Help me, people! I get whiney -- like, a couple of times per day – sometimes several times an hour. So I need you to rough me up periodically with a reality check, OK?
This was a self-imposed challenge since I had to figure out how to write out winds’ parts. Composing/arranging measure by measure for three instruments wasn’t something I’d done before.
And then it took a village . . . to record. The winds trio consists of two teaching colleagues on trombone and clarinet plus, playing tuba, a member of “The President’s Own” (the United States Marine Band based here in Washington that John Phillip WhatsHisName used to direct!) Washington-area percussionist extraordinaire Tom Teasley (who, I have learned, has military band experience of his own) keeps the rhythm crisp and clear and march-like . . . and occasionally whacky.
© 2013 Steven E. Cutts
recorded and mixed by Jim Robeson in the fall/winter ’15-‘16
Christopher Lee, trombone
Tom Teasley, drums
Simon Wildman, tuba
Sarah Winston, clarinet
Slap me when I whine; yank me into line; glare at me and snarl when I complain.
Say “Shut up” when I kvetch like some ungrateful wretch; treat me as though I am quite insane.
If I allege conspiracy, accuse me of mad lunacy; insist that I am being paranoid.
Whatever curses I invoke, please shout at me “You’re blowing smoke when actually you should be overjoyed.”
Yes, fortune has been good to me; I’ve managed to dodge tragedy.
I’ve got no monkeys on my back; I haven’t had a heart attack;
Eyesight, hearing – both are fine; my memory’s good most of the time.
Even though work can be hard, employment sure beats being bored.
Sufficient money to enjoy – lots of travel – lots of toys.
I’ve got a roof above my head and every night a nice warm bed.
My house is on a pleasant street; I always have enough to eat.
I’ll try to be more positive and grateful for the life I live.
So use statistics if you must to undermine my fuss; don’t let me conjure up some sad estate.
Yes, I know that I am prone to rant, groan, whimper, moan; don’t be tempted to commiserate.
When I snivel and lament the winter of my discontent, don’t encourage my ingratitude.
Don’t show up to my pity party; claim you’re ill – not hale and hearty; don’t indulge my lousy attitude.
The next time I lament my fate, fire away don’t hesitate. Point out I’m acting deaf and dumb and blind.
When I become melodramatic, just resort to our old tactic: slap me when I whine!