Preparing for the last Cinefest in Syracuse, N.Y. and other thoughts about creativity

A lifetime of inspiration from a single box of crayons. See below.

This week I'm driving out to Syracuse, N.Y. for the last-ever Cinefest, a four-day gathering of vintage film buffs and collectors.

A fair amount of silent film is run at this event, for which three pianists are usually brought in to provide accompaniment.

I've had the privilege of being in the mix for the past three years, during which I've played alongside phenomenal musicians such as Phil Carli, Jon Mirsalis, and many others. It's been quite an education for me.

Now, for the final year, they're bringing in no less than eight accompanists as a kind of last hurrah.

The roster includes Phil and Jon, but also Ben Model, Andrew Simpson, Makia Matsumura, Judy Rosenberg, Gabriel Thibaudeau—and me.

We'll get together on Wednesday night and decide who plays what. Simple math says each of us will play no more than two features at most, rather than the usual five or six.

I'm really looking forward it, and not because of the lighter workload. For me, it's a great chance to hear how other accompanists bring films to life. I always come away inspired and eager to push myself in new directions. (Instead of just the refrigerator.)

Why is this the last Cinefest? After 35 years, organizers felt it was time to pack up shop in the face of looming changes in the vintage film field: an aging fan base, the shift to digital, the easy availability of once-rare titles.

I'm heading to Syracuse in a pretty good state of mind, I think.

This past Sunday, on the way to accompany a screening of 'Grandma's Boy' (1922) at the public library in Townsend, Mass., I got to reflecting on how music still can really move me.

As someone caring for an elderly parent in poor health, I can't help but sometimes wonder what the aging process will be like for me.

I wonder if and when music will someday cease to inspire or excite me, or prompt me to feel anything.

Will it fade? Will it falter? Will it happen gradually? Or will the music just one day stop?

Well, the good news is that in recent days I've experienced several waves of affirmation that have me believing that music will continue to be an important part of my life no matter what.

On the way to Townsend, Mass., I was planning to listen to a CD with a series of lectures on the historical origins of Christianity, believe it or not. Hey, I try to keep up.

But when leaving the house, I couldn't find the CD. So instead, I just grabbed another disc at random. It turned out to be a recording of music by John Adams—not the president, but the California-based composer who grew up right here in New Hampshire. (That's him below, on the left.)

By a total coincidence, the disc had a performance of Adams' 'Chamber Symphony' from 1993. It's a work that I'll hear played live next month by the San Francisco Symphony when I go out there to do a program at the Niles Essanay Silent Film Museum on Saturday, April 11.

But here it was now, in my car. And I found myself carried away by the energetic lines and the propulsive rhythms. I find the music of Adams tremendously exciting, not just because of the music itself, but because of the possibilities it represents.

Think of it! After more than a half-century of dead-end atonalism, Adams (and other composers) developed a tonal language all his own that was unlike past music, and in fact sounded like it belonged to my age. And his music, in all its variety, shows how much untapped potential exists with the materials of music.

And it made me think of crayons, of all things. When I was young, the classic box of 64 Crayola crayons was the gold standard for creativity.

I remember starting with the basic eight, and then graduating to 16—a set that included combos such as "red orange" and "blue green."

But it was the big box of 64, with all the basics but also exotic shades such as Periwinkle and Burnt Sienna, that really fired my imagination. To me, the box of 64 represented unending possibilities. It was the symphony orchestra of crayons!

I eventually grafted some of the excitement about 64 crayons to the 12 notes of music. And I think I've maintained that sense of excitement, even now, far into adulthood. To me, the notes also represent endless possibilities.

And as I let the music of John Adams' 'Grand Pianola Music' (next on the disc) wash over me, I felt confident that music must remain a lifelong passion. There's still a lot of life left in that box of crayons, for me and anyone else who wants to use them.

After that, I turned on the radio, and heard different music. I recognized it immediately: the end of the first movement of the great Symphony No. 3 (the "organ" symphony) by Camille Saint-Saëns. (That's him at right.)

This was music I discovered while in junior high school, by means of a library LP of Eugene Ormandy leading the Philadelphia Orchestra. I found it thrilling and exhilarating stuff—so much so that I wore out the library's recording.

And now here I was, nearly four decades later, and the music was having the same effect on me. The tunes, the harmonies, the rhythmic energy—and all of it suffused with a sense of fresh and unending possibilities.

So I head to Syracuse, and my own musical future, feeling confident that music will continue to offer as much to me as it always has. Familiar music will continue to move me, and new discoveries will continue to inspire me.

I guess what I'm saying is that I don't think I'm ready to put away the crayons anytime soon.

Brush with silent film fame: a few thoughts on meeting Ken Winokur of Alloy Orchestra

Alloy in action: that's Ken Winokur back behind the bedpan, playing percussion, with colleagues Terry Donahue on accordion and Roger Miller on keyboard.

Just prior to yesterday's screening of two silent W.C. Fields features, I was introduced to one of the big names in silent film music: Ken Winokur of the Alloy Orchestra!

The night before, Ken's group had done their new score for 'Son of the Sheik' (1926) at the Somerville Theatre, where I was doing my program the next afternoon.

Imagine that—a commercial movie theater running separate and big silent film programs on Saturday night and Sunday afternoon! Geez, we're fortunate to have the Somerville Theatre in our area.

I was thrilled to meet Ken, who with colleagues Terry Donahue and Roger Miller has been attracting big audiences to silent films for many years now.

(How big? I understand they had 600 people at the Somerville on Saturday night, way more than what we get for the Sunday afternoon shows. And at a higher ticket price, too!)

He was there to take in the Fields films, which he said he hadn't seen before. Turns out he lives not far from the Somerville, so I guess it was only a matter of time before our paths crossed.

Ken was a pleasure to talk to. We shared a few thoughts about synthesizers and how much gear Alloy has to move in and out of theaters. But that's about all we had time for before the lights went down.

And yes, knowing that a silent film music guy of Ken's stature is in the audience is enough to make me a little self-conscious when sitting down at the keyboard.

But I think of it as good experience in pushing myself into that "silent film accompaniment" zone, where the film takes over and I find I stop being nervous no matter who's in the room.

Luckily, that happened pretty quickly yesterday afternoon with 'Sally of the Sawdust.' And Ken sent me a note this morning with some nice comments about the music. Thanks, Ken!

I first heard Alloy back in the mid-1990s when they did music for Keaton's 'Steamboat Bill Jr.' (1928) at the Portsmouth (N.H.) Music Hall.

This was before I was doing accompaniment. But at the time, it made a huge impression, and it helped steer me back into the field. (I had collected vintage film way back as a teenager, but had moved on to other interests after college. Besides the opposite sex, that is.)

Later, I went to a couple of programs Alloy did in Northhampton, Mass. One of my best memories from that time was taking a retired (and recently widowed) newspaper colleague in his 80s down there for a screening of Harold Lloyd's 'Speedy' (1928), which he remembered seeing as a boy. Alloy did a magnificent job, and it was a great night!

Over the years, Winokur's group has drawn criticism from some film buffs who don't favor Alloy's approach to scoring silents.

That's unfortunate, as I feel there's room for a lot of different approaches. And in many cases, new music is what brings many first-timers to a silent film screening.

In my case, I like to think Winokur and his colleagues helped "loosen my ears" regarding silent film music. They helped me understand the value of coming up with new (and not necessarily period authentic) music to help bring these timeless works of art alive for contemporary audiences.

Yes, there are some very talented musicians who specialize in recreating the musical cues played when the films were first released. And there's tremendous value in that, too.

But there's also a lot to be said for creating new music that connects with people and, again, helps bring other audiences into the silent film tent.

That's what Alloy has been doing for the past quarter century, and I hope they continue for a long time to come.

After all, the chance for each era to create new music for these movies is one of the great glories of the silent film art—one that will help keep interest strong, and these films before the public, as years and decades continue to pass, I think.

If you're interested in learning more about the Alloy Orchestra, check out their Web site. They tour all over the country, and even internationally, so at some point there should be a show near you.

Next up for me is a presentation to the New Hampshire Creative Club this Wednesday, and then a screening of 'Tarzan and the Golden Lion' (1927), one of the best surviving Tarzan silents, on Thursday, March 12 at the Flying Monkey Moviehouse and Performance Center in Plymouth, N.H. More on that in a separate post.

A Sunday afternoon screening of 'Grandma's Boy' (1922) follows at the Townsend (Mass.) Public Library, and then it's off to the last-ever Cinefest gathering in Syracuse, N.Y., where I'll be one of eight accompanists on hand for this four-day event.

Having that many accompanists in one place has gotta be some kind of a record. Perhaps we'll play musical chairs!

Finishing out March with a comedy, a drama, and then another comedy

See 'The Wind' (1928) on Thursday, March 27 at 7 p.m. at Keene State College in Keene, N.H.

March is supposed to go out like a lion, so maybe it's appropriate we're screening the great MGM silent drama 'The Wind' (1928) on Thursday, March 27 at 7 p.m. at Keene State College in Keene, N.H. (In addition to having a weather-related title, it begins with Leo, the MGM lion, in silent roar.)

This Lillian Gish classic will be bookended by screenings of two Harry Langdon films: 'The Strong Man' (1926) on Wednesday, March 26 at 7 p.m. at Merrimack College in North Andover, Mass., and then the rarely screened 'Long Pants' (1927) on Sunday, March 30 at 4:30 p.m. at the Wilton Town Hall Theatre in Wilton, N.H.

Right now, I'm in the post-tour let-down period following appearances in the past month at the Kansas Silent Film Festival in Topeka, Kansas and then Cinefest in Syracuse, N.Y. In recent years, these two back-to-back festivals have served as the annual climax of my accompaniment calendar. It's a lot of film to accompany, and now that's it's over, I kinda feel like smoking a cigarette.

Accompanist Rodney Sauer and I showed up at the Kansas Silent Film Festival in nearly identical performing garb, with me furthering the illusion with eyewear borrowed from festival director Bill Shaffer.

These festivals cut both ways. Because I get to hear other accompanists, see films that are new to me, and interact with a lot of people, they inspire me to want to improve my craft. But the stress of performing in unfamiliar places, and sometimes to films that I've never seen (five different features at Cinefest!), wears me out for a time.

The four accompanists at Cinefest 2014: me, Makia Matsumura, Judy Rosenberg, and Jon Mirsalis. Thanks for the photo, Makia!

The calendar beckons, however, with places to go and shows to do, and silent films to help bring to life for today's audiences. And so I soldier on, having already done music for 'The Lost World' (1925) this past Thursday at the Flying Monkey Moviehouse and Performance Center in Plymouth, N.H. And now these three upcoming shows to finish out the month.

(If you'd like more info on the Langdon films or 'The Wind,' check out the "Upcoming Screenings" page on this site. I haven't had time for press releases just yet.)

Coming out of this period, I feel the need to do fewer screenings, and work a bit more on material for screenings that I do commit to. Until now, I wanted to do as many shows as possible, if only so the feel of performing live would become second nature, and to get experience winging it if I had to.

Okay, so I'm not always relaxed and in control at the keyboard.

I think I've gotten where I want to in that area. Now the challenge, I believe, is to work at further forging my own personal musical language for silent film accompaniment, which has developed somewhat but has a long way to go.

The main way to do that, I sense, is by taking time to work up consciously new material even for films I've done many times before. Less winging it, more careful preparation prior to sitting down on the bench, even though I'll still be mostly improvising during the actual screening. 

In the coming months, I'd like to develop a suite of melodic material built on elements that I'm attracted to: the call of the sharped fourth or the flatted seventh is beckoning. And I'd like to get better at producing material on demand that reflects this language.

Plus I might acquire a real piano to replace the spinet I've been pounding for well nigh 40 years now. And the Korg synth and speakers are showing their age, too. We'll see about upgrading them as well.

Lots to do, but the main thing is—fewer gigs, and a little more time spent preparing for each. I'm really looking forward to it!

We raised $3,000 for the Town Hall Theatre; Now, on to Cinefest in Syracuse, N.Y.

The Wilton Town Hall Theatre occupies the second floor of the old town hall in downtown Wilton, N.H.

I'm pleased to report that yesterday's screening of 'Wings' (1927) at the Wilton (N.H.) Town Hall Theatre raised more than $3,000 towards the facility's conversion to digital for first-run movies.

I want to thank the generosity of silent film fans who turned out for this $20-per-ticket event, many of whom made additional donations to the theater yesterday.

The Wilton Town Hall Theatre is one of the great things about living in our part of the world. It's also where I got my start accompanying silent films live in front of an audience, and I still consider it my "home base" with the monthly screenings I continue to do there.

So I was really pleased to see such a great response to this fund-raiser. Many familiar faces, and some new folks as well, and a lot of kind comments after the show.

Ironically, we showed 'Wings' in the same theater where '12 Years a Slave' is currently playing. So on Sunday, movie-goers in Wilton had a choice between the very first and the most recent Best Picture. That can't happen very often.

The screening of 'Wings' also served as a kind of "final exam" prior to heading off to Syracuse, N.Y. later this week for Cinefest, a four-day annual gathering of vintage film buffs. As part of the festivities, silent and early sound movies are screened pretty much continuously each day from 9 a.m. until after midnight. (No, they're not totally crazy. On Sunday, they stop about 6 p.m.)

That's so much film that they actually bring in no less than three accompanists to handle the music. Pianists are generally given a three-year stint, and this time marks my third (and final) year in the rotation.

I love going there, but I'll be honest: for me, it's a fairly challenging event because I'm playing alongside the likes of Phil Carli, Jon Mirsalis, Andrew Simpson, and other terrific accompanists with long-established national reputations.

This year, my co-conspirators at the keyboard are Makia Matusmura and Judy Rosenberg, both fantastic accompanists that I'm looking forward to meeting and hearing. And I understsand Ben Model and Jon Mirsalis will be coming in for some things as well, too.

Each time I go, I'm thrilled (and amazed) to hear what these other accompanists can do. I'm also forced to consider my own way of accompanying, which is good, because it inspires me to continue to try to improve my craft. So that means everything from Hanon technical exercises (the classic piano player's finger-training exercises) to working through chord progressions that I can file away for future use, and also making a concious effort to make full use of all 88 keys. (Sometimes I seem to forget about the upper third of a piano keyboard.)

Another challenge is mastering the considerable difference between an acoustic piano (such as that used at Cinefest) and the Korg digital synthesizer I often use in my own shows. Though the keyboard itself might look the same, each requires a whole different style of playing.

Well, I do work at it, but there's only so far that work (and any natural talent) can get you. And in recent months, I've become increasingly comfortable with a sense that my own strength as an accompanist lies not in flying all over the keyboard, but with keeping things small and in control, and using that to maximize an audience's experience of the film. Use the tools you have.

I may never be Vladimir Horowitz, but I do have a definite sense of drama and a good feel of how music can augment many different types of cinematic story-telling. (Comedy, yes, is still the toughest to pull off effectively.) I may not have the ability to rattle off, say, a Chopin polonaise at will. But I'm not likely to go off on a showy tangent when accompanying a film. All I seem to be able to do is organic film music that's not intended to be anything else.

And Phil Carli himself, one of the most impressive keyboard players I've ever witnessed, has said that one of the cardinal sins of accompaniment is "overplaying," or trying to play beyond one's ability. It's a tendency I notice in myself, because I do get carried away by a film, and also with trying to do what other accompanists sometimes do. It's a basic human motivation: peer pressure. Hey, I want to be like them!

And this feeds a cycle where I tend to push too hard too soon, which sometimes can lead to overplaying, which is when things are most likely to fall apart. Worse, it give me nowhere to go when a film really demands it. This has happened several times at past Cinefests, where the audience of vintage film specialists tends to fuel my desire to make a big impression. I really want this film to work, dammit! With me, that often results in less-than-optimal accompaniment.

I've had some good moments at Cinefest, too. But they seem to happen mostly when I'm able to keep the music from spinning out of control and stay within my range. Strangely, it seems that the longer I can maintain this control during a picture, the more my confidence grows, and so I actually am able to make the most of the big moments when they come. That's exactly what happened last year with 'The Foundling' (1915), a Mary Pickford feature I played for.

I'm now running the risk of overthinking all this, so I'll stop here. Let's just say it's a delicate balance, but I'm starting to understand the contours of how that balance works and how best to manage it so that a film gets the best score I can give it.

So this Cinefest, I'm going to make a deliberate effort to just be myself and do what I do best: start slow, don't be afraid to keep things simple, and work hard to rein in things so that big moments have a chance at feeling authentically big. This will require actual courage on my part, as the temptation to "go big" is huge. But more than ever I understand how important it is for me to do the best I can in my own style.

And after Cinefest, the schedule lightens up a bit, which is good. That's because I would like to take time to push my scoring technique in directions that, yes, build on my strengths and continue to improve my technique, as much as possible. I get a sense that I'm maybe about a third of the way to the point where I have my own authentic vocabulary for scoring silent films. So there's still a lot of work to do.

In the past few years, I've booked a great number of screenings with the idea that what I needed most was experience in front of a live audience. That's been helpful, but I now find I'm often drawing upon the same bank of material rather than creating new stuff, which is where the musical vocabulary truly gets forged. I need to spend more time in the lab, so to speak.

So I'm moving into a phase where I hope to prepare more new material for screenings and see how I can push things in that direction. Though it's always exciting to accompany a film live, doing 'Steamboat Bill Jr.' (1928) yet again using the same tunes I've been using for years is beginning to wear a little thin.

Something new seems called for. Stay tuned.

Five screenings in four states: It's a Halloween Nosferatu-a-thon!

Actor Max Schreck would have a hard time accompanying 'Nosferatu' with those fingernails.

Tomorrow I embark on a daunting adventure: doing live music for five separate screenings of 'Nosferatu' (1922) in less than two weeks. And a screening of 'The Phantom of the Opera' (1925) is mixed in there for good measure. Can you tell Halloween is coming up?

First, here's a round-up of the where and when, if only to help ME keep track of where I'm supposed to be...

• Saturday, Oct. 19, 7 p.m.: "Nosferatu" (1922); Brandon Town Hall and Community Center, Main Street/Route 7, Brandon, Vt.; http://www.brandontownhall.org. Our annual "Chiller Theater" presentation in the as-yet-unheated Brandon Town Hall. Admission free, donations accepted, with proceeds to help continuing preservation work.

• Thursday, Oct. 24, 7 p.m.: "The Phantom of the Opera" (1925), starring Lon Chaney, Mary Philbin; the Putnam Arts Lecture Hall, Keene State College, Keene, N.H. Free and open to the public. Long before Andrew Lloyd Webber created the hit stage musical, this silent film adaptation starring Lon Chaney helped place 'Phantom' firmly in the pantheon of both horror and romance.

• Saturday, Oct. 26, 8 p.m.: "Nosferatu" (1922); Leavitt Theatre, 259 Main St. Route 1, Ogunquit, Maine; (207) 646-3123; http://www.leavittheatre.com. Admission $10 per person. Another unheated "chiller theater" screening, if only because it's a summer-only cinema in a seaside resort.

• Sunday, Oct. 27, 4:30 p.m.: "Nosferatu" (1922); Wilton Town Hall Theatre, Main Street, Wilton, N.H.; (603) 654-3456; www.wiltontownhalltheatre.com. Admission free, donations of $5 per person encouraged. Movies since 1912!

• Wednesday, Oct. 30, 7 p.m.: "Nosferatu" (1922); Rogers Center for the Arts, Merrimack College, 315 North Turnpike St., North Andover, Mass. (978) 837-5355. Free admission. Nice modern arts center on college campus north of Boston.

• Thursday, Oct. 31, 6:30 p.m.: "Nosferatu" (1922); The Flying Monkey Movie House and Performance Center, 39 South Main St., Plymouth, N.H.; (603) 536-2551; http://www.flyingmonkeynh.com. Admission $10 per person. Hoping for a good turnout from students at Plymouth State University, who usually ignore these screenings.

Wow, that's 'Nosferatu' in four different states! The vampire sure gets around. If anyone makes it to all five screenings (besides me), I'll donate a pint of blood to the American Red Cross in your honor.

This will be interesting, and not just in terms of finding my way to theaters all over New England. Because I improvise the score live each time, it'll be intriguing to see how the accompaniment evolves during the performances.

Yes, I do have a few musical ideas in my head that I'll use when I sit down for the first performance, which is tomorrow night up in Brandon, Vt. I've done 'Nosferatu' before, and I have a "vampire" chord sequence that is versatile enough to power most of the score.

But inevitably, new ideas will happen along the way. And those ideas may get carried over to the next screening, where they'll evolve a bit further, and so on. So by the time of the fifth performance in Plymouth, N.H. (on Halloween night!), the score might be totally different from what I did in Brandon 12 days earlier.

The idea that I sit down without any sheet music and create a movie score in real time seems a bit strange to people, but it's really nothing magical. Even if I don't have a idea in my head, all I have to do it play one note, and the score sometimes creates itself from there.

Just play one note and hold it, and you can go in so many directions, depending on what the movie seems to want.

One note, so many possibilities! Just in terms of the mechanics of music, there are so many ways to go. Is it the root of a chord? If not the root, which part of the chord is it? Either way gives it a certain character.

And if not part of a chord,will it want to resolve somehow? Each direction carries its own relevance to what might be happening on screen.

I'm kind of reminded of what I remember reading once in Vonnegut (probably from 'Bluebeard' (1987), one of his later novels), where an abstract artist explained his method by saying that he started by making one mark on a blank canvas, and the canvas would then do at least half the work.

I had a nice guy come up to after a recent screening, a musician who wanted to know if I took on students, as he wanted to know if he could learn more about what I do.

I'm not really part of any school or traditional academic setting, so I don't have pupils, although I'm glad to share anything I can. And I thought about this, and most of what I do can be taught: the methods, the way to transform melodies, the way to create a certain kind of music to bring a film to life.

The only thing that I would be at a loss to teach would be where the melodies come from in the first place. I can make some observations, such as people tend to be attracted to melodies with notes that skip around in a small area, such as the "Ode to Joy" from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.

But where does a melody come from in the first place?

With me, it just seems to flow naturally out of some place in my brain where scraps of old music (pop songs, cartoon scores, Broadway overtures, brass band marches) are continually playing. Sometimes it seems like several pieces are running at once, all colliding deep down below, like tectonic plates below the earth's surface, breaking up and recombining into something new.

That's where the tunes come from, I think. And we'll see if any keepers emerge during the upcoming Nosferatu-a-thon. It's been my experience that the state of mind I get into when accompanying a film seems to allow me to tap into this inner music more readily.

My self-editing and critical filtering gets turned down, and new melodies of all different types seems to flow more readily. Many times, I'll be sitting there accompanying a movie, and I'll be as surprised as anyone at the music flowing out of my keyboard. Geez, where did that come from?

But then afterwards, sometimes the audience tells me. This past March, after improvising a completely made-up-on-the-spot piano score to Mary Pickford's drama 'The Foundling' (1915) at Cinefest in Syracuse, N.Y., a guy came up and said he especially appreciated how I was able to use a melody from Schubert's 'Trout' Quintet.

My witty reply was to say that I thought something sounded fishy. Wow, from channeling Schubert to channeling Henny Youngman!

Well, to channel Groucho Marx: "They can't all be gems, folks."

From the piano: 33rd Annual Cinefest vintage film confab March 14-17, 2013

My usual state between films at Cinefest.

What happens when several hundred movie buffs get together to enjoy four straight days of obscure vintage cinema?

By "straight," I mean from 9 a.m. to midnight Thursday through Saturday, followed by a lighter schedule of just 9 hours of viewing on Sunday. And by "vintage," I mean little-known flicks from way back in the silent and early sound era.

What happens is you get Cinefest, one of the high points of the vintage entertainment calendar. Every March, the film faithful gather at a Holiday Inn outside Syracuse, N.Y. for a multi-day buffet of comedies, dramas, westerns, thrillers, propaganda films, musicals, home movies of Curly Howard, and more. They're often bizarre, but they're always interesting.

To learn more about this annual confab, check out a write-up by critic and author Leonard Maltin, who attends every year with his wife Alice.

Hey! That's me with Leonard Maltin and Alice.

But for a more limited view—my perspective from the piano bench as one of the accompanists, or just wandering the halls—read on.

It might seem a little disjointed, but that's what happens when you score five completely different films (and plenty of shorts) in a few days. Reality begins blurring with what occurred on screen. Also, the place where the music comes from is tapped so often and steadily that it becomes hard to turn off, or starts to behave like a leaky faucet. You begin imagining music while, say, walking across the parking lot to the pharmacy to buy beer or headache tablets.

• Thursday, March 14: Day One of Cinefest was proceeded by the previous night's customary trip to the hospitality suite, where I scarfed a couple of sandwiches and helped carry in Leonard Maltin's luggage across the hall. Ah, show business.

Also in the musical line-up: Andrew Simpson, who was here last year, and Jon Mirsalis, one of the big names in the field and someone whose work I really admire. What a privilege to be playing on the same program with two heavy hitters!

And also a little intimidating. But I've found that my own style is what it is. So I can't get too self-conscious or try to be something I'm not — specifically, a concert pianist. Heck, I'd even make a lousy rehearsal pianist! Helpfully, Jon recounted how he felt he was terrible when he started out, which I actually found comforting.

On Thursday morning, accompaniment duties began at 10:45 a.m. with the first installment of 'Lame Brains and Lunatics,' a program of obscure silent short comedies from the Library of Congress compiled by Rob Stone and Steve Massa. Andrew took the lead on this; I followed along with tunes for a couple of shorts in between. Jon had asked to be excused from playing for silent film comedies, which seem to be pretty low on his list of good ways to spend what time we have on this planet, and I can understand.

After lunch, I got to hear Jon play (for me, the first time live) for 'Wild Beauty' (1926), an absurd horse drama that Jon's music transformed into compelling cinema. In live performance, Jon's style and musical vocabulary are instantly recognizable. I kept thinking: present at the creation. It's why people visit Niagara Falls in person rather just look at pictures of it. I was especially impressed with some deep and consistent rumbling that Jon produced for a stampede sequence — it all seemed to be coming from the bottom octave of the keyboard. Later, Jon said the effect was produced by "a lot of notes."

Andrew drew a difficult drama, 'The Whip,' (1917), another horse-related story (more about the humans) but a hodgepodge of scenes that didn't quite make sense and in some cases were clearly in the wrong order. He made it bearable with some great playing, I thought. Things fell together for him much more naturally in 'My Boy' (1921), a melodrama featuring child star Jackie Coogan, then fresh off his triumph in Chaplin's 'The Kid' the year before.

Andrew, with his quadro-textured Italian suitcoat, warms up for 'My Boy' on Thursday afternoon. Note the four buttons in different colors on his coat sleeve.

As cute as Coogan is as a child actor, my problem is that I can't help thinking of him as Uncle Fester in old 'The Addams Family' TV show. (As seen on right.) But Andrew's music helped sweep all that away, creating a score that wrung maximum emotional value from the film.

When the lights came up at the end, I was surprised to see Andrew in tears! How great to witness such genuine emotion, for a silent film or for anything, really. He mentioned that thoughts of his own two-year-old son prompted the response, and the film really got to him. Wow! In the presence of some powerful stuff there.

And me? I'd just spent the whole day listening to two masterful accompanists, with occasional breaks to wonder what I was doing on the same program.

But there I was. And my first at-bat came Thursday night after dinner, with music for a program of seldom-screened Mary Pickford pics: the short 'So Near and Yet So Far' (1912) and the early feature 'The Foundling' (1916), an unusual film because it was made twice — the original footage burned in a fire before the picture was released, so they went back and shot it all over again!

Alas, I was really all over the place for the short. Neither film nor accompanist seemed to settle down. But I had some "A List" ideas ready for 'The Foundling,' and once it started, I was relieved when things came together pretty quickly. The film was easy to follow, so I never lost the story thread, which makes a big difference. Things kept clicking, with one nice moment after another. As we approached the two-thirds mark, I got the feeling I was nailing it, and so headed into the last part playing with confidence.

And yes, at the big climax, I uncorked the full treatment of my main theme, cycling the first two bars of it (C Major and E minor) until Mary revealed her true identity to her father, which was my cue to push the melody forward to what Rachmaninoff would identify as the "purple moment," that one high point that everything else is leading to, in one way or another. It was one of those moments that worked out in a way that would have been impossible to plan for in advance, and I thought it was a fitting way to handle what was clearly the big emotional moment.

As the film ended, I rolled into a closing cadence and finished with a flourish. Lights up, generous applause, and the great relief that in my initial outing, I'd hit a home run. So many nice comments afterwards, especially from the Pickford people, who hadn't realized I was improvising the score and had never seen the picture before. And I was especially pleased when Jon Miralis said he thought the music was "haunting." Wow!

Afterwards, a kindly older gentleman complimented me on the way I had used a theme from a Schubert string quartet. This was surprising because I hadn't used one—well, at least not that I was aware of. But it's entirely possible that some fragment of melody I heard long ago lodged somewhere in my head and was only jarred loose by Mary Pickford's curls. You never know. Hey, with only 12 notes to work with, things are bound to sound similar once in awhile.

Andrew and Jon during the first day.

• Friday, March 15: Long day for me, making up for the drought on Thursday: two features plus another round of short comedies from the Library of Congress under the 'Lame Brains and Lunatics' banner. I lucked out on the first feature, 'Ladies of Leisure' (1926), a generally light comedy with a few serious scenes salted in, but ultimately played for laughs. The material I picked for this seemed to fit well, and also got to do some faux-minimalist stuff during the dramatic scenes, which were pretty predictable. When the distraught woman hails a streetcar that says "To Brooklyn Bridge," you know what's going to happen. So the score held together, but just barely. By the ending, I was ready for lunch.

For that, we hauled down the road to Heidi's of Liverpool, an iconic hot dog stand, where I accidentally stuck my foot in wet cement in fine silent comedy style. After that adventure, I was next up for 'Bolshevism on Trial' (1919), a strange propaganda film for which I had high hopes. But entering the darkened room about 15 minutes before showtime, I was thrown when I found the audience watching a silent film being projected with no music! What?! Was I supposed to be up there? What was happening?

I made my way up to the front, thinking I'd somehow disappointed everyone by not being on hand, and was just about to sit down at the keyboard when the film clip ended, and then started again, this time with recorded sound. I immediately realized that the previous clip was unrestored film that lacked the synchronized discs, and was just being shown to give audiences an idea of what the materials looked like before they were put back together.

Still, it was enough to rattle me so that I had trouble finding my groove for the propaganda film. It ought to have been easy to play for, as the plot was transparent and the action entirely predictable. But the material I'd chosen to work with just wasn't a good match, and my efforts todo things like twist around phrases of the Star-Spangled Banner didn't generate much energy, either. I was glad when it ended, and felt it had been my low point so far. (Three features down, two to go.)

The highlight of Friday, I thought, was Jon Mirsalis playing for 'The Ice Flood' (1926), a Universal drama centered on exactly that: a big ice jam in logging country in the Pacific Northwest. Not any kind of classic, but the kind of picture you can imagine people getting really excited about when this was first released. It's in the same category of the fire film that Kevin Brownlow uses to start off his great "Pioneers" documentary of silent film.

Film archivist Bruce Lawton and me in the sprawling dealers' room.

After dinner, another session of 'Lame Brains and Lunatics' short comedies, and I wasn't happy with how this worked out, either. Andrew is a natural for this sort of thing, spinning out honky-tonk accompaniment without apparent effort, and I gain a lot from hearing what he does. I think I just need to sit and do one or two of these a day just to get into the habit of responding to them. Maybe it's just nerves—the unfamiliar room and the big and knowledgeable audience made it that much harder to forget myself and get inside these films.

Friday night gabfast in the Holiday Inn lobby. In plaid is Rob Stone from the Library of Congress; at his left is silent comedy guru Steve Massa, about to be author of 'Lame Brains and Lunatics,' a newly published book on the field.

• Saturday, March 16: An early day. Hearty breakfast at Carl's Kountry Kitchen on Teall Avenue, then fellow accompanist Andrew Simpson and I arrived at the Palace Theater on James Street at 8 a.m. for a day of 35mm prints. Me, I was in what I can now identify as my 'mid-Cinefest funk' — that place where you feel you've done your best work and it's going to be tough to try to summon up the energy (and the ideas) to equal or surpass the mark.

As organizer Joe Yranski jokes, a theater sporting the name 'Palace' is often anything but. And yes, the Palace on James Street is far from grand. It's a modest one-screen affair in a funky neighborhood that somehow endured into the age of the multiplex, and only this past May ceased running first-run films when the economics finally gave out.

But I like the place, which wears the understated quirkiness of another era. Inside, there's just enough architectural schmaltz to make it endearing without being ridiculous. And the 38th anniversary wishes to Leonard and Alice Maltin on the marquee was a nice touch.

However, since they pulled the plug on first-run shows, the projection booth discipline has apparently deteriorated somewhat. We had films out of order and appear when they weren't supposed to, including one I was supposed to play, 'Come On Over,' a 1922 Colleen Moore vehicle about a gal from the Emerald Isle. 'Come On Over' started in the middle of a collection of technicolor fragments that Jon Mirsalis was playing. When it came on, Jon sat and waited, but when it was apparent the Moore film wasn't going to stop, he invited me to jump in, which I did.

Not the best set-up for effective film scoring, but I had some material in mind and was surprised when I picked up the film no problem and things began to jell. (I later joked that I'm one-quarter Irish, and the score reflected about that ratio.) I kept it light, as the film itself was light as a feather, driven by misunderstandings and with no real villain. Plot threads were tied up without much drama, and then it was time to party.

Joe Yranski had tipped me off in advance that 'Come On Over' contained an Irish jig near the end. Sure enough, when the old guy with the bagpipes was brought in, I was ready with open fifths droning in the bass and 6/8 figures whirling above, with a sharped fourth to add a little sparkle to the racket.

What surprised me, however, was the jig was not just a scene, but turned out to be the actual ending of the film. I didn't expect this, but as it unfolded and kept going, it became increasingly clear that we were done with the story and now it was time for everyone to dance. And one by one, they each got a turn—young folks, old folks, everyone. It was structured like a Bollywood movie!

This realization dawned on me at about the time the Colleen Moore character brought out a door to dance on as her final statement of jig superiority. This is the film's real climax! I had been holding back, but at that point I sensed it was time to amp things up, so began building to a climax, with the right hand working its way up the keyboard.

And sure enough, just as I got the place where there ain't no place else to go, the frantic jig scene faded out to 'The End.' So I poured on what little I had left, keeping the energy going for a few more bars to finish out with a clanging 6/8 flourish, tone clusters and all, including that sharped fourth. And as I realized I'd nailed it, I was overcome with a happiness and satisfaction that's hard to describe. But I can say that it ranks as one of the most satisfying moments I've had in accompanying silent films.

I even ended with a showy downward glissando!

And before I move on, let me tip my non-existent cap to Andrew Simpson, who opened the morning with a completely polished and totally compelling score for 'Three Women' (1924), a sophisticated Ernst Lubitsch drama. I thought this was Andrew's very best stuff of the event, a flawless match of music and movie.

After 'Come On Over,' we then played round robin for the Library of Congress 'Mostly Lost' presentation, with me drawing a Hank Mann comedy and a fragment of a Western that I thought was a comedy for the first few minutes until I realized it was being played straight. Luckily, I had chosen a strategy of "straight music" instead of comic in the hopes that it would bring out the comedy, so I wasn't in too bad a place when the comedy never came.

I went back to the hotel for the afternoon, and so missed one of the great moments of Cinefest 2013. Jon Mirsalis was accompanying the Norma Talmadge drama 'The Woman Disputed' (1928), and during a climactic battle scene, somehow the lamp fell off the keyboard. Not only that — it crashed onto the microphone that had been set up behind the keyboard, causing the bulb to break with a resounding smash that was broadcast to the entire theater.

Amazingly, all this happened in exact synchronization with a huge on-screen explosion, making it one of the most well-timed technical disasters in the history of live film scores. When we reconvened at the hotel on Saturday night, I had the honor of saying a few words to the crowd, and presented Jon a new bulb to make up for the one lost during his performance.

Accompanist Jon Mirsalis holds up his replacement light bulb.

Back at the hotel that night, my last feature was 'Partners Again' (1926), a "middle class Jewish" comedy that I don't think I had the right material for. But I kept things light and staccato throughout, which helped, and then did my best to lend some high velocity thrills to an airborne climax that seemed to last about five minutes longer than really necessary. Later, I was amazed to learn that I was playing for the first public screening of this film since its original release in 1926!

Still, I sensed I wasn't quite pulling off the approach I had chosen, so not the most satisfying experience of the event. As Groucho Marx said, "Sorry folks, they can't all be gems."

But afterwards, I was surprised when no less a film authority than Scott Margolin, who leads the Vitaphone Project, came over and congratulated me on what he said was a superb performance! I was grateful for his remarks, which were a reminder that people hear and respond to a score in many different ways.

Jon then sat down for a bravura score to 'Behind the Door' (1919), an intense 'atrocity' film from the Ince studios. Highlighted by incredible photography (especially at sea) and appallingly gruesome subject matter, Jon's music to this was the highlight of the festival for me.

Andrew finished the night with 'The Quarterback' (1926), a college football comedy starring Richard Dix and Esther Ralston. Andrew had started the day at 8:30 a.m. at the Palace, and here he was playing the last flick of the day, starting after 11 p.m. At some point this ceases to be fun, and as the opening titles rolled for 'The Quarterback,' I got the sense that we'd reached that spot. Still, Andrew turned in an energetic "rah rah" football score, which really impressed me with its effectiveness as well as its musicianship.

Your three accompanists: Jon, Andrew, and someone who should know better than to wear that much black. (Festival organizer Gerry Orlando is in back.)

• Sunday, March 17: I had to get an early start back to home base in New Hampshire, so bid everyone goodbye without attending events of screenings. (Jon handled the one silent film that afternoon.) Surprisingly, I found myself reluctant to leave. Despite the ups and downs of wrestling with accompaniment, I had come to feel at home in this environment. What if this was really my job and I had to do this every day? If it was like the most recent Cinefest, I wouldn't mind at all!

But for now, I'll have to wait until March 13, 2014 to return for the final installment of my three-year engagement. Better start practicing.

Saturday, March 17: Cinefest, Day 3

The Palace Theatre in Syracuse, N.Y., gradually fills with Cinefest attendees.

Today brought the grand finalé: an off-site trip to the Palace Theatre for a day-long program of 35mm film. It was also my first chance for "quality time" with legendary accompanist Phil Carli, who'd been suffering a cold all weekend and spending a lot of time resting, but still tackling films with a "show must go on" attitude.

But first we had to get to the theater. Phil knew where it was, so I followed him in his big blue Olds Ninety-Eight as we hopped on Interstate 81, then through neighborhood streets until reaching the Palace.

Despite the name, the theater is no movie palace from the Golden Age of Hollywood. Rather, it's a very homey one-screen neighborhood film house with about 500 seats and a modest balcony. As a throwback to the days when movie theaters were part of any urban streetscape, I loved the place immediately. The projectionist late told me it's one of only three theaters in all of Syracuse that can still run 35mm film.

We came early (before Cinefest attendees began arriving by school bus) to check out the keyboard (a Yamaha clavinova) and sound arrangements. Inside, we found the house sound tech setting up a microphone to rest on the keyboard. Phil surprised me by aggressively ordering the tech to not mike the piano and not feed it through the house sound. "I don't want it to sound like it's a recorded score," Phil said loudly, and in a tone that indicated he wasn't fooling around.

Fellow accompanist Andrew Simpson had arrived by then, and we both stood by as Phil asked for adjustments, deferring to his "senior" status. Eventually, yes, the microphone was shut off and we just used the Yahama's built-in output. What Phil was after, of course, was what a genuine acoustic piano would sound like, with the music definitely coming from it rather than from speakers around the room.

This was at odds with my general desire to aim for sound that does approximate a movie score effect, meaning I generally like to hook up the synthesizer output to house sound whenever possible. But for the solo piano sound in a modest theater, Phil was right, I think: coming from the house sound system would have been too much, or at least a disorientating distraction.

A pre-show visit of critic/author Leonard Maltin at the keyboard prompted photos of the accompanists, including this one of all three. Phil, a big guy, joked that in any photo, he's always the one looming in from the side. This prompted Maltin to recall something that Milton Berle once told him: in any photo, make sure you're standing on the left. Why?

"Because that way, you'll always be the first name in the caption," Maltin said. Wow! I told him that in 25 years of the newspaper business, I'd never heard that little pearl of wisdom, as practical as it is true. I guess that's one reason to go to an event such as Cinefest. Here's Mr. Maltin with yours truly:

The day-long program opened with a series of comedy shorts, and once again I elected to go first, in part because later in the morning, I'd play the first feature, and also because my style is "thinner" than what both Andrew and Phil do with comedies, and I didn't want my work to seem like a let-down after their work.

Well, luck was with me, as 'No Children' (1929) was a wonderful film that got a big audience reaction. It took awhile for me to find the melody, but once that happened, I kept up with the film and things seemed to hold together. After that, I sat back in astonishment as Andrew and Phil tackled short comedies starring Hank Mann, Stan Laurel, and Ford Sterling, the latter of which made extensive use of an electric chair. I continue to be amazed at what these guys can do on the fly to bring these films to life: Andrew's jazzed-up treatment of "La Marseillaise" for Stan Laurel's attempts to sell a book on Napoleon, and Phil crashing all over the keyboard during the frantic Sterling film.

I later asked Phil about his approach, and he told me something very illuminating. When accompanying a film, he doesn't play the piano. Rather, he's imagining the varied timbres of the entire orchestra, conjuring them up through the keyboard. And hearing him play, that really was true: you could hear a shrill E flat clarinet line climbing out of the dense harmonies, followed sudden string tremolos, then the crash of percussion in abrupt bass discords. It made me think of how Liszt did the same thing in transcribing the Beethoven symphonies — evoking the whole orchestra through the keyboard. It's a level of musicianship that I don't think I could ever hope to reach, but knowing that will help me do more with my own attempts, I think.

Phil is the nicest person you could imagine, but he has very definite opinions about certain things, and does not hesitate to share them. Don't get him started on Charles Ives, for instance, whom Carli immediately branded a "complete charlatan" in conversation with Andrew. (Phil went on to say he despised the music of Copland, Bernstein, and basically all 20th century American composers, and that the best U.S. composer was George Whitefield Chadwick.) But somehow, I found this refreshing, harking back to a time when people could have opinions and completely disagree but still be agreeable, which Phil always was.

If 'No Children' went well, then the Clara Bow feature 'Get Your Man' (1927) was a romp. Started strong with a bluesy-Gershwiny thing I sometimes pull out, and all seemed to go smoothly after that, even with an in-progress restoration print that had something like 200 splices in it. Most interesting for me was a six-minute sequence of titles inserted in place of two missing reels — for some reason, I could do music for these that seemed to really click, and it all came across very effectively, I thought.

In doing music for 'Get Your Man,' two other old themes bubbled up: a "love" theme created for 'The Mask of Zorro' (1920) that was a nice contrast to the bouncy Gershwinish main theme, and also a minuet that was originally a tune I found myself singing to my dogs. Thankfully, none of the splices let go, and I felt the whole score really held together and supported the picture effectively. Afterwards, I received many kind comments from people, including noted film preservationist David Shepard, who was in attendance.

Alas, things went a little less smoothly for Andrew in 'Mr. Fix-It' (1918), a fun early comedy from Douglas Fairbanks. Andrew was doing a great job with the music, but the film broke during a reel change, causing the screen to go dark. Andrew was in the middle of a busy passage at the time, and he just kept playing, even when the house lights came up. With no sense of how long the interlude would be, Andrew kept up the energy, and then started notching it up little by little, until finally the audience began applauding. Andrew then switched to something lighter, but augmented it with some "shooting the keyboard" moves in fine Chico Marx style. It was a superb example of how to fill time!

Weird: At one point during 'Mr. Fix-It,' I felt a tingling on my wrist. "This film is really affecting me," I thought, briefly scratching the spot. But then it happened again, and again. Whatever. However, after the lights came up, I found I had been sitting where someone had spilled a soda, and little red ants were swarming at my feet! Yeesh! Ah, the glamorous life of silent film accompaniment.

And then it was lunchtime, so I wandered around the theater to take some pictures. Here's the projection booth, with the twin Century machines already loaded with the opening afternoon feature, 'Hail the Woman' (1920).

And here's a shot of the theater's vintage lobby:

I then go check on Phil, who had gone back to his car to get some rest. Finding him resting comfortably in the passenger seat with a blindfold on, I moseyed down the street to explore not one but two local bookstores, making this part of Syracuse a good candidate for the land that time forgot.

In one, I found a couple of older paperback Vonneguts that I scooped up for my collection, and had a long chat with Cinfest regular Rick Scheckman, who's on the staff of "Late Show With David Letterman" and a real knowledgeable film guy. In another, I found a pile of interesting railroad publications, including a copy of "36 Miles of Trouble," a book about the West River Railroad, a long-gone shortline that linked the Vermont communities of Brattleboro and Londonderry. I bought it for Phil, a railroad buff, thinking he might enjoy it.

I missed the afternoon's films as I had mid-term exams to read and wanted to get in my New York State run, too. (Ended up doing 8.3 miles.) After the others came back, I joined Phil and his family and Andrew and Rob Stone for dinner at The Mission, a terrific Tex-Mex restaurant housed in an ex-church in downtown Syracuse. Hey, what better way to spend St. Patrick's Day?

And that was it for film accompaniment, or so I thought. That evening, Andrew was to do the only silent: the recent color restoration of 'A Trip To The Moon' (1903), with David Shepard narrating. (I suggested using the synthesizer to add some weirdness to the moon scenes, but Andrew wisely demurred due to lack of rehearsal.) Below, here's a picture of Andrew prior to 'A Trip To The Moon' as he might have been rendered by one of the French Impressionists of the period.

But afterwards, a reel of recently recovered Clara Bow silent material was screening, and I wound up at the keyboard in what turned into a disjointed scramble to keep up with the rapidly shifting images. Well, you do the best you can and hope it helped people enjoy the clips.

And that was it. I fell asleep in my room after that, missing out on any Saturday night fun in the Hospitality Room on the 6th floor. Oh well! The next morning was higlighted by breakfast with Andrew and Rob at Carl's Kountry Kitchen, a place that looked like it hadn't been altered since Lyndon B. Johnson was in the White House.


I liked everything about it, especially this curious message:

Friday, March 16: Cinefest, Day 2

• Played for two features today. In the afternoon, I found 'Partners Three' (1918), a sorta-Western drama starring Enid Bennett, a tough film to do effective music for. One issue was the condition of the print: missing the main titles, and many of the intertitles were "flash" versions (single-frame placeholders) that either went by too quickly to read or were so degraded as to be illegible. Also, the story was hard for me to follow, which made for some tentative passages, and also led to moments where I'd commit to something only to find I was going in the wrong direction and have to switch course.

• Equally disjointed, it seemed to me, was the one surviving reel from 'Tillie's Tomato Surprise' (1915), a six-reel follow-up to the more well-known 'Tillie's Punctured Romance' (1914). I couldn't make any sense of this film as it unreeled - first there's a man in a kilt operating a meat grinder that produced live dogs, then a guy is flying through the air, and then who knows what? Not sure how much work should be done to uncover the rest of this film.

• An evening screening of 'The Dark Mirror' (1920), a surrealistic crime drama about a woman whose sense of reality becomes blurred by her dreams, was much more satisfying in terms of music. I had a few melodies ready for this and it all seemed to hold together. Good complete print, easy to watch and follow. Preceded by 'Food and Growth,' a strange silent educational film about rats.

• Fellow accompanists Phil Carli and Andrew Simpson tackled a bouquet of short slapstick comedies this afternoon, and I continue to be in awe of what they can do with this kind of film. Andrew comes up with bouncy stuff with spiky harmonies and has a gift for finding ways to punctuate big moments without breaking stride. And Phil is just phenomenal at underscoring comedy with music that just roars out of the keyboard at times. What a treat to be able to be in their presence, and an inspiration as well.

• I had a nice conversation in the hall today with David Shepard, the noted film restoration expert who once ran Blackhawk Films in Iowa. As a teenager in the late 1970s, this is the company that got all my pocket money in exchange for 8mm versions of classic silent films, which I'd run again and again. Ah, memories of a misspent youth. Well, not entirely misspent -- for example, I can give you a scene-by-scene description of 'Cops' (1922), 'One Week' (1920), and probably all the other Buster Keaton short comedies.

• I wouldn't take this as a comment on the vintage film community, but it's interesting that also booked into the conference center this weekend is the local "near-death experience" society.

• Personal notes: Ate breakfast this morning at the No Name Diner. It's called that because the restaurant wants to be known for its food, not its name. All patrons are entered into a raffle for $25; I'll make an announcement if I'm this week's lucky winner. Came back to hotel to get some work done, but realized I needed more sleep and so missed Phil's morning performance. Had dinner at Heid's, a roadside hot dog restaurant: a "sea dog" washed down with ginger beer.

On the road to Cinefest in Syracuse, N.Y.

I'll be in Syracuse, N.Y. from Wednesday, March 14 through Sunday, March 18 as one of the musicians at this year's Cinefest. This is one of the big annual gatherings of vintage film buffs in the U.S., and I'm thrilled to be helping out. To any new friends, welcome to this running journal of adventures in silent film accompaniment!

Our first task comes Wednesday night, when the three accompanists gather with organizer Joe Yranski and decide who gets to do which film over the next four days. (Above: a scene from 'Hail the Woman' (1921), a melodrama on this year's program.)

Accompanists this year include veteran Phil Carli, whose work I find just phenomenal and who inspired me to start doing this, and Andrew Simpson, a very accomplished musician and composer from the Washington, D.C. area with a lot of silent film work to his credit.

Frankly, I'm amazed to be on the same program with talent of this caliber. I can only assume I was invited to serve as a "control factor" in some kind of experiment I'll learn about only later. "Hey, here's a study where they deliberately put a mediocre musician in among pros to see how listeners would respond." Or maybe they've worked out a promotional deal with a local grocer for low-priced vegetables, and want to ensure there's something to throw them at.

Seriously, I'm grateful to Joe Yranski, Ben Model, and other folks who've made this appearance possible. A public thanks to all!

Cinefest focuses on rare silents or early talkies that aren't generally available. In fact, many of the titles weren't announced until just last week, and the schedule is always subject to change. As for silents, this year's four-day program includes 12 features and a bevy of shorts, too, and yes, I've never seen any of them!

(If you're interested, here's the schedule; the festival is online at www.syracusecinefest.com.)

So in terms of music, that means creating a score on the fly, which is always an interesting challenge. Sometimes things fall together surprisingly well; other times, not so much. As they say when you go car-shopping, mileage my vary.

How do we decide who gets to tackle which film? From what Joe outlined, we simply take turns claiming titles until they're all spoken for. I wonder if it'll devolve into a silent film version of "Let's Make a Deal?" I'll give you a couple of Mack Sennett two-reelers in exchange for the Tom Mix feature... As a native New Hampshirite, I find myself drawn to 'Hail the Woman' (1921), which, according to Joe Yranski's notes, features "a bigoted New England farmer," a character type I feel qualified to conjure through music. But we'll see.

I'll report on things as I'm able. If you're at Cinefest, please say hello!

Update from Cinefest: Well, I'm here and it's Wednesday night. We've divided up the films and the features I'm playing are:

- Thursday, March 15, 9:55 a.m.: 'Bell Boy 13' (1923)
- Friday, March 16, 10:05 p.m.: 'The Dark Mirror' (1920)
- Saturday, March 17, sometime during 35mm show: 'Get Your Man' (1927)

Hey! That's only three. Somehow fellow accompanist Andrew Simpson wound up with five features instead of the four apiece. So I'll have to see what he'd like to do about this tomorrow...

Completing a busy stretch of accompaniment

This past Sunday's screening of 'Sunrise' (1927) in Wilton, N.H. marked the completion of a fairly intense six weeks of silent film accompaniment. Starting with 'Metropolis' (1927) on New Year's Eve in Concord, N.H., I did 14 separate shows at venues that ranged from smalltown theatres to a sci-fi/fantasy convention in Boston, with an educational farm in New York State mixed in for good measure.

For a complete round-up, check out the 'Info on Past Screenings' page on this blog. The numbers don't add up, by the way, because the public list doesn't include two Friday morning screenings I did for a film class at Southern New Hampshire University. Silent film at 9:30 a.m.!

One reason I booked so many screenings during this time was that I'm hoping it helps me get ready for two high-profile public accompaniment gigs that are well beyond my usual orbit. The last weekend of February sees me at the Kansas Silent Film Festival, where I'll do music for Harry Langdon's 'Tramp Tramp Tramp' (1926) and some short films. And then mid-March finds me as one of a trio of accompanists at Cinefest, the large vintage film confab held each year in Syracuse, N.Y.

This last one is a bit daunting because my colleagues are two extremely capable musicians whom I consider absolutely tops in the field of silent film accompaniment: Phil Carli and Andrew Simpson. I've long admired Carli's work, which I've heard live and on many recorded scores. I'm less familiar with Simpson's music, but what I've heard has been top-notch. Still, they both hold doctorates in music and have long lists of accomplishments to their credit.

And then there's me. How do I get into these things? But still, I'm eager to go and contribute what I can, and benefit from the experience. And one way to prepare for this is what I did during the past six weeks: just play a lot of live shows and get the momentum going so there's something to work with when the big gigs arrive.

I find that it really helps. The last couple of screenings produced what I thought were splendid scores with minimal preparation. A double feature of 'The Sheik' (1921) and 'Son of the Sheik' (1926) on Thursday, Feb. 9 in Plymouth, N.H. fell together amazingly well, and 'Sunrise' (1927) on Sunday, Feb. 12 in Wilton, N.H. was a very satisfying effort. (For that one, I even managed to use my grandmother's old brass school bell to lend atmosphere for Murnau's shots of the village in sihouette.)

All of this was prompted, of course, by Valentine's Day, which is tomorrow (Tuesday, Feb. 14) as I write this. Last week's Valentino program at the Flying Monkey Moviehouse up in Plymouth drew about 35 people—not a bad figure, at least when compared to the grand total of five (five!) people who attended the January screening of 'The Birth of a Nation' at the same venue.

I had previewed 'The Sheik' that afternoon but did not prepare any special thematic material, just to see how I did playing the film 'cold.' Right off the bat, I thought I managed to set the atmosphere perfectly with a modal melody played in one of my synthesizer's 'World Music' settings, and things stayed solid from then on. With each change of scene, I shifted between World Music, Traditional Orchestra, and Strings, and each time I hit it right on the money. Created some pretty good stuff in the strings, I thought, when things begin to get hot and heavy between Valentino and Agnes Ayres—one sustained dissonance after another underneath climbing scales all based on the modal melody I started with.

I was less prepared for 'Son of the Shiek' but it still came out very well, I thought. (That's a goofy picture of me at the Flying Monkey, by the way, just to show how I don't prepare my personal appearance, either.) Most miraculously, I came up with a "running figure" for the first scenes of Valentino riding his horse, and this little figure proved to be extremely versatile, gradually becoming the heart of the score. And though as a matter of pride I try to create new material for the second picture of any double feature, because this sequel featured Valentino playing his father (the Sheik in the first film), I could justify reuse of the "sheik" theme from the first movie.

'Son' is a bit harder to score effectively, I think, because it's a richer and more confident film, with more humor embedded in it, and far less mannered than the original. But I stayed with it and tried to keep it all going throughout the program, which amounts to more than 2½ hours of film (and music) without a break.

I prefer no intermission not because I'm a sadist, but because I believe that the best silent film casts a spell, and once that spell is broken (by an intermission), it takes time to recover. So I generally like to play right through any program without a break. In terms of endurance, the Valentino double feature felt like 'The Birth of a Nation' with sand, but actually the time seems to fly. Once I'm 'in the zone' and absorbed in responding to a film musically, time ceases to exist.

This approach does have its drawbacks. Prior to 'The Birth of a Nation' in January, I had drunk maybe a half-dozen cups of tea in an unheated Chinese restaurant (ah, the glamour of New Hampshire in mid-January), and then found myself in, er, extreme discomfort starting about a half-hour into the show. (I remember thinking to myself, "Cripes, the Civil War hasn't even started yet!") So for me, 'The Birth of a Nation' was uncomfortable to watch, but not for the usual reasons.

For the Valentino double feature, I learned my lesson: fluids to a minimum, and visit the men's room just prior. And because we're comparing 'Birth,' let me point out that 'The Sheik' is full of blatant racism that's no less embarrassing than anything D.W. Griffith put before a movie cameras. In 'The Sheik,' not only are "Arabs" portrayed as uncivilized and uneducated savages (oh, but they're happy savages), but the film's love story is resolved only at the end, when Agnes Ayres observes that Valentino has "small hands for a Arab," which prompted the revelation (from Adolph Menjou, of all people)that the Sheik is actually the son of English and Spanish nobility. Oh, such joy in Western Civilization Land! Our audience couldn't help but laugh at this, and I didn't blame them.

'Sunrise' is a film I've wanted to do for a long time, but wanted to wait until I felt I had the technique and equipment and skill to do it justice. So putting it at the end of this run of screenings was kind of like my "final exam" prior to the gigs in Topeka and Syracuse. I'm proud to say that I was very satisfied with how it came out—I felt the music brought out the drama in the film, helped punctuate the big moments, but didn't get in the way. We had about 100 people on hand, and afterwards more than one gave me the ultimate compliment: that the music matched the movie so well that they forgot it was being created live. Nice!

I guess I need to find a way to easily post sound files to this site, as I would love to share the thematic material I used for 'Sunrise.' It was a very symphonic score, if I do say so, with no filled-out tunes but instead a collection of cells that all proved versatile in bringing director Murnau's visions to life for an audience in 2012. There was one especially important meldodic scrap that sounded quite insubstantial at first, but later morphed quite on its own into something menacing and heart-breaking at the same time, and was immensely useful in keeping the emotional tempo of the film going along with Murnau's at-times incredible visions.

Speaking of which: I would love to visit the city portrayed by the City Woman near the start of the film, where dance bands come equipped with a half-dozen Sousaphones all swaying in unison. What is it with Murnau and horn bells? Remember the trumpet in 'The Last Laugh' (1924)? Also, there's defintely a thing in 'Sunrise' for windows: the opening glass train shed, the windows into the dance hall, and so on.

Back to the music: the only actual "tune" in the score was a Peasant Dance that George O'Brien and Janet Gaynor do near the end of the city scenes. This tune, which keeps going through my head this morning, just came to me the morning of the show, and is related to the jingle for "Sunbeam Bread" that I had been hearing on the radio all week long prior to this. Funny how things evolve and cross-pollinate.

One thing I find interesting about 'Sunrise' was how Murnau made it seem timeless. There are very few references to contemporary culture or specific locations. The city is simply a city. The country is simply the country. Is it in Europe? America? Shangri-la? There's a lake and a row boat, and a wedding in a church—simple and basic things that we still accept today as part of the landscape around us. I think that helps lend the film a universal quality that still comes through today, even though clearly many things have changed (barbershops, photographers) in the 85 years since this picture played in theaters.

Probably the funniest reaction was from a colleague of mine, who mistook Murnau's universal urban setting as some kind of science fiction conceit, which prompted this response: "What kind of city of the future has a carnival in which you heave things to make piglets go down a slide?"

Okay, so now it's time to focus on 'Tramp Tramp Tramp' and get ready for Syracuse after that. Better get out the Hanon technical exercises...