Ghosts.
During a recent stretch of boredom, I took to Google and found this blogpost, on the topic of a former teacher of mine. It might not be terribly amusing to most, but those who knew David will be in stitches, because it's so quintessentially him.
David Bucknam was a musical theater performance teacher I had my freshman year of college. Through a random twist of fate, which I'm still not sure of to this day, I was placed as an incoming freshman into a group of older students at Playwrights Horizons Theatre School, the NYU-based studio where I did most of my undergrad theater training. The older kids got to take different classes than the rest of the freshman, including this musical theater performance class taught by David.
It's not surprising that his former students have littered the web with anecdotes from his class; he had the wonderful knack for being both droll and inspirational at the same time. I, too, had a conference with him, as described in the above link, and I actively remember it to this day. David was meeting with us one-on-one, and so the rest of the class hung out in a studio across the hall while the conferences were going on. Before I went in, I was playing through someone's song on the piano in the other room, and I went into my conference and sat down on the couch with David. He looked at me and asked, "Who was that playing the piano over there?" and I said it was me, and he put his coffee down on the ground and said, with striking earnestness, "You don't play the piano like that without an unbelievable amount of passion." I sort of shrugged and said thanks, and he said, "You've got something inside you. I think music's gonna bring it out."
The main reason why it was kismet that I got to take David's class my freshman year was because, that spring, David committed suicide. He had some sort of lymphatic cancer, and it grew increasingly debilitating, and David couldn't teach, or make music, and I guess that was too much for him to lose. It was a strange and weepy time, because suicide is always so difficult to understand, let alone for a college freshman, and the tragedy of someone so gifted and charismatic and young (he was probably in his early 30s) was one that struck his students particularly deeply.
At the end of the semester, there was a memorial service for David across the street from our school at the Public Theater. We all knew David was a composer, but we had never heard any of David's music. The memorial was a concert of his work, performed by a group that included then-unknowns Raul Esparza and Julia Murney. This concert was literally a turning point in my life; I was heading up to Ithaca, NY to spend the summer at the Hangar Theatre, and that's when, with David's words and music still tickling my ears, I really started writing.
Every now and then, I think of David in a very present way. In many ways, literally and not-so-literally, he was the catalyst for why I'm doing what I'm doing now. In one of my earliest classes with David, he assigned me a song called "Cast of Thousands," written by Craig Carnelia. It was a song being sung by a guy reflecting on his life; he looks back on it and doesn't see much of note--the street he grew up on, a crack in the sidewalk--but slowly what he begins to see is all the people that have touched his life and how much they've shaped him. I was 17 when I got this song and I totally didn't get it. Not one bit. I came into class with some horrible backstory about how the guy had amnesia and so couldn't really remember anything about his past, and that was why he was singing the song. I shared this and David promptly emptied his water bottle over my head.
Now it's 10 years later, and Craig Carnelia, the guy who wrote that song, is one of my own songwriting mentors. I finally understand that song, and realize that most of my own writing is obsessed with the same idea of adding up, that in life and art, events, stories, and memories that seem fragmented always amount to something. If I look back like the guy in that song, I don't know if I'd see a cast of thousands just yet, but among the few in the bunch would be David Bucknam, probably sitting in the back, giving me a thumbs up, and chatting up the cuter ghosts of my past.
David Bucknam was a musical theater performance teacher I had my freshman year of college. Through a random twist of fate, which I'm still not sure of to this day, I was placed as an incoming freshman into a group of older students at Playwrights Horizons Theatre School, the NYU-based studio where I did most of my undergrad theater training. The older kids got to take different classes than the rest of the freshman, including this musical theater performance class taught by David.
It's not surprising that his former students have littered the web with anecdotes from his class; he had the wonderful knack for being both droll and inspirational at the same time. I, too, had a conference with him, as described in the above link, and I actively remember it to this day. David was meeting with us one-on-one, and so the rest of the class hung out in a studio across the hall while the conferences were going on. Before I went in, I was playing through someone's song on the piano in the other room, and I went into my conference and sat down on the couch with David. He looked at me and asked, "Who was that playing the piano over there?" and I said it was me, and he put his coffee down on the ground and said, with striking earnestness, "You don't play the piano like that without an unbelievable amount of passion." I sort of shrugged and said thanks, and he said, "You've got something inside you. I think music's gonna bring it out."
The main reason why it was kismet that I got to take David's class my freshman year was because, that spring, David committed suicide. He had some sort of lymphatic cancer, and it grew increasingly debilitating, and David couldn't teach, or make music, and I guess that was too much for him to lose. It was a strange and weepy time, because suicide is always so difficult to understand, let alone for a college freshman, and the tragedy of someone so gifted and charismatic and young (he was probably in his early 30s) was one that struck his students particularly deeply.
At the end of the semester, there was a memorial service for David across the street from our school at the Public Theater. We all knew David was a composer, but we had never heard any of David's music. The memorial was a concert of his work, performed by a group that included then-unknowns Raul Esparza and Julia Murney. This concert was literally a turning point in my life; I was heading up to Ithaca, NY to spend the summer at the Hangar Theatre, and that's when, with David's words and music still tickling my ears, I really started writing.
Every now and then, I think of David in a very present way. In many ways, literally and not-so-literally, he was the catalyst for why I'm doing what I'm doing now. In one of my earliest classes with David, he assigned me a song called "Cast of Thousands," written by Craig Carnelia. It was a song being sung by a guy reflecting on his life; he looks back on it and doesn't see much of note--the street he grew up on, a crack in the sidewalk--but slowly what he begins to see is all the people that have touched his life and how much they've shaped him. I was 17 when I got this song and I totally didn't get it. Not one bit. I came into class with some horrible backstory about how the guy had amnesia and so couldn't really remember anything about his past, and that was why he was singing the song. I shared this and David promptly emptied his water bottle over my head.
Now it's 10 years later, and Craig Carnelia, the guy who wrote that song, is one of my own songwriting mentors. I finally understand that song, and realize that most of my own writing is obsessed with the same idea of adding up, that in life and art, events, stories, and memories that seem fragmented always amount to something. If I look back like the guy in that song, I don't know if I'd see a cast of thousands just yet, but among the few in the bunch would be David Bucknam, probably sitting in the back, giving me a thumbs up, and chatting up the cuter ghosts of my past.
posted by Adam at 11:59 AM
8 Comments:
oh, Adam. This one made me cry. I miss David, too. Damn.
Adam...thank you so much for this story. David was my brother and I am the one that produced his memorial service. It's been 10 years and David is still alive within all of his students. You made me laugh and cry and more importantly...remember.
FYI...David's final composition is being produced at NJ Rep July 2008...it is called THE LITTLE HOURS...check out the website njrep.org
Adam, I'm sure we've never met but I too was a student of David's and miss him terribly. Your blog made me laugh so hard I cried. The dumping of the water was priceless. Unfortunately my David moment was so mind numbingly stupid I am appalled to this day at how naive and clueless I was. I stunned him speechless with "I touch my pin and remember."
He was one of kind and so bloody brilliant. While I had heard some of his music before the memorial, it was still stunning to hear it all at one time.
Good luck with your work and keep following your dreams.
Adam, very moving. I was a student and friend of David's. I don't what made think of him today and google him. I'm glad I did. Thanks for sharing this memory. Best.
Thank you so much, Adam! A friend of mine put a college pix on his FB page, and there David was standng directly behind me (probably trying to make me laugh). Anyway, I gogled him, because I always think about him. The last thing I did with him was a production of Waves that he had written. "Just one seed, one tiny seed ; so frail, so small, so simple..."
I am so very saddened to know of his death. I really loved him. What a beautiful spirit he was in my life. I am so glad he touched so many others, yet I have always thought that we would work together again someday. Maybe in eternity. Bless you for reminding me of his brilliance. Beth
I know this was posted forever ago, but I was searching David on the internet today and just came upon it. I was thinking about him recently as I saw an audition notice for a show that Helen Gregory is the MD for. I took their class at PHTS back in 1995/96 and your post reminded me of how inspiring he was, and still is. I always knew that the harder he was on me, the more he believed in me, and he wanted to make sure I believed in myself. He was obviously passionate about his work with us, and he was the most honest of any teacher I had. He never poured water on my head, but I remember those stories, and I definitely had my share of embarrassing moments and loved every minute of it! He taught you to be strong through your own vulnerability and gave me confidence I didn't know I had. I was away when he passed and was sad to miss his memorial and funeral. But I do remember going to see a production of his work at a public school in Manhattan somewhere? I can't remember... Is that the show you were in? Also, do you remember what the class was actually called? Thanks so much for this post.
Adam, I was in your class. (Not sure why this will only let me use a really old profile to comment, but I'm Jenine if you maybe remember me. I was one of the sophomore transfers--we made up the Yellow group that they rounded out with some of you talented freshmen.) I was googling David today... just because. Thank you. Almost 20 years, and I'll never forget him.
So happy I stumbled on this. Thank you many many times over for The Waves. Made the trip from Minneapolis for that event. The energy in the theater on that final Saturday matinee was something I will never forget. OK - I fess up. Seeing Raul live was on my bucket list. Just didn't think it would happen so quickly and be so special. David certainly sounds like an amazing and gifted man. I had strayed some from theater (having been involved in college)- but this performance pulled me back in - ad I am not leaving. One person asked if there would be any "recording" of the waves. The answer from Lisa was that you were still trying to figure it out. Any update on that happening ?
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