Glenn Stallcop Composer, Performer
RIDING INTO THE SUN
This is my last piano album. It was recorded in the Summer of 2016, and I knew at the time that I was done. After the very prolific Summer of 2015, in which I was totally exhausted at its conclusion, I just could not garner the energy and imagination necessary to do any more recording. I finally gathered my gear together and took it to my cabin near Ash Fork, AZ for a week of isolation and one last chance. I recorded for four days, and managed to produce one more album. It is my swan song.
The title, in its reference to Götterdämmerung, is not so much delusion of grandeur as it is an acknowledgement of the path we, as a culture, seem determined to take with Climate Change. We all seem to be riding our horses, cars, trucks, busses, trains, airplanes, and power plants into a sacrificial fire that is becoming less metaphorical and more real with each passing season.
Our cabin in Ash Fork sits amid an immense forest of Juniper. Every year we are nervous. Juniper is notoriously difficult to burn, but under the continuous pressure of drought, we know it is only a matter of time. We are somewhat resigned to the fact that in a few decades our house will be standing (if it survives) on several acres of grassland.
Every year, the Summer monsoon is preceded by several weeks of hot dry weather. In June, temperatures push into the hundreds, cattle tanks are empty, vegetation is tinder dry, and the clouds begin to build. It is so hot and dry that the rain from the first storms never reaches the ground, but the lightening does! The fire season has begun. Eventually the rain extinguishes the fires, but some years it is later rather than sooner. Some years, the rains never come.
In Seattle, where I grew up, the rainy weather used to be a joke. Not so anymore, as droughts of several weeks or more have become commonplace. As a result, seemingly every year in summer, the city is now choked with smoke! The fires throughout the American West have become ubiquitous. Biologists tell us that Nature is nothing if not adaptable. Biomes will change as temperatures rise, but it doesn’t look as if the adjustment is going to be pretty.
I remember a few years ago during a water shortage in Texas, people were worried about running out of water to drink. An expert answered the question by saying that the city will burn to the ground long before that happens. Recently, however, it was reported that in Northeast Mexico, people were indeed running out of water to drink. I think we can say that in terms of climate change, all bets are off.
When Brunhilde rides her horse into the fire at the end of Wagner’s Ring Cycle, the world is supposedly being transformed by her love. Hopefully, our ride into the fire transforms the world through understanding. Understanding gained, unfortunately, through painful experience. We cannot neglect our world; we cannot squander its gifts. It is the foundation of our existence.
RIDING INTO THE SUN
This is my last piano album. It was recorded in the Summer of 2016, and I knew at the time that I was done. After the very prolific Summer of 2015, in which I was totally exhausted at its conclusion, I just could not garner the energy and imagination necessary to do any more recording. I finally gathered my gear together and took it to my cabin near Ash Fork, AZ for a week of isolation and one last chance. I recorded for four days, and managed to produce one more album. It is my swan song.
The title, in its reference to Götterdämmerung, is not so much delusion of grandeur as it is an acknowledgement of the path we, as a culture, seem determined to take with Climate Change. We all seem to be riding our horses, cars, trucks, busses, trains, airplanes, and power plants into a sacrificial fire that is becoming less metaphorical and more real with each passing season.
Our cabin in Ash Fork sits amid an immense forest of Juniper. Every year we are nervous. Juniper is notoriously difficult to burn, but under the continuous pressure of drought, we know it is only a matter of time. We are somewhat resigned to the fact that in a few decades our house will be standing (if it survives) on several acres of grassland.
Every year, the Summer monsoon is preceded by several weeks of hot dry weather. In June, temperatures push into the hundreds, cattle tanks are empty, vegetation is tinder dry, and the clouds begin to build. It is so hot and dry that the rain from the first storms never reaches the ground, but the lightening does! The fire season has begun. Eventually the rain extinguishes the fires, but some years it is later rather than sooner. Some years, the rains never come.
In Seattle, where I grew up, the rainy weather used to be a joke. Not so anymore, as droughts of several weeks or more have become commonplace. As a result, seemingly every year in summer, the city is now choked with smoke! The fires throughout the American West have become ubiquitous. Biologists tell us that Nature is nothing if not adaptable. Biomes will change as temperatures rise, but it doesn’t look as if the adjustment is going to be pretty.
I remember a few years ago during a water shortage in Texas, people were worried about running out of water to drink. An expert answered the question by saying that the city will burn to the ground long before that happens. Recently, however, it was reported that in Northeast Mexico, people were indeed running out of water to drink. I think we can say that in terms of climate change, all bets are off.
When Brunhilde rides her horse into the fire at the end of Wagner’s Ring Cycle, the world is supposedly being transformed by her love. Hopefully, our ride into the fire transforms the world through understanding. Understanding gained, unfortunately, through painful experience. We cannot neglect our world; we cannot squander its gifts. It is the foundation of our existence.