Archives for April 2004

“Some years ago I attended an evening of mime by Marcel Marceau, an elaborate exercise in aesthetic purification during which the audience kept applauding its own appreciation of culture and beauty, i.e., every time they thought they recognized what was supposed to be going on. It had been bad enough when Chaplin or Harpo Marx pulled this beauty-of-pathos stuff, and a whole evening of it was truly intolerable. But afterwards, when friends were acclaiming Marceau’s artistry, it just wouldn’t do to say something like ‘I prefer the Ritz Brothers’ (though I do, I passionately do). They would think I was being deliberately lowbrow, and if I tried to talk in terms of Marceau’s artistry versus Harry Ritz’s artistry, it would be stupid, because ‘artist’ is already too pretentious a term for Harry Ritz and so I would be falsifying what I love him for.”

Pauline Kael, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang

Sunday was an all-guitar day, almost. After writing a piece in the morning, I did the following:

– I went to hear the John Pizzarelli Trio play a benefit matinee at New York’s P.S. 9, two blocks from my front door. Also on the bill were Tony Tedesco on drums (he plays on Pizzarelli’s latest CD, Bossa Nova, out this week from Telarc) and Jessica Molaskey on vocals (Mrs. John Pizzarelli to you, and a warm, charming singer in her own right). Doubling as MCs and guest artists were two small Pizzarellis, one of whom attends P.S. 9 and the other of whom is an alumnus thereof. I’ll be writing more about the concert in my Washington Post column this coming Sunday, so for now I’ll say only that I had a ball.

– From there I came back home and watched the rest of Panic in the Streets, which was excellent. (Next up, The Letter or Brute Force, depending on how much time I have and how cynical I feel.)

– After a quick pre-prandial nap, I went down to Le Madeleine to eat dinner and listen to Gene Bertoncini’s regular Sunday-night solo guitar gig. Again, I’ll be writing about it in the Post, but I’ll take this opportunity to plug his latest CD, Acoustic Romance, which is as good as it gets.

– I haven’t read a word all day. I did, however, place an absentee bid on a Hans Hofmann lithograph, which I suppose can be called an art experience.

Now I’m back home again and headed for bed. No gigs Monday–I’ll be spending the entire day writing a Commentary essay on the state of the Broadway musical. That ought to keep me out of trouble until Tuesday. Then I’ll write two more pieces, one due on Tuesday and the other on Wednesday. In addition, I’ll be out every night through Saturday.

Some blogging may occur in the interstices of this frenzied activity, or not. It all depends. Doesn’t that make you feel secure? (Come back, OGIC, all is forgiven!)

Later.

Maria Schneider sent out this e-mail today:

I am very excited for our next Hunter College concert. It’s happening this Thursday, April 29th. We’re featuring my teacher and friend, the great Bob Brookmeyer. There will be a pre-concert discussion starting at 6:45 p.m. The concert begins at 8:00. The Kaye Playhouse is located at the corner of 68th Street and Lexington. Call for tickets: 212-772-4448. There is a student price, so students should inquire about that.

If you teach in the area, PLEASE, do pass the word to your students and friends. This is a rare treat to have Bob perform in New York and to listen to him speak about music. One half of the concert consist of my music featuring Bob (including Anthem, which I wrote for Bob, but has never been performed in New York), and for the other half, I am giving Bob my orchestra to play his marvelous music conducted by him. We will be playing Celebration Suite which was recorded by Bob’s New Art Orchestra featuring Scott Robinson. Scott will be playing it this Thursday.

I hope you will come and spread the word to your friends. It should be a special night.

It should indeed. Regular readers of this blog don’t need to be reminded of what I think of Maria Schneider and Bob Brookmeyer. The opportunity to hear them both on the same bill is…well, I’m not quite sure what to call it. Epochal, maybe. So if you’re anywhere near Manhattan on Thursday, go.

For more information, go here.

“Never play a guy at his own game; nobody makes up a game in order to get beat at it.”

Charlie Goldman, quoted in A. J. Liebling, The Sweet Science

I’m coming up on one of my four-deadline weeks. The difference is that after what I went through finishing the Balanchine book, I’m not eager to strip any more of my gears with overwork. Theater-wise, this is the busiest time of the season–every producer in town is trying to open a show in time to be eligible for the Tony Awards–so I’m seeing three plays a week on top of my usual hectic performance-going schedule. That’s why I decided not to blog yesterday (and kept my promise, glory be!), and it’s why you won’t be hearing much from me today, either.

Nevertheless, I do have enough steam in the boiler to let you know what I’ve been up to lately. To wit:

– I saw a press preview of the new Broadway revival of Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun, starring Phylicia Rashad, Audra MacDonald and Sean “Formerly Known as Puffy” Combs (what’s wrong with this picture?), which I’ll be covering in Friday’s Wall Street Journal.

– Courtesy of the Fox Movie Channel and my trusty digital video recorder, I watched the first part of Panic in the Streets (1950), a noirish Elia Kazan film in which Richard Widmark plays a totally good guy, a health inspector trying to keep New Orleans from being decimated by an outbreak of pneumonic plague. It’s pretty good (though I don’t know when I’ll have time to see the rest of it), but I can’t get over the sheer strangeness of Widmark’s being on the side of the angels. Like Dan Duryea, he’s one of those black-and-white actors who seems to have a crack down the middle, and I keep waiting for him to slap a dame around.

– Today I embark on my biennial rereading of W. Jackson Bate’s Samuel Johnson, my favorite modern biography. No special reason–I just looked at my bookshelves yesterday, hoping that a spine would cry out to me, and all at once I thought that it’d be good to spend a little time with my hero, Dr. Johnson.

– I showed the Teachout Museum to a friend yesterday, the same one with whom I’d just seen A Raisin in the Sun She had an interesting and unexpected reaction: “I don’t even like modern art, but I like this.” Even more surprisingly, she was especially taken with Joan Mitchell’s Tree, a multicolored abstract-expressionist lithographic portrayal of…a tree. (No matter how many times they’ve looked at my prints, I always ask my guests which one they like best today.)

– Now playing on iTunes: David Rose’s “Our Waltz,” played in the manner of Ahmad Jamal’s “Poinciana” by George Shearing and the Robert Farnon Orchestra (it’s on How Beautiful is Night). Not a few of my jazz-loving friends find Shearing’s orchestra-accompanied albums to be just this side of kitschy, but this one is iridescently soothing.

And now, if you’ll be so kind as to excuse me, I’m going to get breakfast, write a review (not of breakfast!), then go see the first of two performances, one or more of which will likely find its way into my Washington Post column next Sunday. Watch this space for details.

“I’d never say that the works I love most are necessarily the best.”

Gustav Holst (quoted in Clifford Bax, Ideas and People)

I see in this morning’s Wall Street Journal that I made a small but exasperating mistake in my review of Assassins, in which I refer to “sketches of eight successful and would-be presidential assassins.” As the photograph accompanying the review makes embarrassingly clear, there are nine assassins in Assassins. In fact, I meant “eight sketches,” not “sketches of eight”: Squeaky Fromme and Sara Jane Moore, who both tried to kill Gerald Ford, are portrayed in the same sketch.

So far, I haven’t gotten any calls or e-mail pointing out this slip, but I’m sure they’re coming. Arrgh. Gnashing of teeth.

“Capri is as charming as ever it was, the people as odd: everybody is very immoral, but fortunately not so dull as those who kick over the traces often are.”

W. Somerset Maugham, letter to Violet Hunt (c. 1905)