Bottom-End, Writings and Reviews from Music Producer Pete Strobl

What a great day I had today! Sadly, it was my last day in Salzburg. The Mozarteum workshop was fantastic and the ConFused5 cd release party was a most memorable night. So What destroyed the dressing room, drank all the beer and played their young asses off, Gisel de Marco proved beyond any shadow of a doubt that she’s got the goods and more, and ConFused5 treated the crowd to a polished concert version of their new album, Out Of Confusion.

So, back to my great day, Since it was my last day, I decided to walk from my room to the railroad station, normally a healthy 30 minutes. At minute 10 the mist had become a tolerable drizzle and the last 200 meters the sky opened with a personal vengeance. I know the vengeance part is true because it stopped raining moments after I reached the shelter of the station.

As it happened, the rain had increased my pace to the point that I was able to take an earlier train. My computer battery had gone dead just as I was checking into my flight from Vienna so this would get me to the airport in plenty of time to secure a seat in the exit aisle. Things were looking good.

When I hoisted my luggage onto the belt for check in, the representative handed me back my passport, smiled her sweet Viennese smile and told me that I had missed my flight by anywhere from 4 to 8 hours depending on the exchange rate at the moment! Damn it! With the damnable 24 hour clock they use over here I had misread my itinerary! No big surprise since Markus from C5 and I had been sorting out the world’s problems over beer til at least 47 o’clock the night before. This is the only place I know where you can ask someone the time and still have no clue without taking off your shoes to count out the hours.

And so, here I am, stranded in Vienna, not “in” Vienna but at the airport…the difference is eloquent. As I don’t fly until morning, I’ll listen to some music and try to think happy thoughts.

Speaking of happy thoughts, a quick look at the top ten artists on the Sellaband roster could mislead one to think that the label has become some sort of dating service. Of the ten, eight are females or feature females in their band. But to dispel any false impressions, these artists are in the top ten because they belong there.

The latest to break page one is Polish-American singer/songwriter Natalia Safran. While Natalia’s Carly Simon smile has surely drawn attention to her Sellaband profile, her songwriting and sultry delivery are what will ultimately define her success as an artist.

Natalia has surrounded herself with very capable musicians who have learned the art of accompaniment. The tracks display a mature and empathetic level of musicianship in that, even though the instruments are masterfully played, the intent to focus attention on the vocal is accomplished very naturally. The tracks are custom fitted to Natalia’s strength which is to deliver lyrics in a melodic, chant-like manner that makes listening to her a personal experience. Her soothing voice is free of pretense and the combination of urgency and innocence are charming.

While vagueness is not necessarily something to seek in writing prose, it can be the characteristic which sets a song apart for many listeners. A song isn’t complete until the final element of the equation, the listener, has heard and accepted the intent of the artist. When a song has mystery, when the listener is free to dress the characters of a story as he sees them, the artist has done much more than just perform a song. The singer has collaborated with each listener on a very individual basis and has let them decide how the story should play out.

Every successful artist has something special which sets them apart…let’s call it the X-factor for want of a better term. The ability to pull the listener into her stories is what sets Natalia apart and in context of her material, bombastic vocal pyrotechnics have high value by their absence. I would be curious to know what Natalia could do if she really put her foot to the floor but then again, that doesn’t seem to have anything at all to do with her music. I find myself wanting more from Natalia. And I say that this is a good thing because, as a listener, when you find yourself wanting less, you simply move on to another track, another song, another artist.

Natalia is touring Europe at the moment, but a listen on her profile page is well worth a click or two. It will indeed be interesting to watch the progress of what has become the Race of the Divas on Sellaband’s page one. One thing you can count on, there will be no losers. And thanks to Natalia for making my one day “vacation” at the Vienna airport much more than bearable.

It was the summer of 1968. My parents, having seen “The Sound of Music,” had saved for the better part of a year in order to alleviate their homesickness and make the journey back to Salzburg to visit my grandparents for the summer. It was a summer of milestones for all of us. My father had only flown in an aircraft once before and for my mother the 14 hour journey would be her first experience away from terra firma. The trip would ultimately prove to be the last time my father would see his parents alive. We had also hoped to visit with my great-grandmother, known to me as “Wolfgang Omi” and my god-father, Ludwig. Sadly, they had passed within days of our departure and our visit was limited to planting fuscias on their new graves.

For me, the summer was a time of discovery. I was 15 years old, about 6′5” and looked at least 20 so there was nothing off limits. After a cup of my grandmother’s coffee, my first discovery of the summer and the beginning of a life-long addiction to the sort of coffee that turns spoons into forks, I would head out into the city on foot. I was alone and could do as I liked, go where it pleased me to and linger over whatever caught my interest. I became particularly enamored of the Mirabell Garden. The idea that this formal baroque garden, with its fountains, statuary and manicured flower beds was once someone’s back yard impressed me. So regardless of where my fact-finding mission of the day took me, a portion of the afternoon was spent sitting on a bench fantasizing that this was mine and those enjoying the garden were there by the grace of my benevolent nature. My usual perch turned out to be just under the open windows of the Mozarteum and the sounds of practicing singers and musicians pouring out into the garden air became the “first hit” of the second addiction I acquired that summer.

Up to that time I had been sitting on the fence between being a basketball star and becoming a world-famous musician. I was fifteen and had that curious combination of confidence and inherent laziness that marks that age. Sitting in the garden I decided that music had to be an easier way to get girls than sweating in a gym and my fate was sealed. I decided to study at the Mozarteum. The last thing that occurred to me as I made up my mind was that I would have to actually learn something. Sitting in my personal garden I was convinced that the music world was waiting to strew my path with flower petals.

Flash forward and thirty years of reality have not dimmed my ambition of entering the Mozarteum. This spring I produced the “Out Of Confusion” album for the Salzburg band, ConFused5. Herbert Hopfgartner is a multi instrumentalist, composer and one of the two talented lead singers in the group. During the recording of the album we discovered that we had a lot in common and subsequently, Herbert’s wife Regina Hopfgartner, a teacher of vocal pedagogy at the Mozarteum, asked if I would have interest in teaching a workshop for singers at the school. I played hard to get for a nano-second and accepted the invitation on any terms and at all cost. We decided that it would be a workshop aimed at singing students with a classical background and training but who wanted to sing pop and rock material. As Herbert is more adept at interpreting these styles than the average school accompanist, he graciously offered to lend his fingers to the project.

The workshop was attended by a wide variety of students and a few faculty members as well. As I scanned the room I saw that the teachers were all in the back row and imagined they might have been thinking, “Okay hotshot, show us something we don’t already know!” I could not have been more wrong. After a short introduction, I brought the first victim to the front of the room.

My chief aim for the workshop was to prove the value of keeping an open mind, When I went to school, and what eventually drove me to leave the academic environment behind, was the close-minded attitude of my teachers and the manner in which they used their authority to foster the same prejudicial tastes in their students. I respect teachers for their learning and for the work that they do. But I have a great deal more respect for students because of the work they have yet to do. Teachers are already plying their trade, they have made their choices and are living their lives accordingly. But students are a blank page waiting for the words to be written. “What shall I do?” and “How shall I proceed?” are questions yet to be asked intelligently.

And so, given my rebellious nature, I had no qualms about instructing the students on more than one occasion to forget everything they have learned in school, if only for the next few hours. The reaction from the faculty members was not at all what I expected. The questions they asked and their welcoming attitude toward me demonstrated a willingness to learn something new and a genuine effort to give their students a different viewpoint and perhaps some tools they didn’t know were in the toolbox.

The most common impediment we encountered was fear. Most of these singers had excellent voices and good technique. What was missing in their performances was intent. The notes were correct, their diction and enunciation were, with a few adjustments, acceptable. But when attempting to sing anything contemporary they delivered data and not music. Years of learning technical exercises don’t yield an end product. They are meant to teach the body to respond in the most natural way to what is required. I have yet to see a poster advertising Gabriella Sans-Corazon in a program of vocal exercises. In working with these singers I attempted to take them out of their comfort zone. I asked them to describe what their song means and what they wished to convey to the audience other than “My, what a lovely vibrato, or, Doesn’t she stand with good posture?”

There were some corrections to make in the area of what I call Vocal Architecture. And there was the baritone who was trying to sing a song that had a high ‘G’ and I could see in his eyes that he knew it was coming and he also had a plan ‘B’ which he availed himself of every time. Apparently this singer had not heard of Leonard Warren, the great American baritone who sang the sort of high ‘B’-flat that made tenors look into their trousers to see if the twins were really all they were supposed to be. I asked the young man what his highest note was. He told me ‘E’ was about it. And I observed also that he was very sure about this and that it was based on many hours of training. Yep, ‘E’ was it and then he had to go into his head voice. So I took him to the piano and vocalized him a bit. I went up to ‘F’ sharp and he had no problem at all. But as soon as I told him that he had sung a, ‘F’ sharp he folded again. I explained to him the importance of not caring how the note is named. And if he could sing an ‘F’ sharp freely, then a ‘G’ was nothing to worry about. It’s like being a receiver in football. How many times do we see a tough pass go off of a wide receivers fingertips? But if you can touch the ball, you should also be able to catch the ball with just a fraction more effort. This baritone had told himself that a ‘G’ was too high, and as long as he believes himself, it will be out of his range. No amount of exercising will change that belief. He already has the note, he’s just afraid of disobeying his own instructions and just letting it out.

The two days were heaven for me. And I want to thank the students for their attention, the teachers for their warm welcome, Herbert for putting up with me and providing expert accompaniment and finally, Regina Hopfgartner for making a thirty-year-old dream come true for me…even if I did come through the back door.There isn’t anything I love more than seeing young musicians step out of themselves and be who they really are, not who they think their teachers want them to be. And to freely express themselves without regard for what they think is right and wrong. Because there really isn’t a right or wrong in the arts. There is only “I dig it” and “I dig it not.”

My family immigrated to the United States when I was three years old and the trip took twelve days. My latest trip to Austria took much less time but felt every bit as taxing on the nerves. It started out beautifully. I was able to secure an aisle seat in the exit row and settled down to what I thought would be a nice nap for the twelve hour flight into London’s Heathrow airport. Ah, lucky me, my neighbor was a nervous twit who had never flown across water. Every noise, every vibration was cause for a new panic attack. I found myself constantly having to remove my headphones to respond to her inane questions. So, deprived of a good night’s sleep, I made it my duty to torment the girl. Every time I noticed her start to relax, I grabbed the adjoining armrest and said something like,”Did you hear that?” or, “Did you feel something strange…what was that?” Turnabout is fair play after all. And the loss of my nap cost her at least five years in terms of roasted nerve endings.

The kicker was the speedy lay-over at Heathrow. I had never passed through security and from one terminal to the next with such speed…only to be advised at the next gate that my Vienna flight had been cancelled! I was quickly and cheerfully assigned a seat on the very next flight, but when I asked which gate I should go to, the well-mannered British Airways representative let me know that the gate would be announced one hour before boarding. And so I made it a point to stay awake, and also within sight of the departure monitor. I could have taken the nap I missed on the first flight because I stared at that monitor for a full seven hours before the departure information was posted. I did have a chance to inspect the fine products available in EVERY GODDAMNED SHOP in terminal four…at least five times! I realized that I was being looked at askance, for those unfamiliar with the term, it is the way in which one is viewed when a misdemeanor is thought to be imminent.

I finally landed in Vienna at midnight, local time. As I was meant to land at 17:20 (I know, it looks imposing, but it’s just the European way of making 5:20 look important) I was certain that there would be no-one to meet me. Ah, but all travail is rewarded when one is patient. In the time I was delayed at London, Mike Pobisch, Solidtube’s guitarist and songwriter had, upon being informed of the flight cancellation, left the terminal, done a gig in the center of the city, and returned to collect my tired ass. It turns out that Mike has a great command of English, but I’m certain that I was responsible for helping him add a few choice expletives to his arsenal.

So…twenty-four hours en-route and finally in Vienna. What to do, what to do? Drop off Luggage? Get a much-needed shower? Eat? Sleep? HAH!! In Mike I have found a kindred spirit. We are not men to trifle with such things as food, rest or hygiene. From the airport we went immediately to the Casablanca club located in an area of Vienna known as the Bermuda Triangle and the site of many Solidtube gigs. The place is about the size of three of my shoes and it was fortunate that I was wearing only two, otherwise some of the guests would have been forced out the front door.

As it was, I had the time of my life. Mike was a great host and kept one of my hands filled with a large “bierkrug” while the other was occupied shaking hands. We closed the place and I finally hit the manger as the sun was rising.

What I thought would be a restful first day in Vienna was really a continuation of apparently unfinished celebrations. I met with Mike and Mandana in the early afternoon to begin discussions about the way we will be proceeding with the recordings. In the early evening we stopped in at Replugged, the site of the Vienna Calling show to look the place over and speak with the sound crew. Mike then dropped me off at the Postsporthalle so I could meet my son Pete and his wife Sheryl who had just resumed playing with the Flying Foxes basketball team after having her first child. We had a great family reunion and Mike picked me up at 11;00 PM…I mean 23:00. Did we go home? Hah!

Mike had some friends in the car and minutes later I found myself at a club full of carousers. One thing obviously led to another and before the night was over it was round two at the Casablanca. By this time I had no clue what time it was or what day it was for that matter. And I didn’t care. All I knew was that the clocks here start over after they go past 24:00 and wherever we were, we were back in single digits…and I was having a great time.

Next post I will have visited Wild One Music studio and will also have had the first full band rehearsal. If Mike and Mandana are any indication, I’m sure the rehearsals will be everything I could hope for musically and a ton of fun as well. But for now, forgive me…the sandman is calling, and this time he won’t be denied.

Thursday, January 31, 2008. That’s the day I’ll be landing on the shores of Vienna to begin the process of recording an album with SolidTube, the first Austrian band to reach the $50,000 mark on Sellaband. Okay, so Vienna doesn’t have a “shore” in the strictest sense of the word, but the city does straddle the Blue Danube and that’s good enough for me to stretch the analogy by a few miles. This is the first installment of a series of blog entries which will document the rehearsals for the recording, the “Vienna Calling” concert on February 8th and the sessions which will be held at Wild One Music, a recording studio just outside of the heart of Vienna.

But before I get too far into the SolidTube sessions, I think I should flash back to how all of this came about. It was recently announced that I would also be producing an album for another Sellaband artist. Although ConFused5 will be the second Austrian band to reach the $50,000 mark on Sellaband, the leader of the band, Markus Melms was the first artist to contact me upon joining the site and was instrumental in my involvement with Sellaband in general and these two groups in particular. I would be remiss in proceeding with an account of the impending shenanigans without writing a few words about how Markus’ dedication to the success of his band has fueled the building interest of the Sellaband community in not only SolidTube and ConFused5, but also in two other Viennese bands, Kontrust and Rooga, both of which will be featured on the program February 8th.

This is clearly a case of “be careful what you wish for…it just might happen.” In May of 2007, I was on holiday in Austria and as I strolled through the streets of Vienna, Graz and Salzburg, I found myself daydreaming of the possibility of returning to the country of my birth for an extended time. I knew that there must be a way that I could make some sort of living, but how? All I know how to do is make music and Austria has no shortage of my breed. So I returned home with the fantasy buried deeply in my psyche. I knew nothing about Sellaband and went about my business in Southern California.

It was at this point that my dear friend Lucia Iman began her Sellaband journey. During one of her voice lessons she asked me to accompany her for the Sellaband London Calling concert as her bassist. Well, a gig being a gig, I found myself in the sweatbox that was the Gibson Guitar Studio. To make a long story short, she made a very successful appearance and when we returned to LA I decided to support her quest by buying a part toward her album. I also wrote a few amusing blog entries about the trip and was very surprised to begin receiving messages on my Sellaband profile page from artists I found to be quite interesting. The very first was from someone calling himself “Markus from ConFused5″ and the second came from “Docnik” who turned out to be SolidTube’s manager.

As Markus was writing from my hometown of Salzburg, I was immediately curious to hear about the music scene in the old ‘hood.” When I saw the name Docnik on the second message, I thought at first that this was someone having a chuckle at my A.K.A. “Peatnik” which is a wordplay on the names of my boys, Pete and Nick. Out of curiosity, I responded to both messages and so began two online friendships that are soon to become what we all hope to be fruitful collaborations for all involved.

Both ConFused5 and SolidTube were virtually unknown bands on the Sellaband artist roster six months ago. They were working under the radar of the more prominent bands and being on page one seemed a distant goal. Our dialogs became more than the typical, “Come listen to us and buy some parts” spiel, and it wasn’t long before I knew that both of these bands were very serious about making it on Sellaband, but at a loss as to how they could break out of a country with a population smaller than Los Angeles county. After exchanging ideas and strategies for possible ways to increase exposure on the Sellaband platform, Markus decided to organize what would become a very successful Sellaband event in Salzburg featuring both ConFused5 and Solidtube, and supported by additional Sellaband artists, Lorraine Jones and Pieps. The “Roll Over Austria” concert proved to benefit all the artists who took part. SolidTube’s fans from Vienna, the Salzburg crowd, and the die-hard Sellabanders who made the trip from all over Europe combined to offer the artists international exposure and the prominence of serious contenders in the Sellaband community.

The success of the concert and the ensuing flurry of investment activity inspired these bands to hone their networking and promotional skills. My morning coffee ritual now included looking over the charts to see how many parts had been added to both band’s accounts, and sending congratulatory messages at every milestone. Before long, Markus approached me about the possibility of producing the ConFused5 album when the time came. And, as SolidTube reached top 5 status, Docnik made the same overture. In my Bottom-End reviews of both of these bands, I had said that, with the right production team in place, both were capable of turning out albums that could do very well. Little did I think as I wrote those reviews that I would be involved in these productions.

And now, three days before I get on a plane to Vienna, the realization of my summer daydream is just on the other side of the luggage carousel at Schwechat Airport. Ah, this will be fun! February in Vienna with the glorious voice of Mandana. And then off to Sonic Flow Studio in Salzburg where ConFused5 will record their project. Who says that dreams can’t come true?

Incidentally, I’ll be joining Solidtube onstage as their temporary bass player on the 8th at Replugged in the 7th district of Vienna. If you’re in the neighborhood, stop by and say “Servus.” In the meantime, stay tuned to the Bottom-End for a running account of the sessions. Auf Wiedersehen!

That is a direct quote from Monty Budwig. I had been studying string bass with the veteran west coast bassist for a few months and the lessons had become more like rap sessions on a variety of subjects, some of them musical. On one occasion I walked in on Monty and trumpeter Jack Sheldon debating the financial merits of opening a repair shop for “love toys.” I couldn’t help myself from observing that they both had a few screws loose and the “lesson” degenerated into a discussion concerning the many character flaws integral to the making of most great musicians.

The name of a famous bassist came up and we were unanimous in our opinion that this guy would not be our first choice as a next door neighbor. We agreed however, that this musician could be depended on to light it up when the record button was pushed. To paraphrase Monty, “When you got a roomful of guys making double scale, a producer breathing down your neck and the clock is ticking…gimme an asshole who can play!”

Most of my close friends and acquaintances are either athletes or musicians and I can say with authority that of those who excel in either endeavor, few, if any have both oars in the water at the same time. Their infirmities range from engaging in mild superstitious rituals to experiencing out and out psychotic episodes. Off beat and idiosyncratic behaviors are the order of the day and that which would be considered utterly unacceptable in civilian circles barely raises an eyebrow within the safety of the rehearsal hall or studio.

The fascination the general public holds for artistic individuals is intriguing and paradoxical. We are expected to be different, entertaining, funny, brilliant and maybe a little nuts. And yet when one of our guild fucks up and is caught in compromising circumstances the general public points an accusing finger and claims to have known that this individual was a jerk all along.

There is one generalization made about musicians that couldn’t be more innaccurate and this is the notion that we are lazy. A recent post in the Sellaband forum described most musicians as lazy and characterized them as not having the skill set to deal properly with business. These are two completely unrelated subjects. It is true that in many cases those in the arts are sheep in the fleecing line of the less than reputable music business sheering machine. But that has more to do with artistic preoccupation and focus than it has with laziness. That artistic people are inept to a fault when it comes to the mundane is nothing new. But laziness is not conducive to artistic endeavor and I have yet to meet the accomplished artist who hasn’t invested the time and effort required to excel.

For some reason, civilians think of musicians as organ grinder monkeys who should be ready to perform in the most casual of circumstances in exchange for a handful of peanuts. I was at a holiday party recently and there occurred the obligatory karaoke plague. I had been introduced into my immediate circle as a musician and voice teacher. One of my fellow party-goers was a well dressed professional type and he challenged me rather obnoxiously to sing, “Well c’mon now, you’re a pro. Why don’t you get up there and show us how it’s done.” I asked him what his profession was and upon learning that he was a dentist I suggested that I drop around his office in the morning to see about a loose crown that had been troubling me. I told him that I had spent as many if not more years learning my trade than he had, am really good at what I do and would be interested in singing for him in equal trade for dental work. He walked away muttering something about lazy smart-assed musicians and I don’t think I’ll be able to close the deal. Well, I am, after all, inept at business…but never lazy.

But getting back to the quote, II suppose that the “asshole ratio” among working musicians is on par with the general population. There is however, a big difference in the dynamics of what can be called the “asshole effect” when it comes to cooperation in music in comparison with civilian endeavors. The typical asshole in business is an asshole through and through with no redeeming qualities. This breed is not loathe to sabotage the efforts of co-workers in advancing his personal agenda. The civilian asshole’s…assholitude isn’t dependent upon a degree of excellence or even accomplishment. Assholes in the mundane pursuits exist at every level and can be counted on to rain on the least significant parade.

Assholes among musicians are more made than born. This is because it is decidedly difficult to rise through the ranks as a born asshole unless under effective camouflage. Only after proving himself can the born asshole be true to his nature, and even then he will have all the made assholes to contend with. But here is the big difference…even the biggest asshole will give a producer his best efforts. An asshole in the rhythm section would never say to himself, “Hmm, how can I fuck this up and make everyone look bad.” Assholes who are also shitty musicians don’t last long in the business. Assholes among veteran musicians might be the last choice for a cocktail party, but they didn’t get to be assholes by not bringing the real deal to every gig. Indeed, being the very best at their art only increases the AQ, or Asshole Quotient.

So, when the clock is ticking away the recording budget, you can forget nice guy Johnny who’ll bring coffee and donuts to the studio and get the feel after four or five takes. In the words of the great Monty Budwig, “Gimme an asshole who can play!”

Since the time I first became aware of music, long ago in early childhood, I have had an abiding interest in music history, particularly the lives of the great composers who lived and worked in Vienna. I find it fascinating to look further than the dry biographical texts of my college days and examine more closely the daily experiences that inspired Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms and so many others to the sublime heights of creativity attained in that city during the golden era of the Hapsburg empire. These were, after all, living, breathing musicians with all the passions, weaknesses and quirkiness prevalent in their heirs of today’s music world.

My music history professor at school was an avid disciple of Mozart and we debated many hours over Wofgang’s alleged superiority over my hero, Franz Schubert. I had read every word I could find about my favorite composer, and had an intimate knowledge of his letters, notes to friends, personal diaries and even knew the details of his laundry and shopping lists. I felt that I knew, as well as could be known from a distance of 150 years, enough about Schubert to have a keen appreciation for that which made him the composer he was.

When my grandfather passed away in 1974, I received a package from Salzburg containing various personal effects which my grandmother sent according to his last wishes. At the bottom of the box there was my grandfather’s handwritten journal describing his adventures as a submariner during the first World War. I carefully pulled back the cover to reveal a note in his handwriting that could not have been older than a month. Translated, it said, “My dear grandson Peter, knowing your passion for stories about your favorite composer, Franz Schubert, I am leaving you something very special which has been in our family since his death in 1828. You may know that he passed from this life in the house at nr. 6 Kettenbrückengasse where my own grandfather was employed as a house servant. On these few scraps of paper are written in the maestro’s own hand the facts concerning his absence from Vienna for seven days during the late summer of 1822. You may remember from your studies that Schubert was not a famous man during his short life, and his disappearance was noteworthy only within the small circle of his friends. This cherished momento from the hand of the master I leave to you upon my passing from this life.”

Eureka!! Imagine how my heart jumped as I held in my humble hand that which Franz Schubert had held in his own a short 150 years before. Here, translated for the very first time is the document describing seven lost days in the brief life of the great composer:

Ach, Saturday! Today I will not write music. I feel lazy and I think that the best thing is to go for a long walk in the woods. But better that I take paper in my pocket, the symphony must be finished and maybe I will get some ideas from the songbirds…

(Later that night) What a very strange day it has been. I thought that I had walked every path in these woods, but an hour after I passed the Heuriger (Viennese wine garden) I felt that this was a different forest altogether. I did not see the usual landmarks. Where was Hofstetter’s hunting shack? The giant Castanian tree that fell in last year’s storm was gone. But the sun was still high in the sky and the birds were singing so there was no reason to be worried. I kept wandering in my beloved woods, thinking, always thinking…mein Gott, but the symphony just won’t let itself be finished! But now it is dusk and I am very tired. Tired and hungry. I think I will rest for a moment and then try to find my way home. The moon will be almost full and I will surely find the way.

(Sunday Night) I had the strangest dream…and as I awaken it is again dark! Have I slept under this tree all day? It cannot be. But I am no longer tired and my hunger is gone. Ah, the dream…I heard the most interesting music, primitive but yet very soothing to the spirit. It came from the very depths of the forest, from a place I do not know. I dreamed that I followed the sound as a spaniel follows his nose to the back door of Hirschpichler’s butcher shop. The strange music drew me deeper and deeper into the forest until I saw a house…well, it looked like a house, but it was built very low to the ground. It was made of a strange material, long tube-like pieces tied together. And the roof was made of long yellow grass-like branches. There were no doors or windows, only the holes where such things should be. And as I looked down I noticed that the forest floor was no longer covered with the dark green moss but that I was now walking on clean white sand! But what was this music? There was a guitar playing only simple chords on the second and fourth beat of each measure. And a low drum on the downbeat with some sort of percussion on every off beat. Nothing sophisticated at all, but the repetition was hypnotic and if I wasn’t dreaming, I think that I would have gone to sleep. And go to sleep I surely did because now it is almost morning and the nearly full moon is sinking to the west. Ach, I should have stayed in my room to work on the symphony!

(Sometime Tuesday) The mystery is still a mystery and I am still hopelessly lost but at least I am with friends. Yesterday I was awakened by the same haunting rhythm of this strange new music. I approached the grass covered house and looking in the door, I pulled myself back in terror. Inside there was what appeared to be at least 5 or 6 people, men women and children…but like nothing I had ever seen in Vienna. They were barefoot and dressed in very bright colored clothing. The women had multicolored head coverings and the men…mein Gott, the men had hair and beards nearly to the waist that looked like sheep’s wool. And all of them had skin the color of a Sacher torte! I had never seen beings like this but as I recoiled from the door I felt a hand on my shoulder and a voice, “Ja Mann! Come in and Jam a while mann!” The hand was attached to a giant of a man who’s shining black eyes looked out of a deeply lined brown face. His deep voice asked, “What is your name, Mann?” I answered, almost shaking out of my clothes, “My name is not Mann, It is Franz.” “France!” he thundered. “This is not France, Mann. I don’t know where this is, but this is definitely not France! If it is France you are looking for, then you are even more lost than we are.” At this the entire population of the house broke into laughter repeating that this was not France at all.

When I saw that they meant me no harm, I found my voice enough to explain that yes, I was indeed very lost, tired and hungry, that my name was Franz, not France, and that I had been wandering in what I thought was a familiar forest in search of the final chords for my Symphony. “Ah, you are a music man, Mann!” “Yes, but why do you still call me Mann, my name is Franz.” “We call every man Mann, but we spell it M-O-N, Mon. You…we will call you France, mon. Because you are lost like us and also like us you are a music mon.” They went on to explain that they were the last of a lost tribe of Israel and had been wandering the earth looking for their rightful homeland. I was made to feel completely at home among these lost wanderers. They gave me food and drink and when I confessed that I played the guitar, I was not left in peace until I played one of my Lieder for them.

Later that night I sat on a log in the clearing wondering if this was still a dream and if, when I finally woke up, I would find my way home. Bruddah John, as the leader of this band of fellow wanderers was called, came to sit with me. As I looked up at the now full moon, he asked, “Do you want to go there mon?” “Where?” I asked. “Up there mon…to the moon.” And with that he passed a long sweet-smelling cigar into my hands. “Take a taste of that mon, and you will be there, on that moon. And then you can look back at us down here. Maybe then mon, you will find your way.” I had smoked the last of my pipe tobacco and was craving a smoke so I accepted the cigar and took a long draw… Now it is Tuesday and If I am still dreaming, I am tired and must sleep.

(At this point in the manuscript the writing becomes unintelligible but for a few musical scribblings, symbols outlining what appear to be rhythmic motifs, drawings of the moon in its various phases, and a recipe for mojitos. On the next page Schubert continues…)

Ach Gott im Himmel! If I am not still in a dream and if I have counted the days correctly, it is Saturday and somehow I must either find my way home or wake up! It won’t do to miss church again. My new friends and benefactors have taken me in and shared everything with me. Their food is delicious although spicier than even the sharpest goulash. Their tobacco is most interesting however. I find that I cannot smoke an entire cigar or “Spliff” as they call them. After one or two draws, I must lie down while the most curious thoughts fill my head. I feel as if I can create any music in my head but in the end find myself wanting only to eat and play repetitive patterns on the guitar. Bruddah John and I played music for hours while the children clapped on two and four of every measure and the women tapped their cooking pans with wooden spoons. This music has such a charm, I must write something in this style one day. One thing is very certain…I have no more heart to finish the verdammpt symphony. I think that I will just give the first two movements to that idiot Hüttenbrenner in Graz. I’m through with it. They can call it the “Unfinished Symphony” for all I care.

I found that Brudda John’s family is even more lost than I am. They are searching for an Island they called Jahmekka. I told them that there were, to my knowledge, no islands anywhere near Vienna, as the city is situated far from any sea where such an island might be found. I made the promise that upon my return home, I would look at any maps that could be found in Father’s school house and would return with any information that may prove helpful to these kind people in finding this Jahmekka. But now, Bruddah has held a hot coal to a spliff and…

Here the narrative abruptly ends. Was it a dream? or did Franz Schubert really happen upon a band of future Rastafarians in the depths of the Vienna woods? And do these scraps of writing finally explain why the “Unfinished” is…well, unfinished? I read and reread the handwritten notes repeatedly searching between the lines for more insight into the mind of this great composer. But the true treasure was to be found in what I had dismissed as illegible scribbling. As I stared at the markings a composition began to take shape. Here it was, the original manuscript sketch for one of Schubert’s finest songs, “To The Moon.” It was all here, the melody and the chords were outlined in a rudimentary way. But there was more. There was a bass line written out and rhythmic patterns were outlined that are unmistakably similar to the music of Jamaica. You can hear the original version of this song, arranged according to notes written in Schubert’s own hand by looking at the Sellaband profile of a great band from Austria called ConFused5.

Who could have guessed that a Viennese composer, the immense output of whose short career would not be recognized until after his death, would become the father of Reggae?

Sadly, three years ago, the “Lost Week” manuscript was lost during an unfortunate accident while mixing a pitcher of mojitos. But I can swear that all of the details set forth above are true…well, most of them.

…Some of them…O.K, well… my grandfather DID send me a box of stuff!