Petr Salidar

Beginning Reflections on A Salon of Refusals, and Sundry Items: Off in a cordoned forest cinged in beds of blood red glass flowers I walk chiselled and properly frayed releasing my mortal trail. ____________________________________________________________ __ Late bloomed and partially forgotten, I began the practice at 22 years, propelling an anxious gyre through the landscape, a tightly twisted fashion through my work. ____________________________________________________________ __ The musics in A Salon of Refusals say My Temptation are more like cherished cacophonous pods than the delicate shadow puppets of my intentions. But for line, point and plane I aim for drawn with a graceful direction. ____________________________________________________________ __ Thankfully I've garnered a musical awakeness and ability for personal forgiveness to act as much a mainstay in my pursuit as breathing. As I ferociously aim toward the ultimate consciousness in my instances(my takes as it were), I'll continually fall short of masterful recordings. But at the fittingly least I'm torched enough to proclaim, "you go right ahead and lay these out there for all the hits of criticism, indifference and the occasional exhalted comparisons to the classics." Even more so in this ubiquitous current where still the worst comment is no comment at all, the slightest contact is well beyond fodder. ____________________________________________________________ __ To begin, my father was a Swing player on the licorice stick, a Dixie bandleader, a fine player to the core with a showman's understated carriage. ____________________________________________________________ __ Completely juxtaposed from his style, my original adolescent influences, the ones through which I envisioned a playing life at 22 years were early 70's Genesis high atop the list as well as all the great British bands; Yes, King Crimson, The Who, Procol Harem and The Strawbs. They pulled me out of my familiar surroundings from across the body water divide. ____________________________________________________________ __ But today while I enhance my musical vision, not surprisingly I aim toward elements my father gave away when I listened at his knee, be it Swing or all the distinctive Jazz periods that followed. Perhaps the implied swing triplet partially allows me the freedom in construction that Brahms accessed by writing so much in three with the tip toe hemiola. ____________________________________________________________ __ Composing; a case of disregard at that germinal stage, holding all elders suspect. So I took to becoming self taught, feigning all comers of critique. As psychologically underdeveloped this may appear, and as private as my approach became, confidently I knew I was protecting something very important; my development. Yet with no one dare I tell. It wasn't until my parents were both gone that I went to music school at 40 years, confident enough for traditional training. ____________________________________________________________ __ In these past five years I've worked feverishly to become a truer musician with that circuit of nameless days. In this disappearing act to those I was familiar, I've whittled down humility and courage to the name of tunes. ____________________________________________________________ __ To now touch on the songs, I wrote Under A Blue Moon Waiting in three minutes, placing an homage on the spot to the flash memory of my sister. The complete focus that arose one morning while thinking of her, I stared at the remaining broken piece of pottery of all the ones she had worked up. A blended red, white, orange, blue and yellow stroked free form water pitcher in the curves of a naked voluptuous woman, the lid took the shape of her shoulders rising to her tilted head. And all that remained intact of this pitcher from her violent toss was this woman's head. ____________________________________________________________ __ What might rise up from the caldron to either spew venom or suggest peace, this is my new gateway to humanity. ____________________________________________________________ __ I composed more like the style of Under A Blue Moon Waiting until five years ago, when I decided to raise the ultimate stakes in my approach, challenge the tritone and land in a jazz setting. I lined things up so that my entrance into this arena was clean, seemingly letting go of basically every secure connection I had. ____________________________________________________________ __ And My Temptation has everything in it to document where I was in the midst of this. It was composed rigidly, more like Coltrane's approach with continual improvements through repeated takes to simulate the penultimate instant rather than Davis' one shot deal aim, say Kind of Blue. ____________________________________________________________ __ I've had the ability to write beyond my playing abilities since the beginning and My Temptation forged my highest cause. It took me two years to be able to play it and I probably sacrificed two years of my life writing the solo guitar in the seven weeks it took to execute. ____________________________________________________________ __ I know the recording as a full and dirty kitchen sink. And this will do for now. The solo gave me my ticket to ride. Not that all has suddenly become so easy. But I heard, I understood I was indeed original even in this advanced arena where I could still hardly breathe. You've got to believe these things. ____________________________________________________________ __ All these pieces have no reason or rhyme to why they sit together at this time in my life other than they come from me. Perhaps the juxtaposition of mood, the sense of opposite technical grind from one recording to the next rallies a validity of purpose to the composition. Some ferociously planned like Alone For You and Stairwell Angels(both fabulously performed on piano by John Grecia) and interpretedly knitted to the tape as seen on their scores. Others were scored structures prepared for layers of studio improvisations; Giving Chase, Wynnefield Boy and Meditation 31. Wonderful You came as an improvisation while stretching out on Stairwell Angels to make it a larger work of improvisation, the result being Always Never Home. This piece wavers as my timid yet grandest accomplishment to date in this closest to jazz period. In Living Impromptu is a voice/guitar construction based on an enormous amount of chordal structure taken with a dose of impromptu. The Jazarabande is my first variation on Bach's Sarabande from his Fifth Cello Suite. Accidental Brazil is a cherub written in the mid 90's and recently recorded impromptu with John Grecia on piano and myself on steel string and voice. ____________________________________________________________ __ I'm an independent contractor. I do what is right to further the day at hand, but I aim intently on getting that sort of larger gig, getting it out there to ripple an impression on the big pond of peace and all the finest elements of nature; child of the 60's I can not help. ____________________________________________________________ __ Someone wrote me recently in response to A Salon of Refusals and commented on the non linear aspect of my writing and how that initially makes some of the music difficult to grasp. That's indeed why I finally landed in music school at 40 years to study line and its versatile place in contrapuntal writing. ____________________________________________________________ __ A Salon of Refusals historically refers to many paintings of 19th century French artists which were rejected for the exclusive Parisian exhibits and found their way into their own salon/exhibit. Perhaps the expression was coined by Emile Zola, writer and boyhood friend of Cezanne, in one of his articles to premier these artists and their salon. The names of the artists tied to these paintings have kicked their contemporary critiques in their arrogant asses. I identify with this expression, A Salon of Refusals, as I have often times rejected myself or like so many others have felt rejected and thus secluded. The title is there as a double entendre, to surely identify with struggle and sacrifice, but mainly to show my passion for Cezanne and his less than subtle impact on my approach to work. ____________________________________________________________ __ Day by day music is becoming more of a fluid act. But it has also allowed me entrance to a sizeless refuge when taken on as a studied discipline where I can give cause to invent. ____________________________________________________________ __ Perhaps I am didactic. But this may end up being the longlasting gatekeeper to my salvation, the element in my makeup that allows for my presence to emerge and propel in all its right time. ____________________________________________________________ __ I edited my profile with Thomas Myspace Editor V3.6 !
I, PETR SALIDAR , Composer of Classical/Jazz Score, Standards, Ballads, as well as World, Progressive and Folk Song, am of mind and body compressed in song. ARC OVERVIEW As seedling, lightly alert in Philly through the 60's and 70's to the Beatles, Motown and daddy's licorice stick Dixie, it was a reverse time from now when a couple few knew computers the size of the Spruce Goose and the hole in the ozone layer too picayune to mention. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Oddly, no real 80's recall, in Ithaca too busy becoming my post adolescent self through the young practice of sitting still and playing. To contort my pronounced athletic accomplishments thus far, "the results of my mispent youth," into an adult's small motor skill development. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ If not too late for rewiring for music, a gallant workman's effort I gave, completely disappearing from my beginnings, landing me here today. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Wholly detached from family in '78, I remained in Ithaca upon a dismal graduation(physically threatened by jock misfits for wearing an armband in tow with others to protest Daniel Moynihan as commencement speaker and highlight corporate divestment in South Africa) and practiced left handed through thousands of nights into days, on right side up and upside down guitars, disregarding the cultural influences of Reagan and the god damn gated drum. 'Cept for Thomas Dolby's Hyperactive! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In August of '82, I staked my first claim in travelling across maiden America in a purple '53 Hudson to meet Ralph Towner in Boulder at the Naropa Institute . An indullible retreat fashioned of excitement, humility, intimidation, courage, meditation, admiration, focus, inspiration and projection. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Smart enough to show up but way too early on in my studies to capture the wide angle of Mr. Towner's prowess, I tried to compress the essential instances with him to crystalline memories. Thinking the need to summon them might champion my cause in the future, and they certainly do, I succeed today in thinking of him with sheer regard, donning his impact in all of my private corners. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Only to compare to this was mom waking my sister and I time and again 'round midnights in the early 60's, us still in pajamas, driven off to hear my dad play Dixie. He was easy and very very good. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Before the instrument was ever in my hands, I was taken by Mon Enfant by Ralph Towner, The Firebird Suite by Igor Stravinsky, Watcher of The Skies by Genesis, Transfigured Night by Arnold Schoenberg and La La Means I love You by The Delfonics. But, Mon Enfant told me to do it. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The 90's were a fabulous freak. My great studio apartment on W. 85th in Manhattan, where 300 friends and strangers crammed into my pad for my 35th. Where I began to really hear my sound emerge aside morning cups of ginseng tea. My cavern germinal. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Then trips to retreats with Robert Fripp and Guitar Craft where I acquired the diligence to pick one note for one hour, and became inspired to write two guitarchestras, Dogwood's Clue(for 9 guitars, a memoir of my Wynnefield neighborhood as it enveloped my childhood) and First Jump Second Life(for 12 guitars, an homage to Bob Beamon's astonishing 29' 4 1/2" long jump on October 18th of the '68 Olympics). Glenn Branca had nothin' on me. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Life became sadly much richer in the 90's. A death of innocence and family, Manhattan I lost. I left, continued writing, practicing, but with great interruption. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In '97, I entered music school at West Chester University in Pa.(graduated Magna Cum Laude, '02). Something I longed to do since walking through the rooms of the Art Museum in Philadelphia as a child. Here I studied classical guitar and education and repeatedly broke the cardinal rule by playing in the stairwells. I won an award for teaching, but the fact was then and remains I must write music and hence reflect on my stinginess of not having become a school teacher. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In this new millenium never in my thoughts would I have become so upset and overwhelmingly stuttered and confused. Every single day comes a time when I cannot believe how much potential is exasperatively expressed and deposited in the greedlocked failures of our world's political and economic systems. But where hope resides, I fight to assuage my angst and reposition my positivity. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ So I often ask myself what I can do as individual? Help anyone in need right before me. I try hard as I might to be available to my instinct as it points to nature and those I love and trust. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ As a composer, I have either a lyrical or instrumental direction to take. If you ever, would you please, whichever music of mine you come upon, my aforementioned and ensuing comments are deep within the lines. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Yes! Yes! Yes! Inventive am I, so I have the thirst to stand out, even in these ubiquitous times of the technologically, progressively more even platform and ever growing playing field. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ But alas, I am of the ranks of a community which traces me back to a hood, and will always remember where I come from. Wynnefield . That is where I began. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ And, like the singular wiggling leaf, on a calm day, peering out of the tree's gentile gestalt, I will eventually then blend back in. ~Petr Salidar