… “You express a great deal of anxiety over our willingness to break
laws. This is certainly a legitimate concern. Since we so diligently
urge people to obey the Supreme Court’s decision of 1954 outlawing
segregation in the public schools, it is rather strange and paradoxical
to find us consciously breaking laws. One may well ask, “How can you
advocate breaking some laws and obeying others?” The answer is found in
the fact that there are two types of laws: there are just laws, and
there are unjust laws. I would agree with St. Augustine that “An unjust
law is no law at all.”
“… We can never forget that everything Hitler did in Germany was
“legal” and everything the Hungarian freedom fighters did in Hungary was
“illegal.” It was “illegal” to aid and comfort a Jew in Hitler’s
Germany. But I am sure that if I had lived in Germany during that time, I
would have aided and comforted my Jewish brothers even though it was
illegal. If I lived in a Communist country today where certain
principles dear to the Christian faith are suppressed, I believe I would
openly advocate disobeying these anti-religious laws …”
Excerpts from “Letter From Birmingham Jail,” August 1963
I handed the pharmacist my American prescription for Humalog insulin. “Szia,” I said in my best Google Hungarian, “töltse ki ezt a receptet?” She looked at the paper, and said in English, “Sure, but we have to order it. Is tomorrow okay?”
I asked how much it would cost. “Let’s see,” she said, tapping the keyboard. Then, almost apologetically, “Ten milliliters is . . . 6,543 Hungarian forins. About 20 euros.”
My phone’s calculator made the conversion to dollars: $22 and change for a two-inch vial of Eli Lilly and Company’s fast-acting Humalog insulin lispro, purchased in a random pharmacy near my hotel in Budapest. Back home in the United States, the list price for the same small vial — the exact same insulin, also made by Lilly, except that the labeling is in English instead of Hungarian — is $325.
I’m very fortunate to have health insurance, so I don’t actually pay the “cash” price of $325 per vial (the price paid at the pharmacy by someone who does not have health insurance). With Medicare, my copay in the United States is “only” $90 per vial.
It takes three vials a month to keep me alive.
Nearly a quarter-century ago, when Lilly first received approval from the U.S. Food and Drug Administration to sell it, the list price of a vial of Humalog was $21. Since then, Lilly has raised the list price more than 1,400 percent. Not surprisingly, the two other leading pharma companies that make a similar insulin (Novo Nordisk of Denmark and Sanofi of France) have jacked up their American prices in lockstep.
The formula hasn’t changed. It’s the same insulin today as it was back in the 1990s. It’s the same insulin that Lilly can sell at a profit for $22 to someone paying full price in Budapest. And it’s not just Hungary: Lilly sells Humalog insulin in Canada, Mexico, and other countries for a small fraction of the price it charges in the United States.
That’s why my endocrinologist in Philadelphia now advises her insulin-dependent patients to watch for cheap air fares to Amsterdam. That’s why people with Type 1 diabetes in the United States are increasingly caravaning across the borders to Canada and Mexico to buy insulin and other essential medications. For many of them, affordable insulin isn’t just bargain-shopping; it’s a matter of life or death.
For thousands of people with Type 1 diabetes, the Canadian and Mexican borders are too far away, transportation costs are too expensive, or they’re too ill to travel. For all too many more, even $22 is beyond reach for what is literally a life-saving drug.
The price of a vial of Humalog insulin was $122 in 2012 when Alex Azar II, a former drug industry lobbyist, took over as president of Lilly USA. Five years later it had soared to $274. That’s when President Donald J. Trump nominated Azar to be United States Secretary of Health and Human Services, saying Azar would be “a star for better healthcare and lower drug prices.”
Lilly’s media relations department has not responded to repeated requests for comment.
Type 1 diabetes used to be called juvenile diabetes because, cruelly, it most often strikes infants, children, and adolescents. It is currently incurable. No one knows what causes it, and it is not preventable, unlike the far more common Type 2 diabetes, which is closely linked to obesity and sedentary lifestyle.
Type 2 diabetes is the fastest-growing health crisis in the world, according to the World Health Organization (W.H.O.). An estimated 500 million people worldwide have Type 2 diabetes or have “pre-diabetes.” Type 2s still produce their own insulin, but their bodies either can’t make enough of it or can’t use it efficiently. In America an estimated 30 million people have Type 2 diabetes, roughly 1 of every 11 people, a number that has doubled in the 21st century. Some Type 2s require insulin injections, but most can be treated with diet, exercise, and pills.
Type 1 diabetes is a more exclusive club, but one that no one wants to join. An estimated 1.25 million people have Type 1 diabetes in the United States, all of whom need regular injections of insulin in order to stay alive, because some unknown trigger causes their immune systems to go haywire and attack and destroy the specialized cells in the pancreas that produce insulin. Without multiple daily injections of insulin we sicken and die.
Although the causes and treatments differ significantly, Type 1s and Type 2s share the sickening and dying part. Diabetes kills some 250,000 Americans each year, either directly or indirectly through “diabetic complications” that include heart disease, kidney failure, limb amputations, blindness, nerve damage, and stroke.
Here, greatly simplified, is how it kills and debilitates:
Enzymes in the digestive system convert much of the food we eat into glucose, a simple sugar. In a “normal” body, the pancreas — an organ about the size of your open hand, located behind your stomach — secretes just enough insulin to enable the cells to metabolize glucose, which the cells, in turn, convert into energy.
Without insulin, or with insufficient amounts of it, our cells can’t absorb the fuel they need, any more than an automobile engine can absorb gasoline poured over the car. The cells begin to starve and toxic levels of glucose build up in the bloodstream, damaging blood vessels and organs and nerves and hindering the body’s ability to fight infections.
In its desperation to flush the higher concentrations of sugar from the blood, the body demands fluids, leading to relentless thirst, frequent urination, and, paradoxically, dehydration. At the same time, the starving brain sends signals to begin breaking down fat, then muscle, then organs.
For Type 1s, it happens quickly. In less than three months I went from 185 pounds to 140, attributing the loss to playing a 40-game baseball schedule in the broiling Texas summer sun while wearing catcher’s gear. I drank gallons of Gatorade and still fantasized about diving, mouth open, into a swimming pool. I had to pee between innings. My vision blurred. The baseball got fuzzy, which was not good as a batter nor as a catcher. My throws to second base started bouncing just past the pitcher’s mound.
Off the field, my concerned family tried to fatten me up by feeding me milkshakes and pizzas and extra desserts. I nodded off in meetings and woke up exhausted. The weight continued to melt away. Finally, certain that I had developed a rare form of narcoleptic, hydrophiliac cancer, I called the doctor.
“Classic Type 1,” the doctor said after examining me and doing some blood tests. He gave me a bottle of insulin and a pack of syringes and sent me to a Type 1 diabetes class, where we learned to check our blood glucose with fingersticks several times a day, and to calculate how much insulin we needed to stab into our bellies.
Insulin, it turns out, is an exceptionally powerful drug. Too little leads to hyperglycemia and diabetic complications, but too much leads to dreaded “hypoglycemic reactions,” where blood sugar gets dangerously low. The body slams out adrenalin, the brain becomes disoriented, muscles tremble, sweat pours uncontrollably, and language slurs. Unchecked, hypoglycemia can lead to coma, seizures, and all too often death.
Some of my classmates in “Welcome to Type 1 Diabetes” class were in elementary school. Some were frightened parents holding their newly diagnosed Type 1 toddlers. “If you’re going to get an incurable disease,” the nurse told us, “at least diabetes is a manageable incurable disease.”
As we would soon learn, the health care system apparently finds that managing diabetes is far more profitable than curing it.
Until less than a century ago, a diagnosis of Type 1 diabetes was a cruel death sentence. Healthy children and adolescents, but also some adults, were quickly reduced to emaciated, suffering husks. Perversely, the only known way to keep blood glucose from rising fatally was to radically reduce eating; already skeletal young patients were put on near-starvation diets. Life expectancy after diagnosis typically was less than a year.
Then, in the summer of 1921, two young researchers in Canada — Dr. Frederick Banting, a surgeon not yet 30 years old, and his assistant Charles Best, a chemistry student at the University of Toronto — discovered a way to isolate and extract small amounts of insulin from the pancreases of dogs and other animals. That winter they injected the animal insulin into a boy, Leonard Thompson, who was dying at Toronto General Hospital. The boy recovered enough to be sent home.
The “discovery” of insulin 98 years ago by Banting and Best is now regarded as one of the most important advances in the history of medicine.
News of their success spread quickly through medical journals and word of mouth, and by the summer of 1922 it was impossible for Banting and his colleagues to extract and refine enough life-saving insulin to meet the desperate pleas from physicians and patients across the continent.
The news also attracted investors eager to capitalize on the new discovery. An American businessman raced to Toronto to offer Banting one million dollars in cash if he would hand over the patent to a group on Wall Street. The group would in turn secure a patent on insulin in every country of the world, and would pay Banting a five percent royalty on all insulin sold. Banting would be fabulously wealthy, the investor told him, and would no longer have to see patients “except for a few very wealthy ones by appointment.”
“I only asked him one question,” Banting recalled years later in his memoir. “What would you do for the poor diabetic who could not pay?” Unsatisfied with the man’s answer, Banting told him, “The indigent diabetic is our greatest problem. Every effort must be made to reduce the cost of insulin . . . ”
As a physician, Banting argued, he was bound by his profession’s code to make such a life-saving advance in health care freely available to mankind. It was immoral, in his view, to profit from the misfortunes of those who were desperately ill. At the same time, Banting recognized that patenting the discovery would be a safeguard against unscrupulous or incompetent companies that would make and market inferior, perhaps dangerous, insulin.
An ethical compromise was reached: Charles Best and another researcher, neither of them physicians, would patent the process (Banting was eventually persuaded to add his name), and then, in return for the sum of one Canadian dollar each, they would assign the patent to the University of Toronto. The University would in turn freely publish details of the insulin preparation process, thereby preventing any one company from ever establishing a monopoly.
Patent issues aside, the more immediate challenge was to produce more insulin. The researchers were able to harvest only a few cubic centimeters of insulin solution in one production run, barely enough to treat one patient, and their repeated efforts to scale production to commercial levels failed. Even though the number of patients who were given the experimental treatment was kept deliberately small, an “insulin famine” ensued. The researchers resorted to rationing what meager supplies they had, with predictable results.
In February 1922 an emaciated young girl, a friend of Charles Best, was admitted to Toronto General. She showed improvement soon after receiving insulin injections, but then the insulin supply ran out and she slipped into a coma. Doctors scrounged what they could of partially prepared insulin from the lab, and the girl awakened, the first time any diabetic patient in Toronto had recovered from coma. But once again the supply was exhausted. The girl died in April, becoming perhaps the first person to die from inability to obtain insulin since the miracle treatment was discovered. She would not be the last.
The best hope of rapidly producing large quantities of high-quality insulin, the University of Toronto’s Insulin Committee decided, was to partner with Eli Lilly and Company of Indianapolis, Indiana, the leading “ethical” pharmaceutical company in the United States, at a time when quack medicines and snake-oil charlatans were common. Already in business for nearly 50 years, Lilly had earned a deserved reputation for medical rigor and manufacturing expertise.
Lilly was eager to help, on the condition that it receive an exclusive, one-year license to sell insulin in the Americas outside of Canada. In return, Lilly promised to supply Banting and the university with all the insulin they needed for their patients; any surplus insulin, Lilly promised, would be sold at cost. Afterward, Lilly would also pay royalties to the University of Toronto to support its medical research program.
The deal was struck. By the summer of 1923 Lilly was churning out enough therapeutic-grade insulin to save the lives of some 20,000 Type 1 diabetics.
Later that year Frederick Banting was awarded a share of the 1923 Nobel Prize in Medicine, which he insisted on sharing with his assistant, Charles Best.
The patent they had willingly relinquished for one dollar each would soon generate millions of dollars in royalties for the University of Toronto, and millions more in profits for Lilly, which had parlayed its exclusive license into a dominant market position.
Also, without informing the Canadians, Eli Lilly and Company had also secretly applied for the American patent covering the process that the Canadians had invented. It was necessary, Lilly executives argued when confronted by the Canadians, to protect the investments Lilly made to scale up and refine the manufacturing process.
A review: Bach for Banjo: 20 Pieces Arranged for 5-String Banjo, by Mark Phillips, Jon Peik and Jim Schustedt ($9.99, Hal Leonard, 2013).
Music scholars agree: Johann Sebastian Bach never composed anything for the banjo.[i] A virtuoso on the pipe organ, Bach also played the violin, viola, harpsichord, clavichord, and even a prototype of a newfangled instrument called a “piano,” although he never composed anything for it, either.
Even so, Bela Fleck, John Bullard, Jens Kruger, Michael J. Miles (clawhammer), Rob MacKillop (tenor banjo), and many others have demonstrated that Bach’s compositions lend themselves well to the four- or five-string banjo. (Keep this in mind when friends and relatives ask, “Please, can’t you play something other than ‘Shove That Pig’s Foot Farther in the Fire’?) With a mute, one can almost convince oneself that the banjo sounds like a clavichord.
The newest Bach songbook for banjo is Bach for Banjo, from Hal Leonard. Intended for advanced novice to intermediate pickers, the songbook provides tabs for the most familiar parts of 20 pieces that Papa Bach wrote for other instruments. The pieces are expertly arranged for the 5-string banjo by Mark Phillips, Jon Peik (a BHO member), and Jim Schustedt.
Bach for Banjo is not to be confused with Bach for the Banjo, by John Bullard (also a BHO member), with accompanying guitar arrangements by John Patykula (Mel Bay, $17.99). Nor is it to be confused with Bach on the Banjo, Bullard’s impressive audio CD from 1997.
Let’s call the newer book P.P.S. Bach, for Phillips, Peik, and Schustedt, and the older book let’s call J.B. Bach, or “Bullard’s book.” Although the two songbooks are similar, there are important differences.[ii]
The most important similarity, though, is that these are true classical interpretations of Bach, not goofy, twangy bluegrass versions. People rarely grin when they pick these ditties, and there are no lyrical references to lost love, the mountains of Kentucky, or dogs and pickup trucks. And both books attribute to Johann Sebastian Bach a piece or two that weren’t actually written by him, but that’s just a quibble.
The main difference is that the majority of selections in P.P.S. Bach are less technically demanding than in the Bullard book, and thus less intimidating to novice players. Bullard does provide right-hand picking suggestions, but only for selected passages; P.P.S. Bach adds T-I-M advice for every note. Both books will give a workout to your left hand, but Bullard seems to torture it with more of those four-fret reaches and thumb-fretting on the fifth string. P.P.S. Bach, the newer book, mercifully cheats a bit by substituting slides, hammer-ons and pull-offs to avoid, say, fretting on the 16th fret of the 5th string.
Take Bach’s Prelude for the Partita No. 3 for Solo Violin, for example. P.P.S. Bach dispatches just the prelude to the prelude, in just three pages of tab, while Bullard annotates the whole shebang over 12 pages. (A third hand would be helpful to help turn pages.) Bach composed this piece as a marathon of advanced bowing technique on the fiddle; those who want to really showcase their banjo chops will probably enjoy Bullard’s endurance version.
P.P.S. Bach provides tablature for banjo only[iii]; Bullard’s book includes accompanying guitar arrangements on a few of the pieces, and traditional (piano) accompaniment elsewhere. I’m not a guitar player, so I can’t comment on the guitar arrangements.
The P.P.S. Bach tablature is, to my eyes, much easier to read. The type is cleaner and more modern and, unlike the Bullard book, the layout doesn’t require bouncing your eyes between the banjo and piano notation to determine whether the note is a 16th, an 8th, a quarter-note, and soforth. If you’re comfortable reading music and have the tunes already in your head, it probably won’t be a problem. For the rest of us it can be a challenge.
The newer book has 20 pieces; Bullard’s book has 17. Both books include some of “Bach’s Greatest Hits,” but there is surprisingly little overlap. But then, Bach was astonishingly prolific as a composer, especially for a guy who also fathered at least 20 children.[iv] The books intersect only on the Minuet in G Major, the Prelude to Cello Suite No. 1, and the Prelude to Partita No. 3 for Solo Violin. The contents of each book are listed below.
Why Bach? It’s lovely music, for starters, some of the most sublime compositions in the history of music.[v] It’s a delightful break from the kinds of tunes most of us associate with the banjo. Bach’s genius is reflected in the fact that so many different instruments have adapted his music and made it their own, not just the banjo, but also mandolin, guitar, even ukulele.
And here’s another reason: Learning to play Bach on the banjo will improve your banjo skills and technique, regardless of the kind of music you normally play. Bach’s eldest sons told an early biographer that Bach wrote many of these compositions for his students. “The first thing he did,” the biographer wrote, “was to teach his pupils his peculiar manner of touching the instrument. For this purpose, he made them practice, for months together, nothing but isolated exercises for all the fingers of both hands, with constant regard to this clear and clean touch. For some months, none could get excused from these exercises; and, according to his firm opinion, they ought to be continued, for from six to twelve months. But if he found that anyone, after some months of practice, began to lose patience, he was so obliging as to write little connected pieces, in which those exercises were combined together.”
That’s pretty good practice advice for any banjo player, and the authors of Bach for Banjo (as well as the earlier Bach for the Banjo) have been very obliging in arranging these little connected pieces for our favorite instrument.
Bach for Banjo features the most recognizable parts of these pieces:
Air on the G String
Be Thou with Me (from the Anna Magdalena Notebook)
Bourrée (from Cello Suite No. 3)
Bourrée in E Minor
Brandenburg Concerto No. 3, First Movement
Gavotte (from French Suite No. 5)
Gavotte (from Cello Suite No. 6)
Chorale (from St. Matthew Passion)
Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring (from Cantata No. 147)
Keep, O My Spirit
Little Prelude No. 2
Minuet in G (now attributed to Christian Petzold, not J.S. Bach)
Minuet I (from the Anna Magdalena Notebook)
Prelude (from Cello Suite No. 1)
Prelude (from Violin Partita No. 3)
Prelude in C Major (from The Well-Tempered Clavier, Book 1)
Sheep May Safely Graze (from Cantata No. 208)
Siciliano (from Flute Sonata No. 2)
Sleepers, Awake (from Cantata No. 140
Bach for the Banjo (Bullard’s book) includes:
March (by Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach)
Minuet in G Major (by Christian Petzold)
Polonaise in G Minor (by C.P.E. Bach)
Minuet in G Minor (by Petzold)
Minuet in G (by Petzold)
Prelude/Partita No. III for Solo Violin
Bourrée II/Suite IV in E flat Major for Solo Cello
Menuets I & II/Suite II for Solo Cello
Courante/Suite 1 for Solo Cello
Gavotte en Rondeau/Partita No. III for Solo Violin
Bauerntanz/For Two Banjos (by C.P.E. Bach)
Prelude/Suite 1 for Solo Cello
[i] We can’t entirely rule it out. A 1678 document from the Caribbean island of Martinique refers to an instrument called the “banza” that was played at slave gatherings. Johann was born in 1685. Around the time that “Old Wiggy” Bach died in 1750 there were references aplenty to the banjar, the banshaw, the banjil, and the bangoe. An English poem from 1763 included the couplet “Permit thy slaves to lead the choral dance / To the wild banshaw’s melancholy sound …”
[ii] Bach was a genius at counterpoint, the musical technique of composing two or more melodies played simultaneously. (A dazzling example of this can be heard, and seen, here.) So, as a contrapuntal nod to the master, let’s review both books together.
[iii] This is a bit unexpected because P.P.S. Bach co-author Phillips is best known as a guitar arranger. He has also arranged songbooks for Led Zeppelin, which isn’t as weird as it sounds; the band was known to drop a bit of Bach’s Bourée in E Minor into live performances of the song Heartbreaker. Phillips is also the co-author of Guitar for Dummies, Metallica Riff by Riff, and several other guitar books. Wisconsin picker (and BHO member) Jon Peik provides the banjo expertise, along with Jim Schustedt, who previously arranged Disney Songs for Banjo.
[iv] (I say “at least” because there is some evidence of a “forgotten” twenty-first offspring, P.D.Q. Bach, composer of such deservedly neglected works as Pervertimento for Bicycle, Bagpipes and Balloons, and The Short-Tempered Clavier.)
[v] Today, of course, Johann Sebastian Bach is considered one of history’s greatest composers and musical scientists. But at the time of his death in 1750 (the result, a contemporary newspaper reported, of “the unhappy consequences of [a] very unsuccessful eye operation”) Bach was regarded as merely a middling composer. In a music world soon to be dominated by Mozart and Beethoven, Bach’s compositions were considered hopelessly old-fashioned. His grave was unmarked until 1894.