News about pieces I’ve written and/or released.

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After last year’s Christmas post, one could be forgiven for responding to this news with a bit of (good-natured, I’d hope) ribbing, but:

I’ve just written a new Christmas song.

The world, you see, is full of un-beautiful stuff right now.  And while I do still firmly believe that the contemporary American approach to Christmas is largely a manifestation of—if not even a source of—that stuff, I also think that the heart of the Christmas story points us toward truths that are beautiful—that that story can serve as an antitoxin, if you will, for what is poisoning our society today.

Sometimes I just need reminders to practice seeking beauty in unexpected places, I guess.  So here’s my latest attempt.  Take it to heart, if you like.  (And if you really love it, you can purchase print music for this piece.)

“The Kind of Christmas”

A quiet time with ones you love,
without a thought for what’s beneath the tree….
It’s dark outside. The earth is cold.
But in this house, you’re safe with family.
Around the room you see all your favorite faces,
though they don’t all resemble your own.
And in the still of this silent night,
you know for more than sure you’re not alone.

Bundled up in mismatched clothes,
and singing songs whose words you don’t quite know….
Nothing here is perfect, but
there’s no place else on earth you’d rather go.
The fairy tales about angels, kings, and shepherds
fill those younger than you with delight.
And somehow the tale of that little town
works magic on your jaded heart tonight.

Immanuel: Even here, even now, you’re not alone.
Not a place, but a presence, makes this home.
And though sometimes you forget,
Immanuel: Something greater than the lies you’ve heard is true.
You have a home no matter what you do.
And you know it, too.
That’s the kind of Christmas I wish for you.

You share a glance, a bashful smile,
and yesterday’s regrets dissolve away.
Wounded pride and hurtful words,
they matter less than family today.
You start to see the full value of forgiveness,
and you promise to do, or to try.
And with those words, you find, in the bleak midwinter,
that the stars all shine brighter in the sky.

Immanuel: Even here, even now, you’re not alone.
Not a place, but a presence, makes this home.
And though sometimes you forget,
Immanuel: Something greater than the lies you’ve told is true.
You have a home no matter what you do.
And you know it, too.
That’s the kind of Christmas—
a holy kind of Christmas—
that’s the kind of Christmas I wish for you.

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Like father, like son. But not really.

Sometimes someone crosses your path and you connect for reasons you can’t explain.  So… there’s this guy.  Gabe.  I’ll write more about him someday, I’m sure, but now isn’t the time.  (We have a class to prepare for.)

For today, on his 16th birthday, here’s our relationship boiled down into one 6-minute song.  Happy birthday, Gabe.  For what it’s worth, I consider you to be the son I never knew I wanted.

(And here’s a YouTube video of me performing the piece with some of Gabe’s friends at my 2017 Spring Studio Showcase.)

“More”

Out of nowhere you sat down beside me:
shoulder to shoulder, and somehow heart to heart.
I didn’t know what I had found in you when you found me—
only that moment was only a start.

Over coffee and under a deadline,
saving a grade and building a rapport,
moment by moment, learning how wrong I was to never want a son,
finding that now I just want more:

I want more days of laughter, more nights of hearts opened wide.
I want more miles of driving with you there along for the ride.
More chances to fail, more honest “I’m sorry”s,
More “you made my day” kind of smiles.
If a father could ever have chosen a son,
I’d have taken a pass until you came along.
The “how did we get here” and “what happens now” is unsure.
But with each day that passes with you in my life,
I’m just grateful I’ve gotten to know you more.

Sharing secrets and trading tough questions—
how to be human, how to be men—
mentor and mentored, each of us taking turns to teach and learn,
an odd kind of family, the best kind of friends.

I still want more days of laughter, more nights of hearts opened wide.
I want more miles of driving with you there along for the ride.
More chances to fail, more honest “I’m sorry”s,
More “man, I missed you” kind of smiles.
Any day that I see you’s a beautiful day,
and “I’ll see you tomorrow”’s the best thing you say.
The “how did we get here” and “what happens now” is unsure.
But with each day that passes with you in my life,
I’m just grateful I’ve gotten to know you more.

I want more days of laughter, more nights of hearts opened wide.
I want more miles of driving with me just along for the ride.
More chances to fail, more honest “I’m sorry”s,
More “can’t find the words” kind of smiles.
I promise, there’s one thing you can be sure of:
your life will know many who offer you love,
and someday you’ll find one you’d give up your whole life for.
Other loves will feel deeper, or newer, or stronger.
There are already those who have loved you much longer,
But nobody ever, as long as I live, I promise you this, will love you more.

©2017 David M. Glasgow (ASCAP)

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One of the “fun” (heh) things about being a solo entrepreneur is that one has only one’s own mistakes to learn from.  Happily, it also means that along the learning curve you get to develop really wonderful relationships with the folks who have supported your business.

RtD BookOn Thursday I got a very pleasant email from the interim senior minister at First Unitarian Universalist Church of Columbus, sharing the wonderful news that their two choirs would like to share my solstice cantata, Remember the Dark, in their worship services on January 29.  Her staff was concerned, though, that for a congregation of their size the cost might be prohibitive.

(This is what happens when I base my pricing structure on congregations the size of my beloved little UUCV: the kind of numbers that make sure my expenses are met for a small order suddenly seem unwieldy and unreasonable for larger groups.)

So I appreciated the gentleness of the email, and after a little bit of Dashboard finagling, I was delighted to be able to respond with a new volume discount pricing structure for Remember the Dark.  The Columbus choirs—and now, anyone—can order larger quantities of RtD scripts at up to a 60% discount.  Just place the order through my Shop page, and the discount should automatically apply: 20 or more copies are only $3.00 each, and 50 or more copies are only $2.00 each!

I’ll be reviewing my catalog over the next several weeks to evaluate the pricing of my choral inventory, but if you have a particular request please follow Rev. Jennifer’s lead and contact me.  It’s all about the relationships!

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shot_1411036245972Once a year or so, Rev. Aija lets me take the reins (and the pulpit) for what we call “Music Sunday”—a worship experience that’s all about music, except when it’s not.  Coming up with a theme for Music Sunday is always pretty easy—there’s always a song I’ve wanted to find an excuse for the choir to sing, or a topic I’ve wanted to write a song about, or a story I’ve wanted to tell.  Except for this year.

This year, as America’s democracy seems to have devolved into a battle of mudslinging and “who’s evil-er than whom,” and as ever-improving and ever more ubiquitous technology makes it harder for injustice to disguise itself as rumor or hyperbole, I find myself feeling inadequate.  There is too much wrong with the world for one little sermon or one new choir anthem to fix it.

My prayer habits are quite a bit different now than they used to be, but my spirituality is still one of stubbornly second-person theology: I no longer even pretend to understand fully who or what God really is, but I know it’s not me.  So after struggling for too long to find the right focus for Music Sunday, I threw my hands up and asked the Universe for a hint—and silence was the response.  Not silence-the-absence-of-response silence.  Silence-the-potent-beginnings-of-all-that-is silence.

It started with a Facebook post from a friend of mine:

snap

One line in particular caught my eye, because I hear it a lot from people of color when they express frustration with the “shallow understanding from people of good will” that so often describes the reaction that I and other white allies fumble to manage as we work for justice.  “Have a seat and study some more.”

In other words, shut up and listen.  There are important things to be said, and you need to hear them.

So this Sunday at UUCV we’ll be seeking silence.  Talking about silence.  And singing about silence.  And most importantly, spending more time in silence than nearly any of us are comfortable with, because growth is hardly ever comfortable.

We’ll also be hearing some breathtakingly gorgeous music, of course.  You know I love to show off my little choir, and they are working magic with the Mark Hayes arrangement of “The Sound of Silence”—last night’s rehearsal left me with goosebumps.  Adding Dani and Marc, who will be backing us up on Sunday on drums and bass, will just take things to a whole new level.

We’ll also be premiering a new choral piece I wrote for the occasion, called “Sing It.”  The lyrics follow; I do hope you’ll join us on Sunday at 10:30 AM to hear the choir give it wings—and I hope it moves you to the right kind of silence.

Sermon audio

Choir video

“Sing It”

words & music ©2016 David M. Glasgow

In the silence,
without noise, without words to save the day,
I can hear me, but I’m not sure what to say.
Rage against?  Stand behind?
Play it safe?  Play the hero?
Do I ever say a word that starts inside?
Now I finally have the chance, and I hide.

Then I hear it—
though at first I’m afraid I’m not alone—
soft and clear, it speaks a truth I recognize as my own.
And it speaks, without words, of a strength here within me
that could change the world if only I would try.
So I slowly close my eyes, and breathing deep,

I sing it soft and low and gentle
like the breeze that runs its fingers through my hair.
I sing it deep and true and wordless,
like the beating of a heart that’s always there.
I sing it silently within, and let the music work its magic
in the veins that carry life to every corner of my soul.
When I finally claim the silence,
I sing it gentle.

Eyes are open,
and at last I can see I’m not alone.
You’ve been singing too,
and your spirit harmonizes with my own.
And we sing, and our hearts gather strength here among us
that can change the world if only we will try.
And when we know we’re not alone,

we sing it loud!  We sing it strong!
We sing it boldly from the mountaintop,
and bravely at the coffee shop,
and lovingly to everyone we meet!
Love is born in silence,
but for love to survive,
we must sing it loud!

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Every now and then an artist creates something that, whether it’s benevolent muses or subconscious connection to the hive mind or just dumb luck, feels “just right” for its moment in time.  “Here Together” has been one of those “somethings” for me—I wrote the first refrain several years ago just so I could have something no one would already know, but that would be easy to teach to a workshop crowd.  Now we sing it just about every time we gather at UUCV; young kids who can’t yet read know the words and sing along with heart-filling gusto.  And for special occasions, I developed the short refrain into a full anthem—that’s the version I had the privilege of singing with the amazing Allison Mickelson and friends at Middle Collegiate Church in NYC.

fahs-htThis spring, someone thought that little phrase—”here together”—would make a great title for a study on multi-generational worship.  The Sophia Fahs Collaborative agreed.  And now my little song—as performed by members and friends of the UUCV choir—is the theme song for an entire online curriculum.

Click through to view the overview of this wonderful series, or to subscribe to the whole program.  (It’s free, so you really have nothing to lose by exploring!)