Have you ever noticed that there is a single theme running through your day? I had a day like that recently and the theme was my first instrument, the piano.
Early in the morning, a pianist approached me as I was busking at the Evanston Farmers’ Market. He asked if I had ever heard any Janáček piano music played on the accordion. I could imagine his Lachian Dances on the accordion, but no, I had never heard them played that way. Then we got into a conversation about Lachian vs. Valachian vs. Bohemian music and I guess he was sufficiently convinced that I was knowledgeable about the subject because he bought one of my Czech/Slovak CDs, even after I warned him that the music on it was nothing like Janáček’s.
After I was done playing at the market, I drove to Chicago's north side Lakewood-Balmoral neighborhood to cruise their yard sales. There is a program on our local classical station called Introductions, which I rarely listen to. I don't like it. But on this particular day I turned it on and left it on. I was rewarded with a workmanship-like student's rendition of Chopin's Ballade in A-flat, op. 47. For a Chopin junkie, this was like finding a wallet stuffed with bills sans ID on the sidewalk. Chopin wrote four Ballades: G-minor, op. 23; F-major, op. 38; the A-flat, op. 47 and F-minor, op. 52. Of the four, the A-flat is least often played, but it is my favorite (although one could argue that the F-minor is a more masterful composition).
Later on at a yard sale, I spied a 1959 program book from one of Artur Rubinstein’s concerts. He was my childhood hero, a Polish pianist who played Chopin with grace, sensitivity and technical prowess, but without mawkish sentimentality. It was only $1 so I grabbed it.
I mentioned that I was a Chopin junkie, which was true when I was a kid. In high school I discovered Dvořák, Rimsky-Korsakoff, Poulenc, Mozart, Debussy, and in college, the greatest of them all, Johann Sebastian Bach. But for about five years, it was all Chopin, all the time. So I was thrilled to find a recent DVD about Chopin, called Pragnienie miłości (Desire for Love) at another yard sale. I considered it overpriced at $3, but I bought it anyway. For those not familiar with classical music, Chopin composed almost exclusively for the piano.
When I got home, I watched the movie. It was maudlin, and, if I were to give it a musical designation, it would be Andantino sappioso con molto saccharino. I detest cheap sentiment and the movie had it, in spades. But there was one scene that made me sit up, pump my fist and yell, “Yessssss!” During this scene, Chopin hears his valet Jan playing an *oberek on his fiddle. He immediately asks Jan to play it over, and he notates it as Jan plays. I’ve done that! I’ve been there! The most frustrating thing is hearing a great tune but not having either staff paper or a recording device handy. I can remember hurriedly scribbling five lines on a piece of scrap paper so I could take dictation on a song someone was singing. During the scene Chopin expands the little oberek on the piano and it morphs into his Mazurka in D major, op. 33 no. 1.
My accordion replaced the piano long ago but this day with its piano theme reminded me that if I hadn’t started playing the piano when I was five, I probably wouldn’t have developed the skills to learn to play the accordion in six months. Have any of you ever had a day like that?
*An oberek is a lively Polish dance in 3/8 time.
Showing posts with label EuroFolk Tunes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label EuroFolk Tunes. Show all posts
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Going to Slovakia
The worst summer of my life was 1990. I had recently been dumped by a long-term boyfriend. I was bored. The school year had ended and I was missing the kids from my choir. My band had no upcoming gigs. A sexy guy yelled at me. Nothing was going right and, even though I had all my arms and legs and wasn’t languishing in a hospital bed, I was miserable. I would go to sleep each night wishing I could wake up dead. And in the middle of it all was this nagging voice that kept saying, “Go to Czechoslovakia.”
I shushed that voice, but it came back over and over. In the fall I enrolled in a Slovak language course and one of the other students brought a list of people running tours to Czechoslovakia (for all you nitpickers, it was still Czechoslovakia), and specifically to the Slovak part of the country. I filed it in a folder and forgot about it until one day at work when I had finished all my tasks and was sitting there bored. I pulled out the folder and thought, I’m going to close my eyes and stick my finger on the page, and whomever it lands on, I’m going to write them a note asking about their tour to Slovakia. When I saw the name my finger was on, which was Helene Cincebeaux, I thought, no way! The name was French, not remotely Slovak, but then I heard my Spirit say, “Write to her.” So I wrote to Helene, telling her that I was very interested in Slovak folk music and if her tour included any concerts of cimbalom bands or folk festivals I might consider going.
A couple weeks later I got an 8-page letter from her, inviting me to travel with her and her mother for six weeks and then join the two-week tour. She promised to introduce me to the musicians I had been slobbering over for years and that we would attend at least three folk festivals. I was ecstatic!
Helene turned out to be Moravian Slovak, and she and her mother Helen were wonderful to travel with. She was as good as her word, and better. I met all the musicians whose recordings I had been listening to for the past 10 years, we attended four folk festivals, and I sat there with my little Sony tape recorder and my music notebook sucking up the culture like a vacuum cleaner. I made new friends. I came home with dozens of songs and recordings.
An unexpected by-product of the trip was that I learned to speak Slovak fluently. It took about two weeks. I already spoke Polish, and one day at the market square in Piešťany, a city in Western Slovakia, a gentleman approached me speaking Polish. I thought, “What a relief! Now I can speak in a language I really know,” but every word came out Slovak. If you had put a gun to my head, I could not speak Polish!
If this story has a moral, it’s listen to your Spirit. It will always steer you in the right direction, and it knows more than your ego.
I shushed that voice, but it came back over and over. In the fall I enrolled in a Slovak language course and one of the other students brought a list of people running tours to Czechoslovakia (for all you nitpickers, it was still Czechoslovakia), and specifically to the Slovak part of the country. I filed it in a folder and forgot about it until one day at work when I had finished all my tasks and was sitting there bored. I pulled out the folder and thought, I’m going to close my eyes and stick my finger on the page, and whomever it lands on, I’m going to write them a note asking about their tour to Slovakia. When I saw the name my finger was on, which was Helene Cincebeaux, I thought, no way! The name was French, not remotely Slovak, but then I heard my Spirit say, “Write to her.” So I wrote to Helene, telling her that I was very interested in Slovak folk music and if her tour included any concerts of cimbalom bands or folk festivals I might consider going.
A couple weeks later I got an 8-page letter from her, inviting me to travel with her and her mother for six weeks and then join the two-week tour. She promised to introduce me to the musicians I had been slobbering over for years and that we would attend at least three folk festivals. I was ecstatic!
Helene turned out to be Moravian Slovak, and she and her mother Helen were wonderful to travel with. She was as good as her word, and better. I met all the musicians whose recordings I had been listening to for the past 10 years, we attended four folk festivals, and I sat there with my little Sony tape recorder and my music notebook sucking up the culture like a vacuum cleaner. I made new friends. I came home with dozens of songs and recordings.
An unexpected by-product of the trip was that I learned to speak Slovak fluently. It took about two weeks. I already spoke Polish, and one day at the market square in Piešťany, a city in Western Slovakia, a gentleman approached me speaking Polish. I thought, “What a relief! Now I can speak in a language I really know,” but every word came out Slovak. If you had put a gun to my head, I could not speak Polish!
If this story has a moral, it’s listen to your Spirit. It will always steer you in the right direction, and it knows more than your ego.
Friday, March 20, 2009
What REALLY Happened
The following story was considered for publication in a book but by the time it went through the necessary channels it had been so watered down and expurgated that there was nothing unique about it. I never got paid for the story as the publisher said I would, so I assume that it went into the “no, thank you” pile. The true story is infinitely cooler than their final version, and it should be told. What really happened was this.
One fine day in June I called the local children’s hospital and asked to do a 40-minute hammer dulcimer program for the kids. I didn’t want money and I wasn’t looking for glory. Several years earlier I had been a music teacher in a Catholic school and, since I left that job, I simply missed seeing children. I figured a hospital wasn’t going to say no to me and this would be the least rejection-prone way to satisfy my craving for some young blood. Naturally, the hospital was very gracious and said of course I could come and do a program, after I attended a training session. Hospitals are very cagey about what they do and don’t reveal about their patients and they also need to make sure all their volunteers are aware of possible etiquette pitfalls, such as calling a little girl “young man” or asking a 12-year old if he’s started kindergarten yet.
Once I was appropriately prepped to avoid any possible faux pas, I slathered on the usual three pounds of makeup, trussed myself up in a Slovak outfit, packed the dulcimer and headed for the hospital. This was at the time Chicago was accepting a large contingent of Bosnian war refugees and I wondered if there were any Bosnian children at the hospital because I wanted to try out a Bosnian song. There was only one. A single boy, in the ICU, who was not being treated for a war injury, but for something else. For the sake of privacy, I’ll call him Mujo. After a bit of hemming, hawing, intercom exchanges, and other back-and-forth, I was permitted to go to the ICU to see him. Leaving the dulcimer downstairs, I rushed up to say hello, and I sang him a song in Bosnian. He had an awestruck smile on his face, the kind of look that says, “An American woman who looks like a movie star is singing just for me in my language!”
Having gotten my “kid fix” I went home and resumed my life, but, inspired by that boy's smile, I was now determined to learn to speak Bosnian by hook or by crook.
Towards the end of that summer I had dipped my toe into an illicit relationship with a Bosnian refugee and then abruptly severed the budding liaison when I discovered he had a wife and daughter. Later that fall, I decided to follow a more wholesome path to learning Bosnian and I registered with a local Christian organization that provides English tutors for newly arrived refugees. After taking their training class and passing a background check they set me up with a family to tutor. They lived two miles from me in a rough, gang-infested neighborhood but I was ready to rock and roll. I asked if the family had any children and they said yes, there were two kids. I immediately went out and bought toys for them but then heard the voice of my Spirit say, “Slow down.” Since I had ignored the last warning it had given me – which was to stay away from that married Bosnian refugee – I owed it to my Spirit to listen and obey this time. I got out my cards and did a reading. Surprise, surprise. The cards indicated that “my” family was moving away and that I should not get attached.
The very next day, my supervisor Linda at the agency called to tell me, “I have some bad news for you. The family you were going to tutor is moving to Iowa. They left this morning. But we’ll get you a new family.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
An hour later she called again. “We have a new family for you!” As it turned out, they were not only walking distance from my house, but in a much safer neighborhood. I asked about children and was told there were two. Great, I could give the toys I had bought to those kids. I was set!
That evening Linda picked me up and took me to meet the family. She had spoken – firmly – to me about not using Bosnian with them, only English. It was as if she knew my ulterior motive and was making sure that my volunteering was all about them and not about me. The parents, Amela and Nijaz spoke almost no English. I gave the children the toys. They were thrilled, then shyly tried to give them back. I walked around the cramped but immaculate apartment teaching Amela the English words for common household items. Table. Spoon. Fork. Light. Wall. The dialogue lurched politely and tentatively. I was dying to jumpstart the conversation with a few words in Bosnian but Linda's stern presence put that fire out. No deal. Finally, Amela pulled out family pictures and we were off and running. As it turned out, Amela had learned a couple words in English that she could remember. “My mother.” “Husband.” “Sister.” And then she pulled out another picture. “Other son.”
It was Mujo, in his hospital bed.
“I know him! I know him!” I screamed. Defying the rules I cried out, “Bila sam u njega! Viđela sam ga! Pjevala sam!” “I was there! I saw him! I sang!” It took a few minutes but we sorted out the story and by the time I left two hours later, we weren’t student and tutor anymore, we were friends.
I worked with the family for several years until they bought a condo and moved to an even nicer neighborhood. I still visited occasionally and eventually Amela called to ask me to tutor her so she could pass the citizenship test. I was a hard-nosed teacher and drilled her like a machine. She passed. The family is doing well, their oldest son is married with a condo of his own and they are all American citizens now.
The Christian organization I tutored for solicited stories from its volunteers to submit for a collection called Chicken Soup for the Volunteer’s Soul and I sent in the above. They said it was the best one they had received but, in accordance with their evangelical agenda, this, that and the other had to go. They stripped the part about me listening to my Spirit. They scotched the card reading. All I was left with was a couple whitewashed coincidences and some bland, fuzzy platitudes. The publisher’s editor sweetened the story up further, and by the time you got done reading the final version, you needed a couple shots of insulin.
Despite the tame spin the kindly but prosaic Evangelicals put on my tale, it was my Spirit, gosh darn it, that led me to the hospital that sunny June day, it was my Spirit that communicated with me through the cards and it was my Spirit that guided me on the path to tutor that particular family. Spirit speaks like opportunity. It taps once, and gently. Whether you follow its advice or not is your call.
One fine day in June I called the local children’s hospital and asked to do a 40-minute hammer dulcimer program for the kids. I didn’t want money and I wasn’t looking for glory. Several years earlier I had been a music teacher in a Catholic school and, since I left that job, I simply missed seeing children. I figured a hospital wasn’t going to say no to me and this would be the least rejection-prone way to satisfy my craving for some young blood. Naturally, the hospital was very gracious and said of course I could come and do a program, after I attended a training session. Hospitals are very cagey about what they do and don’t reveal about their patients and they also need to make sure all their volunteers are aware of possible etiquette pitfalls, such as calling a little girl “young man” or asking a 12-year old if he’s started kindergarten yet.
Once I was appropriately prepped to avoid any possible faux pas, I slathered on the usual three pounds of makeup, trussed myself up in a Slovak outfit, packed the dulcimer and headed for the hospital. This was at the time Chicago was accepting a large contingent of Bosnian war refugees and I wondered if there were any Bosnian children at the hospital because I wanted to try out a Bosnian song. There was only one. A single boy, in the ICU, who was not being treated for a war injury, but for something else. For the sake of privacy, I’ll call him Mujo. After a bit of hemming, hawing, intercom exchanges, and other back-and-forth, I was permitted to go to the ICU to see him. Leaving the dulcimer downstairs, I rushed up to say hello, and I sang him a song in Bosnian. He had an awestruck smile on his face, the kind of look that says, “An American woman who looks like a movie star is singing just for me in my language!”
Having gotten my “kid fix” I went home and resumed my life, but, inspired by that boy's smile, I was now determined to learn to speak Bosnian by hook or by crook.
Towards the end of that summer I had dipped my toe into an illicit relationship with a Bosnian refugee and then abruptly severed the budding liaison when I discovered he had a wife and daughter. Later that fall, I decided to follow a more wholesome path to learning Bosnian and I registered with a local Christian organization that provides English tutors for newly arrived refugees. After taking their training class and passing a background check they set me up with a family to tutor. They lived two miles from me in a rough, gang-infested neighborhood but I was ready to rock and roll. I asked if the family had any children and they said yes, there were two kids. I immediately went out and bought toys for them but then heard the voice of my Spirit say, “Slow down.” Since I had ignored the last warning it had given me – which was to stay away from that married Bosnian refugee – I owed it to my Spirit to listen and obey this time. I got out my cards and did a reading. Surprise, surprise. The cards indicated that “my” family was moving away and that I should not get attached.
The very next day, my supervisor Linda at the agency called to tell me, “I have some bad news for you. The family you were going to tutor is moving to Iowa. They left this morning. But we’ll get you a new family.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
An hour later she called again. “We have a new family for you!” As it turned out, they were not only walking distance from my house, but in a much safer neighborhood. I asked about children and was told there were two. Great, I could give the toys I had bought to those kids. I was set!
That evening Linda picked me up and took me to meet the family. She had spoken – firmly – to me about not using Bosnian with them, only English. It was as if she knew my ulterior motive and was making sure that my volunteering was all about them and not about me. The parents, Amela and Nijaz spoke almost no English. I gave the children the toys. They were thrilled, then shyly tried to give them back. I walked around the cramped but immaculate apartment teaching Amela the English words for common household items. Table. Spoon. Fork. Light. Wall. The dialogue lurched politely and tentatively. I was dying to jumpstart the conversation with a few words in Bosnian but Linda's stern presence put that fire out. No deal. Finally, Amela pulled out family pictures and we were off and running. As it turned out, Amela had learned a couple words in English that she could remember. “My mother.” “Husband.” “Sister.” And then she pulled out another picture. “Other son.”
It was Mujo, in his hospital bed.
“I know him! I know him!” I screamed. Defying the rules I cried out, “Bila sam u njega! Viđela sam ga! Pjevala sam!” “I was there! I saw him! I sang!” It took a few minutes but we sorted out the story and by the time I left two hours later, we weren’t student and tutor anymore, we were friends.
I worked with the family for several years until they bought a condo and moved to an even nicer neighborhood. I still visited occasionally and eventually Amela called to ask me to tutor her so she could pass the citizenship test. I was a hard-nosed teacher and drilled her like a machine. She passed. The family is doing well, their oldest son is married with a condo of his own and they are all American citizens now.
The Christian organization I tutored for solicited stories from its volunteers to submit for a collection called Chicken Soup for the Volunteer’s Soul and I sent in the above. They said it was the best one they had received but, in accordance with their evangelical agenda, this, that and the other had to go. They stripped the part about me listening to my Spirit. They scotched the card reading. All I was left with was a couple whitewashed coincidences and some bland, fuzzy platitudes. The publisher’s editor sweetened the story up further, and by the time you got done reading the final version, you needed a couple shots of insulin.
Despite the tame spin the kindly but prosaic Evangelicals put on my tale, it was my Spirit, gosh darn it, that led me to the hospital that sunny June day, it was my Spirit that communicated with me through the cards and it was my Spirit that guided me on the path to tutor that particular family. Spirit speaks like opportunity. It taps once, and gently. Whether you follow its advice or not is your call.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Smart-alecky musical snark
When I was in kindergarden I used to torture myself by imaging a melody, from something as simple as Happy Birthday to the overture to Candide by Leonard Bernstein, with nothing but tonic chords underneath it. Try it, you'll hate it. The next couple stories may amuse but not surprise all of my fellow musicians.
One day back in the '90's I attended the reading of a musical play with my friend Val. I don't remember the name of the play, but what I do recall is the music was crowded with ninth chords. When the playwright asked for comments after the show I told him there were way too many ninth chords in the music and it was distracting.
Stunned silence all around.
"Were there a lot of ninth chords?" the author asked the pianist. The pianist nodded.
More silence, broken about 30 seconds later.
"O-kay," said the author. "Anyone else have a problem with the ninth chords? No? Then let's move on."
One day I went to see a Klezmer band at some hole-in-the-wall on Lincoln Avenue. They played for about an hour and then asked the audience if they had any requests. "Yeah," I retorted rudely, "could you play something that isn't in D-minor?"
Now that I have joined a Klezmer band myself my perspective has changed. I related the above story to the band leader, an outstanding musician (this is a guy of whom you don't ask what instrument he plays, but what doesn't he play) and he was surprisingly understanding. "To most folks D-minor is just another key. To us, it's a living!" Yes, Dan had the last word on that one. Yea, D-minor!
One day back in the '90's I attended the reading of a musical play with my friend Val. I don't remember the name of the play, but what I do recall is the music was crowded with ninth chords. When the playwright asked for comments after the show I told him there were way too many ninth chords in the music and it was distracting.
Stunned silence all around.
"Were there a lot of ninth chords?" the author asked the pianist. The pianist nodded.
More silence, broken about 30 seconds later.
"O-kay," said the author. "Anyone else have a problem with the ninth chords? No? Then let's move on."
One day I went to see a Klezmer band at some hole-in-the-wall on Lincoln Avenue. They played for about an hour and then asked the audience if they had any requests. "Yeah," I retorted rudely, "could you play something that isn't in D-minor?"
Now that I have joined a Klezmer band myself my perspective has changed. I related the above story to the band leader, an outstanding musician (this is a guy of whom you don't ask what instrument he plays, but what doesn't he play) and he was surprisingly understanding. "To most folks D-minor is just another key. To us, it's a living!" Yes, Dan had the last word on that one. Yea, D-minor!
Monday, September 1, 2008
Busking Ethics
Hey, buskers! Are you nicer to people who give you big tips than to those who give you itty-bitty ones? How do you handle weirdoes?
This was my ethical dilemma the last two Saturdays when I played my accordion at Giddings Plaza on Chicago’s North Side. My official policy is to treat everyone with respect and gratitude whether they give me a couple pennies or a $20 bill. My attitude is I’m there to have a good time, talk to people, play songs I like, try out new tunes, and enjoy the atmosphere of “no pressure”. The money is secondary, although if I weren’t allowed to put out a tip jar I wouldn’t busk.
On August 23 as I was talking to a woman from Cluj, Romania http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BuCVAQ0BkVo who recognized some of my songs, an aggressive panhandler approached us. “Can ya spare some change? I’m hungry and homeless,” he whined right in our faces. More out of a desire to not look like a cheapskate than to help him, I pulled out a dollar from my tip jar and handed it to him. I just wanted him to go away so I could jump back into the conversation. I was supremely irritated despite the fact that I could more than afford to help him out. First because he interrupted me and second because I felt I had let him bully me into relinquishing something I had earned. He didn’t even bother to compliment my playing.
Saturday, August 30 was a New Moon. What you start at New Moon comes to fruition at the next Full Moon so I was determined to start at least one new thing. I had just learned a song that day, Badea-l meu de astă vară (My Sweetheart from Last Summer, a Romanian song from Transilvania) and played it twice that night. I was rocking out. People were obviously into it, judging from all the compliments and tips I was getting. It was a great night for another reason, three six-sensory friends, Kate, Karen and Carol had come to have dinner at Café Selmarie, hang out at the Plaza and listen to me play. With those three shooting good vibes at me I couldn’t go wrong. Halfway through the evening Karen went to Potbellies to get me a roast beef sandwich. It was cut in two. I ate half of it and wrapped the other half carefully, intending to save it for later.
The evening wore on and the tips and compliments kept coming. My friends, having spent more than three hours there, went home. Up came Sir Panhandles-A-Lot. This time it was, “Can ya help me out? I’m hungry and I need to get something to eat.” In my face. This time I was ready. “Wait ’til I finish this,” I shot back. No way was I going to interrupt Sikoreczka świergoli (The Skylark Sings, from Cieszyn, Poland) for that guy. He sat down on a bench and tried to engage a woman in conversation. She was complicit for a moment, but quickly vamoosed. Not only did he horn in when I was busy playing, but he was driving away my audience! I kept playing and formulated my strategy. By the time he hit me up again I was ready. “I have a sandwich for you,” I said. “I need money,” he replied. “You said you were hungry, and I have a perfectly good sandwich. Take it or leave it.”
“You can’t help me out?”
“Sorry.” And off he went. Did I do the right thing?
Late in the evening I noticed a guy sitting on a bench applauding every song I played. He was balding and wore glasses. In other words, he looked intelligent. But as I was packing up he approached me and the reality was much different. He was plastered. “Wish I could give you some money,” he slurred, “but I own an apartment building and I’m waiting for the rent.” Uh…not likely. I responded politely to his ramblings for a few minutes and looked at the photo of himself with Little Wally he was eager to show me. “Very nice,” I said without enthusiasm and faded into the darkness.
Did I do the right thing?
This was my ethical dilemma the last two Saturdays when I played my accordion at Giddings Plaza on Chicago’s North Side. My official policy is to treat everyone with respect and gratitude whether they give me a couple pennies or a $20 bill. My attitude is I’m there to have a good time, talk to people, play songs I like, try out new tunes, and enjoy the atmosphere of “no pressure”. The money is secondary, although if I weren’t allowed to put out a tip jar I wouldn’t busk.
On August 23 as I was talking to a woman from Cluj, Romania http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BuCVAQ0BkVo who recognized some of my songs, an aggressive panhandler approached us. “Can ya spare some change? I’m hungry and homeless,” he whined right in our faces. More out of a desire to not look like a cheapskate than to help him, I pulled out a dollar from my tip jar and handed it to him. I just wanted him to go away so I could jump back into the conversation. I was supremely irritated despite the fact that I could more than afford to help him out. First because he interrupted me and second because I felt I had let him bully me into relinquishing something I had earned. He didn’t even bother to compliment my playing.
Saturday, August 30 was a New Moon. What you start at New Moon comes to fruition at the next Full Moon so I was determined to start at least one new thing. I had just learned a song that day, Badea-l meu de astă vară (My Sweetheart from Last Summer, a Romanian song from Transilvania) and played it twice that night. I was rocking out. People were obviously into it, judging from all the compliments and tips I was getting. It was a great night for another reason, three six-sensory friends, Kate, Karen and Carol had come to have dinner at Café Selmarie, hang out at the Plaza and listen to me play. With those three shooting good vibes at me I couldn’t go wrong. Halfway through the evening Karen went to Potbellies to get me a roast beef sandwich. It was cut in two. I ate half of it and wrapped the other half carefully, intending to save it for later.
The evening wore on and the tips and compliments kept coming. My friends, having spent more than three hours there, went home. Up came Sir Panhandles-A-Lot. This time it was, “Can ya help me out? I’m hungry and I need to get something to eat.” In my face. This time I was ready. “Wait ’til I finish this,” I shot back. No way was I going to interrupt Sikoreczka świergoli (The Skylark Sings, from Cieszyn, Poland) for that guy. He sat down on a bench and tried to engage a woman in conversation. She was complicit for a moment, but quickly vamoosed. Not only did he horn in when I was busy playing, but he was driving away my audience! I kept playing and formulated my strategy. By the time he hit me up again I was ready. “I have a sandwich for you,” I said. “I need money,” he replied. “You said you were hungry, and I have a perfectly good sandwich. Take it or leave it.”
“You can’t help me out?”
“Sorry.” And off he went. Did I do the right thing?
Late in the evening I noticed a guy sitting on a bench applauding every song I played. He was balding and wore glasses. In other words, he looked intelligent. But as I was packing up he approached me and the reality was much different. He was plastered. “Wish I could give you some money,” he slurred, “but I own an apartment building and I’m waiting for the rent.” Uh…not likely. I responded politely to his ramblings for a few minutes and looked at the photo of himself with Little Wally he was eager to show me. “Very nice,” I said without enthusiasm and faded into the darkness.
Did I do the right thing?
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Who the h*ll likes all kinds of music?!
Today the Chicago Tribune printed a list of 13 public officials and the top 10 tracks on their I-pods. There were 120 tracks total, since one guy didn’t own an I-pod.
The list was interesting to me for a rather snobby reason. There was not one piece of serious music on it, or, what most folks describe as “classical” although that term technically describes music from a specific era (approximately 1750 – 1827). I did not notice any European folk music either, although that was not at all surprising. Euro folk (other than Celtic, which everyone likes with the exception of aliens and meanies) is an acquired taste, and if you’re a public servant you don’t have a whole lot of time to spend acquiring taste.
Back in the 1970’s when I was a teenager, I often encountered people who claimed they like “all kinds of music”. But what they really meant is they like all kinds of pop music, as these high-profile I-pod top 10’s suggest. When I had friends over, I asked them what kind of tunes they wanted to hear. They invariably said “Oh, anything. I like all kinds of music.” But if I put on a recording of, say, a Moravian cimbalom band or the Brahms Requiem the dismayed reaction was, “Oh please. Not that!”
So it was back to Queen or, in pathetic cases, The Archies.
I’m not saying I’d vote for someone because his or her top track was the Bach B-minor Mass, but I would regard that person with more respect, especially if s/he hadn’t been indicted yet.
It’s been a long time since anyone handed me a line about liking all kinds of music. Now many of my friends are musicians themselves, and, believe me, they tell me what they like and what they don’t!
The list was interesting to me for a rather snobby reason. There was not one piece of serious music on it, or, what most folks describe as “classical” although that term technically describes music from a specific era (approximately 1750 – 1827). I did not notice any European folk music either, although that was not at all surprising. Euro folk (other than Celtic, which everyone likes with the exception of aliens and meanies) is an acquired taste, and if you’re a public servant you don’t have a whole lot of time to spend acquiring taste.
Back in the 1970’s when I was a teenager, I often encountered people who claimed they like “all kinds of music”. But what they really meant is they like all kinds of pop music, as these high-profile I-pod top 10’s suggest. When I had friends over, I asked them what kind of tunes they wanted to hear. They invariably said “Oh, anything. I like all kinds of music.” But if I put on a recording of, say, a Moravian cimbalom band or the Brahms Requiem the dismayed reaction was, “Oh please. Not that!”
So it was back to Queen or, in pathetic cases, The Archies.
I’m not saying I’d vote for someone because his or her top track was the Bach B-minor Mass, but I would regard that person with more respect, especially if s/he hadn’t been indicted yet.
It’s been a long time since anyone handed me a line about liking all kinds of music. Now many of my friends are musicians themselves, and, believe me, they tell me what they like and what they don’t!
Sunday, June 29, 2008
RAINED OUT!
Back in the mid '90's I was in a band called Slavic Projection Folk Ensemble. Slavic Projection, which was a vocal and string-intensive (violin, dulcimer, guitar, bass and banjo...once) band, affectionately known to its members as SPFE, pronounced spiffy, was formed in 1980, but its heyday was the '90's, and particularly 1993 through 1998, before I ruined everything by teaching myself to play the accordion.
The summer of 1996 was particularly brutal, not because of the heat but because of our bad luck. We were scheduled to play at the Ravenswood Manor Concert Series and I had just met a guy I wanted to impress so I invited him to come hear us there. Well, apparently my Russian Gypsy cards, which I consulted about the guy, were right about him. He was bad news. And just to make sure we didn't get together we were rained out. The Ravenswood Manor Concert Series had never been rained out before. So we rescheduled and I made sneaky plans to invite Mr. Bad to our next performance several weeks later. The day started out beautifully. Sunshine, low humidity, a few puffy clouds. About a half hour before we were supposed to play, you guessed it, the rain came down like gas prices before an election. We also had an indoor performance as I recall, later that summer. 5 people attended. Mr. Bad was not one of them.
Late that summer we played an outdoor concert at Valparaiso University in Indiana. We were very nervous about the rain and it did start drizzling the moment we stepped out on stage. It was the other band, a Russian balalaika-based group, however, that inherited the Slavic Projection Curse. They ended up playing in a substantial rainfall, while we were inside, wiping off our instruments and collecting our check.
So, in remembrance of that Summer of '96, here is a rundown of my outdoor performances to date this summer:
May 28, Giddings Plaza. Chilly, but not intolerable. A pushy dude wanted to try out my accordion and play "one song" which sounded like 5 or 6 songs all run together and took about 15 minutes. I didn't share my tips with him.
June 7, Giddings Plaza. Rained out, plus had my tip jar stolen by two thugs. They got about $30. Worth risking jail for?
June 21, Evanston Farmers' Market. Rained out.
June 28, Giddings Plaza. Rained out!!! But here's the thing, I was meeting friends for dinner so I stayed in the neighborhood. As they brought the dessert for my friends, I snuck out and played until 10 p.m. in the rain-free night. Shhhhh....don't tell the powers that be.
I play indoors twice a month at Klas Restaurant, 5734 W. Cermak Road in Cicero. If and when Chicago experiences a drought, I will request to play in their beer garden. Drought over, crops saved.
The summer of 1996 was particularly brutal, not because of the heat but because of our bad luck. We were scheduled to play at the Ravenswood Manor Concert Series and I had just met a guy I wanted to impress so I invited him to come hear us there. Well, apparently my Russian Gypsy cards, which I consulted about the guy, were right about him. He was bad news. And just to make sure we didn't get together we were rained out. The Ravenswood Manor Concert Series had never been rained out before. So we rescheduled and I made sneaky plans to invite Mr. Bad to our next performance several weeks later. The day started out beautifully. Sunshine, low humidity, a few puffy clouds. About a half hour before we were supposed to play, you guessed it, the rain came down like gas prices before an election. We also had an indoor performance as I recall, later that summer. 5 people attended. Mr. Bad was not one of them.
Late that summer we played an outdoor concert at Valparaiso University in Indiana. We were very nervous about the rain and it did start drizzling the moment we stepped out on stage. It was the other band, a Russian balalaika-based group, however, that inherited the Slavic Projection Curse. They ended up playing in a substantial rainfall, while we were inside, wiping off our instruments and collecting our check.
So, in remembrance of that Summer of '96, here is a rundown of my outdoor performances to date this summer:
May 28, Giddings Plaza. Chilly, but not intolerable. A pushy dude wanted to try out my accordion and play "one song" which sounded like 5 or 6 songs all run together and took about 15 minutes. I didn't share my tips with him.
June 7, Giddings Plaza. Rained out, plus had my tip jar stolen by two thugs. They got about $30. Worth risking jail for?
June 21, Evanston Farmers' Market. Rained out.
June 28, Giddings Plaza. Rained out!!! But here's the thing, I was meeting friends for dinner so I stayed in the neighborhood. As they brought the dessert for my friends, I snuck out and played until 10 p.m. in the rain-free night. Shhhhh....don't tell the powers that be.
I play indoors twice a month at Klas Restaurant, 5734 W. Cermak Road in Cicero. If and when Chicago experiences a drought, I will request to play in their beer garden. Drought over, crops saved.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
