it raises the question “how bad do you want it?”
American singer and frontman for the rock band Counting Crows, Adam Duritz, explains it like this.
“You’ve heard people say this a million times. They’re doing something they really like and then it gets hard and they’re like ‘it isn’t fun anymore.’ That’s the line that divides artists from people with hobbies because hobbies are fun—and they should be. Art can be enjoyable, but it’s not supposed to be [fun], and that’s not the deal. That’s not what it’s about. I mean it’s great if it’s fun but it’s not going to be fun all the time. And it’s hard and it should be hard and you’re gonna be miserable and hate it at times or just hate the experience—not the thing—because its real; it’s your whole life and that’s different.”
That’s the line that divides artists from people with hobbies because hobbies are fun—and they should be. Art can be enjoyable, but it’s not supposed to be [fun], and that’s not the deal. —Adam Duritz, Counting Crows
But is it possible to want something too much?
Yes, the cost of going “all in” on the pursuit of your goals can be quite high. It can affect your mental and physical health and your personal life. In the film The Devil Wears Prada, Nigel (Stanley Tucci) wipes his brow as he tells Andrea (Anne Hathaway) “let me know when your whole life goes up in smoke. Means it’s time for a promotion.” Nigel’s cynical view is that seeking career advancement can bring personal hardships if you are willing to sacrifice everything else in your life for work as he has done. It is important to keep in mind that when desire becomes an obsession it can create a vicious cycle where the very intensity required to achieve your goal pushes the desired outcome further away.
The reality, however, is that most people aren’t really at risk of over doing it in pursuing their goals which is probably why I’m not a professional baseball player today (among other reasons). Even the overachieving Italian Renaissance sculptor, painter, architect, poet, and writer of sonnets, Michelangelo, believed that “the greater danger for most of us lies not in setting our aim too high and falling short, but in setting our aim too low, and achieving our mark.”*
“The greater danger for most of us lies not in setting our aim too high and falling short, but in setting our aim too low, and achieving our mark.” —Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni (1475-1564)
*Yes, I know that I have used that quote in a previous post but, hey, it’s a good one.
It’s all about balance.
There is a reason why as a culture we enjoy entertainments that require exceptional balance. Things like walking a tight rope, juggling, or spinning plates in the circus, the balance beam in gymnastics, or log rolling at the lumberjack competition are just a few examples. We respect and admire the skill needed to maintain balance because without good balance there is the inherent danger of failing—and falling.
The secret of maintaining a good work/life balance is to keep three areas of endeavor equally apportioned. These are the things we have to do, the things we need to do, and the things we want to do.
The things we have to do include those that are necessary to sustain life such as eating, sleeping, seeing a doctor, or simply stopping occasionally to “sharpen the saw.” Habit #7 of Stephen Covey’s Seven Habits of Highly Effective People is the concept of sharpening the saw. According to Covey “this habit is called Sharpen the Saw because dull or rusty tools are much less effective than clean and sharp tools.” Taking time to stop working and care for your tools will make things easier when you start again. The same applies for taking a break from practicing in order to let your mind and body (your tools) recover.
The things we need to do are those that we are required to do because of our responsibilities to others such as homework and attending classes, jobs to help pay the bills, or even mundane tasks like shopping for groceries which also impacts the things we have to do. For a musician, this might mean practicing for an ensemble you really don’t enjoy but is a requirement for your degree.
The final piece to be balanced is in the things we want to do. This is where your passion, your art, your calling lives. It is also the part that can knock your work/life balance completely out of whack! If we are passionate about something we are tempted to try and steal time from the things we have to do or need to do in order to focus on what we want to do.
I think every person who has pursued their passion has tried to cheat the balance at times and often with great success. This is an acceptable—even necessary—practice but, again, there is a cost. For anyone passionate about their life’s work, that cost is sometimes unavoidable because eventually the two neglected areas will demand equal time.
Here is an example the late pianist and composer Chick Corea gave about his creative process. “When I compose for a record, I work 18-20 hours a day, I eat and sleep very little, and I feel fantastically good! I have my businesspeople leave, and I don’t take phone calls or have visitors. I isolate myself and get that creative flow going. Once it starts, it’s like a snowball…”
In doing this, Chick was stealing time from the other areas of his life to focus on creating his art. Both in his life and in his music, Corea made good use of the musical concept known as tempo rubato. The term comes from the Italian word “rubare” which means to steal. In music this means stealing time from some measures making them shorter or adding time to others making them longer to facilitate a more expressive performance. The point is that time (in music and in life) doesn’t budge so, if you steal time from one measure (or part of your life) it must eventually be repaid. Is this a bad thing? Not necessarily. Just reread two paragraphs above one more time.
Don Henley puts this all in perspective for us but, I think you are getting the idea:
So, you put a hold on happiness A day, a week, a year You got to bring somethin’ to this party, boy If you party here
If you’re lookin’ for love I have to ask you
How bad do you want it? Not bad enough…
So, as Fall brings you new opportunities, try to keep your work/life in balance and keep asking yourself “how bad do I want it?”
Oh, and don’t actually spit into your hand; that’s disgusting.
Citations:
Buffett, Jimmy. Trip Around the Sun from the album License to Chill (2004), Mailboat Records, August 16, 2004
Beato, Rick. Counting Crows: Adam Duritz Interview, accessed August 21, 2025
Corea, Armando “Chick”. Interview on writing the Mad Hatter album, Downbeat Magazine, March 1978
Devil Wears Prada. Film directed by David Frankel and produced by Wendy Finerman, screenplay, written by Aline Brosh McKenna, based on the 2003 novel by Lauren Weisberger, the film stars Meryl Streep, Anne Hathaway, Stanley Tucci, and Emily Blunt, 2006
If you read my post James F. Keene and the Impulse of Will you would know the influence that renowned band conductor James F. Keene had on my life and career. If you didn’t read that post before arriving here, I suggest you start there. It took nearly a year of my life before I could write about the impact of his loss or even talk to anyone about it.
It is unfortunate that it is only after the loss of a beloved mentor that one can begin to fully understand the effect that person had on the lives of others. I knew a lot about Jim Keene—perhaps more than most—but like so many things, I didn’t know enough.
A few weeks after that first post, I received an email that began:
“Dr. Moore: It was by chance that yesterday afternoon I read, and was profoundly moved by, your May 2023 tribute to our precious friend, whom you referred to throughout as ‘Mr. Keene.’”
“Clearly you knew him as Mr. Keene, probably also as Prof. Keene, Jim, and possibly at times as JFK. It is a circle of undergraduate friends on behalf of whom I presumptuously send you this message, and I invite you to take a moment to enjoy learning of yet another name by which your mentor was affectionately, and respectfully, known—Harv.”
Harv? I had heard many nicknames for Mr. Keene—mostly perpetrated by my erstwhile classmates—but Harv was not among them. The email gave a few more details but seemed somehow suspicious to me so I asked Mrs. Keene if she knew the author of the email, David C. Devendorf. Alice responded quickly that David was one of Mr. Keene’s cherished college classmates. OK, now I’m really interested.
David continued; “Any adolescent male worth his salt growing up in southeastern Michigan in the 1950s and early 1960s was, to some degree, a fan of the Detroit Tigers, and their All-Star shortstop/right fielder, Harvey Kuenn (importantly, pronounced ‘keene’). Late in 1960 Harvey was traded by the Tigers to the Cleveland Indians for Rocky Colavito; a trade which the Indians’ General Manager famously defended to the media as a trade of hamburger in exchange for steak.”
“Any adolescent male worth his salt growing up in southeastern Michigan in the 1950s and early 1960s was, to some degree, a fan of the Detroit Tigers.” Sounds about right; Jim Keene circa. 1960. (photo Courtesy of Alice Keene)
I learned from David that Jim Keene “grew up on the west side of Detroit working modestly throughout his adolescence as a caddie at Western Golf and Country Club, where eventually he was rewarded with a coveted Evans Scholar Caddie Scholarship to the University of Michigan.”
According to David, “it was thus a forgone conclusion that when, as a freshman in August of 1966, your mentor set foot in the Evans Scholar House on the Michigan campus he immediately became known to his fellow Evans Scholar brethren as ‘Harv’. Although nicknames were an Evans Scholar tradition, we all gradually outgrew that juvenile convention—except for Harv. It was his view that he was ‘steak’; and he preferred to retain his nickname, while the rest of us ‘hamburgers’ could choose to shed ours. It was for that reason that your ‘Mr. Keene’ was, for more than 50 years, known as ‘Harv’ to all of us fellow former caddies.”
As a youngster, Keene was also a musician who, no doubt, hoped one day to become a high school band director with a Bachelor of Music Education degree from the University of Michigan.
James Keene modeling his Junior High Band Uniform in May 1962. (photo courtesy of Alice Keene)
For most of my adult life I knew two things about Mr. Keene: he loved the game of golf and that he—through considerable effort—made certain that I was financially supported throughout my undergraduate degree. I was about to learn why he spent his entire career making sure that motivated students were supported regardless of their socioeconomic background because he was given that same opportunity through the Evans Caddie Scholarship. He was always trying to pay it forward.
If you don’t know, The Evans Scholarship is a full housing and tuition college scholarship awarded to golf caddies with limited financial means. In 2023, more than one-thousand Evans Scholars were enrolled in 24 leading universities nationwide including the University of Iowa where I have been teaching since 1996. I had never heard of it and had no clue, but here it was on my own campus with a new Evans Scholar House scheduled to open in 2025. Evans Scholars are selected because of a strong caddie record, excellent grades, outstanding character, and demonstrated financial need.
David challenged me to “Imagine 50 underfunded caddies as undergraduates sharing an undersized house on the Michigan campus. That may provide you with a better understanding of the source of the character that our Harv was, and the strength of character that he possessed. Harv was my Evans Scholar ‘Big Brother’ when I was a freshman, and eventually he and I were roommates in what we affectionately (and accurately) called the ‘caddie shack.’”
The mental image of Mr. Keene as a frightened college freshman stepping into the Evans house for the first time wondering if he would ever be able to see his education completed is powerful to me. I now know that he must’ve felt the same way in 1966 that I did in 1976 upon my arrival at East Texas State University—underfunded and scared. It is difficult to imagine him in that state but now it all makes sense.
There were several other people copied on the message that I received. When I asked about them, David told me laughingly that they were the ones who “knew where the bodies were buried.” He told me that my description of Mr. Keene resonated with their group of friends and former classmates especially in Keene’s question to me wondering if “my mother had any children who lived.” He said that “was classic Harv, and it caused me to weep when I read it. That admonition to you continues to ring in my ears this morning.” Mine too; mine too.
The email went on to say that Harv (er, Mr. Keene) was fond of referring to his classmates “sardonically as his group of ‘doctors, lawyers, and captains of industry.’ We are confident that you will understand that as well.” Indeed, I did but suspected there was more to the story.
I’ve learned over the years that many of Keene’s students, closest friends, and colleagues were subjected to the same satiric and acerbic wit. In one example I can recall adjudicating at the University of Illinois Marching Band Competition and hearing a story told by a well-respected Texas Band Director who said that he first met Keene when he brought him in to work with his high school band.
During the clinic Mr. Keene was his usual self with high expectations for this excellent High School Band. He also had some sharp criticism for the director. At the end of the session, Keene was animated and happy and suggested that they go for a celebratory dinner. The director, on the other hand, was “a wreck” after his band was “shredded by Mr. Keene,” and nearly declined the invitation because he felt he “needed to go and somehow fix his clarinet section.” We laughed about it that night with Keene sitting only a few tables away—all of us still good friends with the terrible Mr. Keene.
Keene and the marching band staff of Louisiana Tech University enjoying a laugh in the tower during a rehearsal sometime in 1971 or 72. It was his first job out of grad school and yes, that would be a can of Old Milwaukee Beer in front of one of the directors. Not something that you could do today, but this is one of Alice’s favorite photos of Jim because of “that smile.” (photo courtesy of Alice Keene)
It is important to understand that everything Mr. Keene did or said came from a place of love even if it wasn’t apparent to the recipient of his ire at the time of its delivery. I recognized that many years ago and I’m glad that I had the time (and took the opportunity) to thank him for all of it.
Alice wrote that “Jim was committed to experiencing and appreciating history and the best of whatever subject he was into. Cooking, golf, or travel wasn’t about doing it to brag. He was eager to learn about something and personally experience it. Many times, we would say to each other that our lives were full of wonderful experiences—more than we could have possibly dreamed of. We worked hard but also were so blessed. Our second marriage was a miracle too. What a life I had with him and now the memories.”
Amen!
Jim and Alice enjoying a laugh together on the way to Drums Along the Rockies drum & bugle corps show in Denver, Colorado, summer of 1977. The halcyon days of ET. (photo courtesy of Alice Keene)Keene in action at home in his Kitchen, December 2015 (photo by the author)
Finally, David recalled that “after graduation we Evans alums became occupied with our professions, families, and communities, but worked at staying in touch as best we could. As we approached retirement age, a group of us began annual on-campus weekend reunions of golf, Wolverine football, Harv’s beloved Michigan marching band, and general camaraderie.
Doctors, Lawyers, and Captains of Industry at a Michigan home game. From left to right the “caddies”: Bob Behar, Harv, Dave Devendorf, Mike Leahy, Larry DeGroat, and Dan Schewe, cheering on the Wolverines, September 28, 2019 (photo courtesy of Alice Keene)
When the annual reunions were temporarily interrupted by COVID, Harv suggested that we try an occasional one hour Zoom meeting.” That was more than four years ago. The Zoom meetings soon began taking place weekly, and we rarely miss a scheduled meeting. Harv’s sudden death shocked all of us; and suffice to say that it has left a hole in our collective hearts. However, we have soldiered on with our weekly meetings without him. I send you this message because, based on your touching tribute, I suspect that you can understand how, and why, we miss him so dearly.”
You said it brother (to the brother(s) I never knew I had).
Fast forward to today. A bunch of East Texas band kids from the 1970s and 80s who were willed into becoming a legendary college band by Jim Keene, took their own turn at paying forward the debt they owed him by creating an endowed scholarship and naming the Band Hall in his honor at the newly rechristened East Texas A&M University (the place where he was quite possibly the happiest). Now a few more music students in East Texas will be able to pursue their musical goals thanks to Mr. Keene—a person they will never meet. That’s what I call paying it forward. Note: the caddies also pitched in on the scholarship.
Why would I say that the East Texas Band was legendary? Well, in just a few short years Mr. Keene turned the little-known East Texas State University Music Department into a hotbed of band performance that thrust the school into the spotlight of Texas Band programs. He became the catalyst that allowed the quiet excellence of the ET faculty to shine through the pine curtain of East Texas. Then, a memorable performance at the Texas Music Educators Association Convention turned heads and launched the department as a destination for some of Texas’s most successful band directors, educators, and performers. Later that spring the ETSU Trombone Choir, under the direction of Dr. Neill Humfeld would be featured at the National Trombone Workshop in Nashville, Tennessee. ET was on fire in 1979!
TMEA Program autographed by Mark Hindsley (Director of Bands at the University of Illinois) during his visit to ET the following year.
Additional proof of the band’s legendary status was kept secret for more than 40 years. In 1980 the ET Band received an invitation to perform at the prestigious College Band Directors National Association (CBDNA) Convention which would’ve advanced the school’s reputation even further.
Unfortunately, at the time the invitation was received, Mr. Keene had accepted a position as Director of Bands at the University of Arizona. This, of course, meant that without the director who led the band at the time of the application, the invitation was withdrawn.
Keene told me he was leaving ET as we sat together on the bottom of a bunkbed at the Lone Star Steel Band Camp where we were teaching together in June of that year. I remember he put his hand on my shoulder as I cried when he told me he was leaving ET. It was my first lesson in the cruel subtleties of the collegiate job market that I would come to navigate myself in just a few short years.
Later that summer Keene and I dropped a pregnant Alice off at the Dallas Fort Worth airport and he and I drove their two cars in caravan from Texas to Arizona. After arriving in Tucson, we then trekked across the desert to LA to see the Odyssey Classic Drum Corps Show while Alice unpacked boxes in their new home. It was a two-six pack trip that was fun, galvanizing, and the best—worst—summer of my young life. We were going to miss him dearly at Old ET and I knew it.
No one—not even his closest friends—knew of the invitation to perform at CBDNA until the letter was discovered among Keene’s papers at the University of Illinois. To my knowledge he never told anyone. What a tremendous honor it would’ve been for Keene to make a triumphant return with his ETSU Band to perform at CBDNA on the campus of his alma mater the University of Michigan.
In retrospect, Mr. Keene had likely been working toward this achievement throughout his tenure at ET. Over the years he had invited several influential Band Conductors to Commerce to work with our band including Mark Hindsley (who Keene would eventually succeed as director of bands at Illinois), Col. Arnold Gabriel (U.S. Air Force Band), composer Karel Husa, and the founder of CBDNA (and his college mentor), William D. Revelli.
Revelli’s visit was a remarkable experience as we had heard so many stories about him. We knew we had prepared well for this concert, but the band was so on edge in preparation for the maestro’s visit that the air was thick with tension the day Revelli arrived in Commerce, TX.
I remember sitting on stage as our band nervously warmed up when Mr. Keene and Maestro Revelli suddenly appeared at the back of the auditorium. Instantly the band fell silent; everyone stopped playing and the two walked in reverent silence to the front of the stage. Mr. Keene made a superfluous introduction of Revelli, but no one heard it or remembers it. We knew who he was—legend in his own time, blah, blah, blah—and we were ready to play. I don’t think we even warmed up or tuned which was always a 15 to 20-minute ritual of any Keene rehearsal. But we had no way of knowing what would happen next.
I will never forget how Revelli stepped to the podium, called for us to play Festive Overture, raised his baton, and conducted the Shostakovich from beginning to end without a stop. When we had finished, he placed his baton on the music stand, turned to Keene and said “Jim, what is there to rehearse? It is perfect.” Again, we sat in stunned silence, not knowing what to think about what had just happened. Keene too was uncharacteristically speechless and simply suggested that he move on to the Persichetti.
Legendary!
Of course, when it came to the Vincent Persichetti Symphony for Band Op. 96, Revelli had plenty to say. I remember quite clearly him taking the principal oboist to task over a phrasing he wanted to hear before turning his attention to a certain percussionist whom he attacked (with a vengeance that Mr. Keene could only dream of), and whose name shall remain anonymous. The legends about Revelli were all true and we watched them unfold in real time.
The concert the following evening was no less inspiring and I’m sure that a good word was put in to then president of CBDNA, Frank Battisti of the New England Conservatory, upon Revelli’s return home.
All smiles and autographs post concert: William D. Revelli and an anonymous percussionist.
In case you are a musician who knew Mr. Keene, or were ever in one of his bands, you might want to know why he was particularly hard on clarinetists. After all, sax was his primary instrument, right? The photo below might help shed some light on that question. Note the clarinetist sitting on the outside of the last row to the left of the renowned Michigan Symphony Band. I’ll give you a minute…
University of Michigan Symphonic Band, Jim Keene first chair 3rd clarinet,
But how could a person who was such a stern taskmaster as Jim Keene have so many friends to count at the end of his life? Perhaps because, as his friend and college classmate David Devendorf would say, now you have “a better understanding of the source of the character that our Harv was, and the strength of character that he possessed.”
Perhaps Charles Spurgeon said it best: “A good character is the best tombstone. Those who loved you and were helped by you will remember you when forget-me-nots have withered. Carve your name on hearts, not on marble.”
Tonight, the name James F. Keene is indelibly carved on my heart, and “I suspicion”—as Keene would say—on that of many others as well.
Student and mentor, same as it ever was, 2015 (photo courtesy of Liesa Moore)
A Parting Shot:
Keene always referred to his college classmates at Michigan as “Doctors, Lawyers and Captains of Industry.” His college roommate David Devendorf recalled that “we all arrived on the U of M campus only a year before our legendary football coach, Bo Schembechler. When Bo was hired, many characterized the culture of Bo’s predecessor (Bump Elliott) as a ‘country club.’ Bo knew that he would need to deal with the attrition that would occur when he carried out his own plan to convert the ‘country club’ atmosphere into a ‘boot camp.’”
It bears noting that the first person to walk into Coach Schembechler’s office upon his arrival at Michigan was none other than Michigan Director of Bands William D. Revelli which sparked a friendship between the two as they both shared a common work ethic and approach to running their respective organizations.
Bo managed the task of reforming the team in part by challenging them with a sign that he hung in the locker room that read: “THOSE WHO STAY WILL BE CHAMPIONS.” David recalled that “a week or so into spring practice a small group of seniors had seen and experienced enough of the program Bo was building. On their way out of the locker room door for the last time, they hung their own sign adjacent to Bo’s. The departing seniors’ sign read: ‘AND THOSE WHO LEAVE WILL BECOME DOCTORS, LAWYERS AND CAPTAINS OF INDUSTRY.’”
“Like the rest of us caddies, our Harv loved the players who stayed and became champions (UM 24-OSU 12 in 1969, Bo’s first game against Woody). …but Harv also admired those departing seniors who had the courage to vote with their feet, and to do so with style. Our Harv mentioned those guys, over the years, fondly and frequently.”
After a bit of online research, it appears the actual quote was scrawled on the bottom of the original sign with a black marker that read …”and those who leave will be doctors, lawyers, bishops, generals, captains of industry, and heads of state.” But I think you get the picture.
A new printed sign soon replaced the graffitied one in the Michigan locker room.
(Photo Courtesy of the University of Michigan Bentley Historical Library)Promotional add for the Michigan Marching Band the year before Jim and Alice Keene moved to Commerce, TX (photo courtesy of Alice Keene)
Citations:
Those Who Stay: The Saving of Michigan Football (Episode Six) U-M Bentley Historical Library
Thanks to David C. Devendorf for his “Keene” insight. (lightly edited)
Thanks to Bruce Richardson for his work in researching Mr. Keene’s papers from the archives of the University of Illinois Champaign—Urbana
Photos courtesy of Alice Keene, Dan & Liesa Moore, and the University of Michigan Bentley Historical Library
On June 27, 2022, James F. Keene (August 19, 1948), one of my most important mentors, passed away from acute myeloid leukemia. The onset was sudden and shocking. I got a message from Alice, his wife of 48 years, just two days before he died saying that they “were going to fight this battle aggressively.” I would’ve expected no less from either of them. In fact, it was the second time in his life that Jim Keene faced his own mortality and stared it down.
It has taken nearly a year to organize my thoughts about this amazing man, to try to process this loss, and put into words the influence he had (and still has) on my life. Whatever follows will no doubt be insufficient in achieving that goal.
When we first met, Mr. Keene was the new Director of Bands at East Texas State University (now Texas A&M Commerce), and although his tenure at ET was just a small blip on the timeline of his journey to the top of the band world, the imprint he made on the lucky few of us in his band cannot be overstated.
He spent just a few short years in Commerce (1975-1980), before moving on to the University of Arizona (1980-1985) and then to the University of Illinois where he became the school’s fourth Director of Bands and the Brownfield Distinguished Professor of Music (1985-2008). Even though he was with us for such a short time at ET, Keene (as most called him) is still revered and celebrated by our cadre of East Texas kids who he inspired to achieve excellence beyond anyone’s expectations (including our own).
In short, he lived a full life after leaving Texas; a life that had its share of successes and setbacks. But in the end, it was Texas where the native Michigander chose to retire. He once said to me that “at five o’clock on my last day at Illinois, the moving truck will be backed up to our house, and we are heading to Texas.” And that’s exactly what they did. He and Alice made a happy home in San Antonio that featured a putting green in the back yard, a few harps, and many visits from his two granddaughters.
Putting green in the back yard of the Keene’s San Antonio home.
Although he spent only five years as a fulltime band director in Texas, Jim Keene had a profound impact on Texas bands. He was among the first to bring corps style marching concepts to Texas and he hosted drum corps like Phantom Regiment, the Blue Stars, and others on the East Texas campus, to rehearse and do exhibitions. The corps sought him out for his astute and candid assessment of their programs. I was fortunate that he brought me along to teach drumline and percussion at many of his marching clinics throughout Texas, often with Alice teaching colorguard, and others from his inner circle of student assistants.
One of the many clinics we did together but unfortunately, I didn’t make the Harlingen, TX newspaper article!Here’s the photo of the Harlingen clinic that I guess was too steamy for the newspaper.
As a result of his many contributions to bands in Texas, Mr. Keene became the sixth person to receive an honorary lifetime membership in the Texas Bandmasters Association (today there are 15 renowned band conductors who hold that honor). According to their website, “TBA Honorary Life Members are chosen in gratitude for a lifetime of support and service to the world of music.”
I knew James F. Keene for 46 years, 1 month, and 3 days. We met on May 24, 1976. That date stands out because it was the final concert of my senior year of high school. I was loading equipment into the Longview High School Band Van (the only transportation I had in high school), when Mr. Keene suddenly appeared at the rear door of the van, thrust his hand toward mine and said, “I need you to come to school at East Texas State University; let me know if there is anything I can do to help you.” I later came to realize that that hand shake was uncharacteristic for him, as were hugs or other physical signs of affection. He wasn’t fond of shaking hands and I don’t recall shaking his hand at any other time. He also never used the word “goodbye,” which was first pointed out to me by saxophone virtuoso and Professor of Music at the University of Michigan, Donald Sinta. He didn’t like the notion of seeing someone for the last time—relationships with him were nuanced and ongoing—it was understood that it was always “until we meet again.”
Mr. Keene was ostensibly in Longview that night to try and recruit my friend and high school classmate Lynn Childers—a talented trombonist that many schools were trying to attract. I was just a bonus because of my ability as a truck loader and (I suppose) drummer, as both skills were on display that night.
At the time, Lynn was planning a visit to Stephen F. Austin University in Nacogdoches, and he and his dad had invited me to tag along. Lynn and I spent several summers at the SFA Summer Band Camp, and since our high school band director, John “Piccolo Pete” Kunkel—who we revered—was an SFA grad, it just seemed logical that we would go there too.
SFA Summer Band Camp Symphonic Band 1971 with fading autograph of respected band conductor and composer, Dr. W. Francis McBeth (or “Mack Beth,” as we called him in Texas).
Here I was, a senior in high school with no real prospects—or even a clue—for getting into college. It was Lynn who casually asked me one day if I needed a ride to take the SAT that Saturday? I had no idea what the Scholastic Aptitude Test was, but Lynn assured me that I needed it if I intended to go to college. Who knew?
After the visit to SFA, however, we both felt that our reception there was rather cool. We thought that “maybe they didn’t need us as much as that ETSU guy,” so we planned a trip to Commerce, Texas for what turned out to be a life changing visit. Mr. Keene greeted us warmly and while Lynn visited with legendary trombone professor, Dr. Neill Humfeld, Mr. Keene escorted me to the financial aid office to begin paperwork for the Basic Equal Opportunity Grant (BEOG), now known as the Pell Grant. That grant would make it possible for me (and many of my classmates) to become a first-generation college graduate.
We were treated like honored guests, which turned out to be another of Mr. Keene’s unique talents—making people feel special. He could remember any person’s name upon hearing it once, and he had an uncanny ability to say something nice—share a little detail—about each person when introducing them to one other. We decided that day we were going to be roommates at ET. The Lions are coming.
Of course, Lynn and I weren’t the only ones to receive this treatment. There were many others—a whole band as it turns out—who were attracted to him by his sheer impulse of will.
In her groundbreaking textbook, The Modern Conductor, Elizabeth A. H. Green describes Nicolai Malko’s concept of “the will of the conductor.” She wrote; “The conductor must will certain things to happen. If he can will his hand to make the right gesture, the orchestra will read it correctly.” It has also been described as “hearing the desired sound in the inner ear, believing, and executing, thus initiating a confident response from the ensemble.”
It was clear that Mr. Keene believed in his vision for us and in his ability to execute that vision, even if he was less confident about certain aspects of his own skills. One example is that although Mr. Keene had an excellent ear, he never mounted the podium in those early days without his trusty Stroboconn model 6T-5 tuner. In the first years that I knew him, he was constantly double checking himself against the strobe. I know this for a fact because I was the one who set it up for him before every rehearsal (but that’s getting ahead of the story). In later years the tuner disappeared, as by the time he reached Illinois, his impulse of will was fully formed.
Keene was an amazing conductor from both a musical and technical standpoint. He knew how he wanted the band to sound and pursued it doggedly. I recall his impulse of will being on full display during a memorable rehearsal in which the band was struggling to execute a rhythmically challenging moment. Some sections of the band had rhythms in groupings of three while others played in groupings of two. He stopped and told one section of the ensemble to watch his left hand while everyone else was to watch his right hand, then he started again. To our amazement, he “willed” us to play the section perfectly by effortlessly executing an elegant 3 against 2 conducting pattern. When we stopped, the band spontaneously applauded him. I’ve never seen that sort of awed response to a conductor in a rehearsal before or since.
As a young man (barely 10-years older than me and many of his students), Mr. Keene could be quite charming, yet he could also be brutal and relentlessly demanding of his students and colleagues. He came to ET after completing a stint as an assistant for the mercurial band leader, William D. Revelli, at the University of Michigan. Prior to that he served as an assistant band director at the University of South Carolina (1972-73) and a year as a woodwind instructor and assistant band director at Louisiana Tech University in Ruston, LA (1971-72), but he had ambitions that would not allow him to remain at a small regional school such as ours for more than the five years it took to develop an unlikely hotbed of band activity.
From Fall 1976 until his departure from ET, I was Keene’s student, equipment manager, percussion arranger, section leader, truck driver, gopher, and (according to him) a constant source of frustration. He taught me to be organized, demanded reliability and integrity, and showed me that success and respect were privileges that had to be earned every single day. There are many stories about my experiences at ET and with Mr. Keene—some true and some apocryphal—but none that will be told here. Well, maybe one I suppose…
Whenever I would do something wrong, Keene would flash his trademark grin and say, “Daniel Moore, did your mother have any children who lived?” It broke the tension but was also a reminder that I needed to think, to do better, to be better. He teased me with it many times over the years, and I can even remember the last time he asked me that question (well, one of the last times). I was probably 40 years old and a fellow professor of music at a Big-10 university, with a DMA in percussion, and he was introducing me—on the megaphone—to the entire University of Illinois Marching Band! Thanks Mr. Keene!
Mr. Keene and his trusty megaphone.
Among many other things, Mr. Keene is credited with bringing the love of my life from Arkansas to Texas, for which he was quite proud. He was also rather fond of reminding me that if not for him, I might’ve ended up working at a gas station in deep East Texas, or worse—in prison. It was always tough love from Mr. Keene—the kind that cannot be meted out today—but genuine love none the less.
The last time we were together, Keene shared his concern about some short-term memory loss, and he told me of his experience with a recent memory test. It made him feel anxious and without control over the situation. For him, this was a feeling that he was unaccustomed to, and that he did not like. I had seen some of those memory slips, but at the same time, he could still remember the name of “that kid from Mesquite who played bass clarinet in the ET band in 1977.”
We had a nice lunch that day and when he picked up the check, I said “you don’t need to do that.” His response was delivered in the trademark gruff tone that instantly transported me back to 1976; “don’t tell me what I can do Daniel P. Moore!”
Well, I guess “the more things change, the more they stay the same,” to quote Mr. Keene. In fact, there are many famous quotations from Mr. Keene that live rent-free in my brain to this day, such as: “I suspicion, that you are playing a wrong note,” “what’s a half-step between friends?” “that band can’t play Come to Jesus in double dotted whole notes,” “you turkey,” and of course “it’s a Beautiful Day in Commerce.” (The ironic version).
Read more about Neill Humfeld and It’s A Beautiful Day in Commerce.
I am thankful that I had the opportunity to tell him how much he meant to me, both in person and in writing over the years. As a young man, I once wrote him a letter that said (as near as I can recall) “I appreciate you now for all the times I hated you most.” The fact is that I never really hated Mr. Keene. What I was trying so inelegantly to say was that he saw through me and cared enough to tell me the cold hard truth about myself, and sometimes that smarted. He had high expectations for me and was disappointed when I didn’t reach them. As an adult, I loved him for his candor, his loyalty, his advice, and for setting me on the path to responsibility and success. But most of all I owe him for altering the course of my life by means of his impulse of will.
It was an honor to be part of Mr. Keene’s memorable East Texas blip. He will be missed.
Student and mentor 2015.
The ET Wind Ensemble on a tour (and a side trip to Matamoras, Mexico). Two college professors along with a few future college professors, some composers, a member of the Marine Band, a member of the Dallas Symphony, a bunch of band directors and music teachers (including an honor band director), a police officer, a city councilor, a handful of jazzers, an entrepreneur or two, a flight attendant, an IT specialist, and that’s the ones that I know about for sure.
Citations:
Contributors, Texas Bandmasters Association, Honorary Life Members
If you grew up in Texas like I did, then you’ve likely attended or even participated in more than a few holiday performances this time of year.
Our church was a small congregation with a couple of paid pianists and a choir director. The choir usually numbered fewer than ten volunteers, and the choir director was always trying to recruit members so we might do more adventurous (for Southern Baptists anyway) repertoire. The big churches had the forces to mount full-scale productions: the Christmas cantatas and Messiah-sing-alongs. As I got older, I played timpani on a lot of Messiah gigs. But our small church rarely got the opportunity to mount a big production.
One year, when I was very young, the time seemed right to do a full-blown theatrical version of The Nativity Story. This was an all-hands-on-deck production with costumes, lights, sets, and dramatic readings with music and action. I was cast (not typecast, mind you) as the Angel Gabriel.
I had two big moments: first was to appear to Mary to tell her that she would bear a child, and then later to announce to the shepherds the birth of the Baby Jesus. My costume was a white robe with cardboard wings and a home-made contraption of my own design made of coat hangers and silver tinsel to create an impractical but cool-looking halo. It took a while to learn my few short lines but I finally got it down and was feeling confident.
Our dress rehearsal was beset with difficulties. At one point a church elder was struggling to deliver his lines, and out of frustration shouted, “The lights are so dern bright, I can’t see what I’m saying!” We quickly discovered that my cool halo rig wasn’t going to work with my wings, so it was decided to simply place a tinsel halo on top of my head—bummer!
The next evening the performance was going well and the house was packed. On cue Gabriel appeared to Mary saying, “Fear not: for thou hast found favor with God. And, behold, thou shalt conceive in thy womb, and bring forth a son, and shalt call his name Jesus.” My first line delivered! Then came time to address the shepherds: “Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.”
You may see the potential for error here: both lines begin with “fear not.” So when it came time for my second appearance, I announced to the shepherds that they were to “bring forth a son.” I caught the mistake just as I heard my friends (the shepherds) begin snickering beneath their keffiyehs. I stopped mid-sentence and smacked my forehead with a “duh” gesture that knocked my halo askew, then started again. After my soliloquy, the choir sang Angels We have Heard on High, probably wondering if they had heard the angel correctly. I never lived down my revelation to the shepherds, and it is one of my mother’s favorite stories.
Despite that setback to my theatrical career, I have always loved Christmastime. In addition to its importance to my faith, I just enjoy the music. I’ve created a Christmas Special for Public Television in Montana, recorded an album titled Good Christmas Vibes, and published several musical arrangements of holiday music.
Every year since 2012 (except 2020 of course), I and my students have presented a Holiday Percussion Pops concert that welcomes winter and kicks off the holiday season in Iowa City. Audience members bring a food item for the local food bank, and over the years we’ve collected a lot of food to help families in our community: University of Iowa School of Music faculty, staff, and students doing their bit as angels.
The Voxman Angels (Jenny Hall, Kate Vos, Pauline Wieland) delivering to the Food Bank in 2018.2023 Voxman Angels Pauline Wieland and Mandy Powers. Pauline and I have been masterminding the Food Drive for the CommUNITY Crisis Services and Food Bank of Johnson County together since the very beginning!
In 2011, I started recording a holiday video each year as a greeting to family and friends. I missed a few years here and there, but then released eight videos in one year from the Good Christmas Vibes recording, so I suppose it all evens out. I thought I would share this story and the 2020 video of my recording of Angels We Have Heard on High to say thanks to all the angels in my life—both human and divine—who watch over me . . . and you.
It’s no secret that I struggled academically throughout high school and into college. By eighth grade, I was so single-minded in my desire to be a musician (or a drummer anyway) that I focused all my energy in the band hall and didn’t pay much attention to the whole “school thing.”
For the greater part of my young life, the people who most influenced me were music teachers—band, orchestra, and choir directors—so it seemed only natural that I follow in their footsteps. Being a band director, however, required going to college which was something I never gave much thought until halfway through senior year. It was also a feat that I had no clue about how to accomplish.
With the help and encouragement of my talented high school classmate Lynn Childers, combined with the shear impulse-of-will of James F. Keene, and certainly some Divine intervention, I found my way to East Texas State University (now Texas A&M University Commerce). Then, once again with Mr. Keene’s help and the support of other influential mentors such as Neil Humfeld, James Deaton, Gene Lockhart, Deanne Gorham, Bob Houston, and others I managed to apply for and receive the Basic Equal Opportunity Grant (the Pell Grant now) that made it possible for me to become a college graduate.
Mentor and student some thirty-years later. Dan and James F. Keene, 2015.
I was not the first person in my family to attend college. My uncle George graduated from the University of Houston and worked for many years with NASA as Chief of Maintenance Control for the Manned Spacecraft Center in Houston. Neither was I the first to receive a doctorate. As an automobile mechanic, my grandfather was awarded the “Doctor of Motors” degree. The certificate was proudly displayed in our house when I was growing up and I wish I still had it.
At college I threw myself fully into the study of percussion but from an academic standpoint, college would still be a challenge. Almost immediately in the Fall of 1976, HIST: 121 American Heritage became the bane of my existence. After flunking the course that Fall, then again in Spring 1977, I decided to give history a rest because it was clearly not my thing. The 7 a.m. class time might’ve had something to do with my spotty attendance record but who can say for sure?
I just couldn’t get the hang of things academically until two landmark events: the arrival of the blonde-haired clarinet player from Arkansas, who continues to inspire me to do better and be better, and meeting Dr. Frank Barchard, who was not, to my knowledge, a musician but a historian.
Dr. Barchard came to E.T. in 1965 as an Instructor of History, and officially retired as Professor Emeritus in May, 1995. He continued to teach at Texas A&M University Commerce through Spring semester of 2000 and passed away in 2002. He held offices in the Commerce Humane Association and the Rotary Club, and was a regular volunteer for the Presbyterian Hospital Auxiliary.
Dr. Barchard taught European History and was also Assistant Dean of the College of Liberal and Fine Arts. He was the sort of person you never got to meet unless you were a history major or in trouble academically. The latter would be my designation. I was summoned to his office in the Fall of 1980 to try and figure out if I was ever going to be able to graduate. He had a copy of my transcript that he went through line by line, scribbling over the courses and grades that moved me closer to graduation and striking through those that didn’t. At the end, there were too many strike throughs and not enough scribbles, and Dr. Barchard was shaking his head.
At the end, there were too many strike throughs and not enough scribbles
On my third attempt I had passed HIST: 121 but HIST: 122 still lay ahead for my last semester. Dr. Barchard finally stopped shaking his head and told me that I was three credits short. Three credits that would prevent me from student teaching and possibly from graduating at all. With my grant running out, along with my resolve, I thought I might never finish school. But to my surprise he said “why don’t you add the 3-credit class I’m teaching this semester?” My response was something like, “let me get this straight, you want me to take an advanced European History course with a roomful of history majors when I can’t even make it through American History I in less than three attempts?” His response? “Yes.”
I joined Dr. Barchard’s, Age of Absolutism and Enlightenment seminar, in about the second or third week of the semester and tried to find my way to the back of the room. I had never been in an academic class with so few people. Hiding in the back wasn’t going to be easy. “I’m in trouble” was my first thought: a premonition that soon turned out to be true.
A few class meetings went by before Dr. Barchard decided to bring me into the conversation, a decision we would both soon regret. “Daniel, tell us what was going on in music during this period?” he asked. Awkward silence. Still he pressed, “you know: symphonies, opera, string quartets. Who were some composers from this period?” Me, thinking to myself: “I got nothing.” He knew I had already taken Music History and Music Literature*, so he tossed me a lifeline. “Well, if we are talking about the Classical Period in music, who were some of those composers?” Now, we’re both looking for the exit.
*It would be a few more years before I would come to fully appreciate what music history and literature professors Bert Davis and Gene Lockhart were trying to get across to me, but that’s another story.
Undeterred, Dr. Barchard continued; “Perhaps you are thinking of Mō… Mō… Mō…?” My brain stalled, churned, then suddenly lurched forward; “Mozart! Yes! Mozart was big! Really big!” Success at last. But while I’m certain everyone appreciated my insightful contribution to the discussion that day, I was just happy I hadn’t said Motown or Motörhead which was not outside the realm of possibilities from that period of my life.
Embarrassing to be sure, but it was a defining moment (certainly an important semester) because I finally began to understand the interconnectedness of Music, Music History, and World History. I thought, “I really should know more about this.” Who knew that Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s life and music were so heavily influenced by the ideals of the Age of Enlightenment? Dr. Barchard did, so why didn’t I?
It turns out that the principles of the Age of Absolutism and Enlightenment informed many composers from Haydn to Beethoven. In his opera The Marriage of Figaro, Mozart builds upon the themes from Beaumarchais’s play in which servants play the primary roles rather than simply providing comic relief—to be laughed at or mocked. They were equally as important to the story as the aristocrats.
I began to recognize the importance of knowing more about the music you play than just how to “hit all the right notes.” It also helped me understand why Dr. Davis kept referring to paintings and other great works of art during his Music History lectures, and why Professor Lockhart insisted we recognize the significance of world events in the creation of music. Knowing more about the sociopolitical environment in which composers lived and worked could help performers better understand how to interpret their music. Who knew? Evidently everyone except me.
Because of an evolving attitude about history, I passed Dr. Barchard’s course and then followed up with the second American History course. OK, I got a C, but my transition to a curious scholar didn’t happen overnight! Dr. Barchard’s class was the beginning of a journey that included making the Dean’s list in my final semester at E.T., then earning a 3.83 GPA in Grad School (Wichita State University) and culminating with a 4.0 in the doctorate (University of Kentucky). It also sparked a lifelong interest in learning and appreciating the history of things.
This was all because Dr. Barchard, and the entire faculty of the Music Department at E.T., took an interest in helping me help myself, each in their own inimitable way. The next time we sat down to do the strike throughs and scribbles, Dr. Barchard finished, stood up, shook my hand, and congratulated me on my upcoming commencement.
Unfortunately, Dr. Barchard passed away a few years before I would be honored by Texas A&M University Commerce as a Distinguished Alumnus (2005). I wonder if he saw THAT coming? Even if he hadn’t, I think he would’ve been proud of the part he played in getting me from there to here!
I will always appreciate Dr. Barchard, and remember the day I became a student of history.
Recommended Listening:
Andante from Mozart Piano Sonata No. 16 performed by Dan Moore on marimba.
The first thing a person might notice upon entering the music rehearsal room at East Texas State University in 1976 was a large, brightly colored banner proclaiming “It’s a Beautiful Day in Commerce!” Over the years, mystery and lore came to surround the whimsically hand-lettered sign. No one seems to know who created it or how it got there.
Conflicting reports about when the banner first appeared are also in abundance. ETSU Music alumnus Toppy Hill recalls that “the banner first appeared in about 1972.” However, storied Music Professor and most-feared instructor of Music Literature, Gene Lockhart, recalled that his “first ‘intimate’ classes of Arts & Humanities 303 (100 to 150 strong) were taught in the band room in 1969. It was appropriately bedecked with folding chairs, raked seating and ‘The Sign’ on the south wall.”
While there is plenty of intrigue about the three by twenty-foot banner, one thing is certain: how the phrase originated.
Much has changed in Commerce since my college days in the late 1970s and early 1980s. In 1995 the school name was changed from East Texas State University to Texas A&M University Commerce, and in 2011, the original, well-worn music facility was replaced with a beautiful gateway building overlooking Gee Lake on one side and Memorial Stadium on the other. Then somewhere along the way—after numerous transmogrifications of the old building—the Beautiful Day in Commerce banner faded into memory along with Good Old ET.
Touring the new Texas A&M University Commerce Music Building in February 2010 with Chris White, James Deaton, Gene Lockhart, and the architects.
In 1957—long before the banner made its debut—Dr. Neill H. Humfeld made his entrance at ETSU where he taught trombone and served as director of bands (1962-1972). A fresh recruit from the Eastman School of Music, he was one of the nation’s top trombonists, an inspired educator, and a remarkable human being by any measure. Many trombonists today would be honored to receive the “Neill Humfeld Award for Excellence in Trombone Teaching” from the International Trombone Association.
In those days, the music faculty at ET took a wholistic approach to education. A major professor guided your development but you might also be coached by the trumpet professor on how to play brushes on a ballad, you could be called out for your etiquette by the clarinet professor, or admonished to learn your scales and chords by your class piano teacher—in the hallway. I shudder to even think about what might happen should you miss too many questions on Lockhart’s Music Lit pop-quizzes. Although I was a percussionist, Dr. Humfeld was my academic advisor during my first few years at ET. Along the way, he kept me out (or got me out) of trouble on numerous occasions.
Chris Clark, trombonist with the “The President’s Own” United States Marine Band, recalled that as a high school student, many of his lessons with Dr. Humfeld began with the phrase “it’s a beautiful day in Commerce.” In fact, anyone who ever knew Dr. Humfeld likely received the same greeting at some point. “It was one of Neill’s favorite sayings” Lockhart added. It was his catch phrase but it was more than that; it was an affirmation intended to remind the hearer that beauty is more about how you perceive things than how they may appear.
In the 1970s, Commerce, Texas—formerly known as Cow Hill—was in decline. What began as an optimistic center of commerce for the East Texas Cotton Industry (thus the name), had long since fallen on hard times. Neither the town nor the university campus were picture postcard destinations by any stretch of the imagination, and many professors began to take flight from Commerce in the late 1980s. Some thought the banner might be an ironic statement about the “beauty” of Commerce itself.
Dr. Humfeld certainly wouldn’t have intended that meaning of the phrase. ETSU professor of clarinet, Dr. James Deaton, Humfeld’s lifelong friend, collaborator, and comedic accomplice, remembers seeing a motto in a colleague’s office that said “‘bloom where you are planted.’ I know that Neill’s ‘beautiful day in commerce’ sign meant the same thing, ‘attitude is important’. It means look for the positive things in life.”
Another apocryphal story I was told as a starry-eyed freshman was that Dr. Humfeld coined the phrase as encouragement to the marching band to keep rehearsing in the rain before a big football game performance. But his daughter Nancy Jo recalled that “it had absolutely nothing to do with the weather—it was about your mindset.” Chris Clark agrees. “Dr. Humfeld’s statement really reflected, to me, his core value as a teacher; to always stay positive, and to teach his students that they were much more than just a musician.”
So, what’s the big deal? It’s just a sign; a stunt perpetrated by one of the music fraternities or sororities, or perhaps by some of those snarky misanthropes who hung out in the student lounge* all day. If that were the case, wouldn’t the banner simply disappear after homecoming or when a new band director took over? It probably should’ve, but still it remained. Dr. Deaton doesn’t remember how or when the sign was made either but he suspects there was some student “help” in the process. He said “I do know that the sign and the attitude it conveys has its own life now.”
*During my time at ET the student lounge was dubbed the “Lizard Lounge” by director of bands, James Keene. One might infer the meaning of the phrase.
The banner and the symbolism seemed to bind us together into the legacy of ETSU, which may account for why many of my generation had a difficult time letting go of Old ET. But to help put things into perspective, a former TAMUC President once told me that there are “far more TAMUC graduates today than there ever were from ET.” Point taken.
The many amazing people who sat under that banner went on to successful careers as leaders in music education, performance, and in many other walks of life. I’m sure this is still the case at TAMUC but perhaps today’s students are connected in different ways—by a new talisman—or could some small trace from the past still remain?
The people who sat under that banner went on to successful careers as leaders in music education, performance, and in many other walks of life. I can still name 90% of these folks.
Dr. Humfeld’s affirmation not only inspired several generations of music students, it ultimately transcended the walls of the music building and weaved its way into the fabric of the university. Professor Jimmy Clark, Dr. Humfeld’s former student and successor, wrote that “his quote is still used by a lot of people!”
In 2015, nearly 25-years after Dr. Humfeld’s passing, Dr. Adolfo Benavides, Provost and Vice President for Academic Affairs, announced that TAMUC had been classified as a Research 2 institution*. He went on to say that “to be among the select group of 107 universities in the United States is, indeed, quite an honor. What a fantastic way to begin writing the history of our next 125 years as one of the leaders in Higher Education—yet another beautiful day to be in Commerce, Texas.”
“Well roared, Lion!” as the Bard would say.
*The R2 designation by the Carnegie Classification of Institutions of Higher Education represents the second highest tier of research activity at a Doctoral granting institution.
When I asked about the possible whereabouts of the banner, professor Jimmy Clark exclaimed “I have it! It’s in our son [Chris’s] bedroom.” (Master Gunnery Sergeant Clark didn’t even know that one)
Percussion professor and current Department Chair, Dr. Brian Zator, remembers the banner being in place “until a few years before the move to the new building.” He added “I have a small wooden sign in my new office with the saying.” Well, the more things change, the more they stay the same, I suppose!
Perhaps the current students of A&M Commerce continue to be inspired in some way by Dr. Humfeld after all.
Professor Humfeld never retired from ET. He fought a long and valiant battle with cancer and died in October 1991 while “still on the payroll,” as professor Clark told me, “they hired me as an adjunct to teach for him in late summer but he was not able to start the fall semester.”
Nancy Jo recalled that her father “felt that you should always keep a positive attitude no matter what the weather or your circumstances. It was that mindset that allowed him to live twice as long as someone with his prognosis would have normally.” Dr. Deaton wrote “I know that is what it [the banner] meant to Neill because I remember when he was dying with cancer. He NEVER complained, never lost his sense of humor, and was always concerned about others.”
Dr. Humfeld just wanted to continue to make music for as long as he could. Dr. Deaton noted that despite being in pain “he continued to lead the church choir and never ever cut rehearsals short.” His final performance was a trombone trio with his students Jimmy and Chris Clark at Commerce High School, Deaton remembers, “when he was so ill he couldn’t carry his trombone out to the stage.”
Yes, it is always a beautiful day in Commerce, or Iowa City, or wherever you happen to find yourself, just as long as you have the right attitude and remember to “bloom where you are planted.” Good advice. Thanks for everything Dr. Humfeld!
Dan Moore, Class of 1981
I wonder if there are other stories out there about how the banner inspired you, or if anyone knows more about its origin? I’m sure the statute of limitations has expired.
Do you have a story about Dr. Humfeld? Feel free to leave a comment below. Corrections, annotations, amplifications, or humorous asides are welcome.
Special thanks to the kind folks who contributed to this post: Nancy Jo Humfeld, James Deaton, Gene Lockhart, Jimmy Clark, Chris Clark, Toppy Hill, Sheila Howell Ratcliff, and Brian Zator.
You can get some pretty strange ideas while mindlessly pushing a smoky, sputtering lawn-mower around in the middle of a deep East Texas heat wave. It was the summer of 1972 and I was mowing lawns to earn money to be able to make the scene at the Longview Rollercade that night. As I sculpted ever-shrinking geometric designs into the thick Bermudagrass—like a Michelangelo of Mowing—my mind began to wander and I was deep in thought. On that particular Saturday, I was pondering my future as a musician. Having been a percussionist for nearly three years, I felt that something needed to happen in my musical career this year—something big!
As I stopped to refill the gas tank and wipe the sweat from my eyes, it hit me. I should join the Longview Symphony. At that moment the decision was made, my mind was made up, and I decided to ask my private drum teacher, Mr. Don Lawler, if I could join up.
In 1968, Mr. Lawler and Dr. James Snowden had formed the Longview Symphony Orchestra and Mr. Lawler was principal timpanist. In December 1971, Mr. Lawler had invited me to attend the orchestra’s first *Children’s Concert and dress rehearsal so I could watch him in action. Seeing him on the stage convinced me that playing music was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. (You can also get some pretty strange notions sitting on the front row of an orchestra concert)
*Dr. Snowden recognized very early the importance of Children’s Concerts in the development of both future musicians and audiences. His dissertation from the University of Colorado is titled: The Role of the Symphony Orchestra Youth Concert in Music Education.
So, at my next lesson I made the request and, after a considerable amount of persuading and begging, Mr. Lawler agreed to discuss the matter with my junior high band director, Mr. Jimmy Yancey. After some discussion, they decided that I could probably read music well enough to at least smash a cymbal or bang a bass drum on cue every now and then. After all, smashing and banging is a defining characteristic of all percussionists—right? They, in turn, convinced Dr. Snowden, who was the fledgling orchestra’s conductor, to try me out under two conditions: I must first behave myself and second not do anything stupid, or say anything stupid. It sounded like three conditions to me, but I wasn’t going to argue. I was in the orchestra!
The big night came for my first rehearsal with the Longview Symphony and I was so excited that I arrived two hours early and sat twitching with anticipation on the steps of the high school band hall just waiting for my chance to do some high-class smashing and banging. Eventually, the doors opened, and I and the other, much older, musicians filed in. “Some of these people look really old,” I thought to myself, “they must be in high school or something.”
As I made my way to the back of the room, I didn’t see Mr. Lawler or any other percussionists for that matter. Who would show me the ropes? I didn’t know which of these confusing parts I should play and perhaps most important, I didn’t know that the first hour of rehearsal that night was for strings only! But “I can handle this,” I thought, “I have three years of experience after all.”
The Percussion parts were laid out neatly on a music stand and Dr. Snowden called up the first piece for rehearsal. I grabbed what I considered to be the most interesting part, the “timbales” (Actually, I took that part because it was the only word on any of the pages I recognized). I quickly went to fetch the two small, gleaming chrome drums used commonly for Latin-American dance music, and known to all good percussionists as “timbales.” The percussion music was interesting and had some notation that I had never seen before. It was composed by a person with a funny French-sounding name.
Dr. Snowden gave the downbeat and we were off and running. The strings sawed away passionately to which I added “rrrrap-tap-tappy-tap” on the timbales with a fervor that might have made Ricky Ricardo jealous. Yet try as I might, the two parts just didn’t seem to go together. One at a time, members of the orchestra began to turn around and stare. Older members shook their heads, the younger ones (girls in particular) giggled, and then turned away. “They must be impressed,” I thought, “they can’t believe what a great job I’m doing back here, and at such a tender age.”
Finally, my infernal tapping became too much for Dr. Snowden to bear. He stopped the orchestra and inquired as to what—exactly—I thought I was doing. When I replied that I was playing the timbale part, the entire orchestra erupted in unison laughter. How was I supposed to know that “timbales” was actually French for timpani? You know—timpani—those massive, copper, kettle-shaped bowls that produce the most grand and dramatic sound of the percussion family and even the entire orchestra. Grand and dramatic, not rrrrap-tap-tappy-tap.
That was to be my introduction to the Longview Symphony, and the first of many important lessons I would learn from them. The orchestra ladies took me under their wing and taught me a variety of valuable lessons such as that dark socks are much preferred to white socks when wearing a tuxedo, and how to tell if your cummerbund is on upside-down (after learning what a cummerbund is of course).
A few of the lessons were harder but no less important. I once missed a dress rehearsal for a big concert. When I showed up the night of the concert, Dr. Snowden wouldn’t allow me to play. I sat on the stage throughout the entire concert then stood at the edge of the section whenever the other percussionists played. I watched my parts go by unplayed and hoped that my mother didn’t notice that I wasn’t actually doing anything. It was one of the few concerts she was able to attend, and all I did was stand there. Lesson learned!
I played with the Longview Symphony from ninth-grade through high school and into college; my formative years as well as theirs. I started in the orchestra as “Danny” but by the next season, I had been promoted to “Daniel.” With the LSO I was exposed for the first time to great repertoire such as the Overture to Candide, Academic Festival Overture, Carnival of the Animals, Carmina Burana, and The Pines of Rome, to name just a few, and I got to sit next to musicians who were much better than me which is how you grow as a musician.
Program from my first concert with the Longview Symphony on January 30, 1973
The first time I performed Igor Stravinsky’s Soldier’s Tale was in 1976 as a high school senior. In his dissertation, A History of the Longview Symphony Orchestra of Longview, Texas from 1968-2011, Author Gene H. Moon wrote “The work was performed by first desk players in the orchestra: Betty Grout, violin; Walter Caughey, cello [sic]; Richard Cammack, clarinet; Winnie Voss; bassoon; Gary Jordan, cornet; Lynn Childers, trombone and Danny Moore, percussion.” It was one of the highlights of my senior year even though Dr. Snowden changed my name back to Danny—the name he calls me to this day—in the concert program. Though not known to me at the time, this concert also happened to be a turning point for the orchestra. Writer Suzanne Thomas of the Longview Daily News wrote that “Snowden chose four compositions to comprise possibly the most difficult program yet played by the local musicians.” At the time I had no clue that the little community orchestra was struggling to find its way just like I was.
Program from April 24, 1976 performance of excerpts from Igor Stravinsky’s Soldier’s Tale.
In the early days, The Longview Symphony always swung for the fences in both repertoire and in guest artists. I had the opportunity to perform with artists such as Eugene Fodor, Gary Karr, James Dick, Ralph Kirshbaum, and others. Those years paved the way for a professional orchestra still operating more than fifty years later.
Concert program from April 24, 1976 signed by violin soloist Eugene Fodor.
But perhaps the most important lesson I learned from the LSO—one I would never forget—was the French word for timpani.
Fast forward some twenty-odd years and I find myself in the middle of the biggest exam in my college and professional career; the exhausting two-day comprehensive examination for the Doctor of Musical Arts degree in percussion performance at the University of Kentucky. For part of the exam I had to identify works and composers from a single page of a score. Everything was going well until I came to a page and drew a complete blank. I was tired from the exam and couldn’t think straight, but just as I was about to give up, I happened to notice the word “timbales.” Suddenly, I was transported back to that first night with the Longview Symphony and trying to figure out why this composer with a funny French-sounding name wrote for Ricky Ricardo timbales. The words I needed flowed out like grass from a side-discharge mower. Thanks, Longview Symphony!
Danny Moore is a 1976 graduate of Longview High School where he was a member of the Band, Jazz Band, and was president of the Orchestra. He played percussion with the Concert Choir and for Theater Department productions, and served as a percussionist with the Longview Symphony from 1972 to 1979. He is, however, no longer known as the Michelangelo of Mowing.
Me with James Snowden (left) and Don Lawler, February 7, 2010, following a concert as soloist with the East Texas Symphonic Band.
References:
Moon, Gene H. A History of the Longview Symphony Orchestra of Longview, Texas from 1968-2011, DMA thesis, University of Oklahoma, 2012
Snowden, James Wyn. The Role of the Symphony Orchestra Youth Concert in Music Education,PhD thesis, The University of Colorado, 1979
Thomas, Suzanne. Longview Morning Journal, “Symphony Shows High Polish Here”, Monday, April 26, 1976.
Standing Left to right, Don Lawler, David Elias, Me, and James Snowden on the cover of the 1975-76 brochure.
