It was my first trip to New York City, and my father approached the wildly-dressed, tall and intiimidating figure standing on the corner of 56th St. and 7th Ave. They conversed in Norwegian long enough for me to draw nearer and realize the stranger represented no threat. In fact, I left with a book of hs canons, which remains in my collection of piano literature to this day.
I met Moondog once again--serendipitously, on Milwaukee's Wisconsin Avenue one day in the seventies. I have no idea how he got there or how he left, but this time I wanted to protect him from the insensitive pedestrians swirling around us and threatening our shared moment.
Moondog's music is as singular as he is, and offers a glimpse into his creative spirit. It begins with an idea and a form, not with an emotion or sentiment. Each piece is simple and brief, but not simplistic or fragmentary. He avoids any form of dissonance, even seventh chords and "blue" notes (flatted thirds). Music, like life, he seems to be saying, can be a straightforward, delighting adventure, providing one cherishes the quest itself above its so-called object and maintains a focused attention on the wonders of the present moment.
My only slight disappointment with this recording is that the madrigals, sung by Moondog and his daughter, are subjected to some studio effects that make them sound more artificial and commercial than they deserve to be.
