Notes on Notes

Never Knew He Was Famous

 Because of the wild reception of the Varese festival at the New York Philharmonic--Broad Street Review has the best writeup--I’d better get this memory down while I’m still breathing.

As a teenager (and no matter how they disparage themselves they’re all beautiful) I used to hang around the Village String Shop, Pietro Carbone, proprietor. (Gray beard, pink cheeks.) It was dark, like an old painting, and violins hung from the ceiling. Pietro also took care of guitars, and I was a folkie (out in Washington Square with Eric Darling, Roger Sprung and the rest of them, but that’s another story). Occasionally an old gentleman was there too, whom Pietro called Maestro. I called him Mr. Varese.

He always asked about my music studies, and my guitar, and Pietro once got me to play a song for him. He was beatific, I can tell you.

Pietro often said the maestro was sweet on me. "He likes you, Leslie. He’s a very famous man. You’ll see, one day you’ll find out how famous he is." I didn’t want to hear about it. (I would have said I was ugly and didn’t play well, see above.)

Anyway, the maestro lived nearby and invited me to his house to see his paintings. I’m not good at art, got a c, and I didn’t think my mother would want me going with him, but Pietro assured me all would be well.

The paintings weren’t even hung. They were mostly still on the floor, and the waste is that I can’t remember--didn’t know--any of the signed names, which were mostly first names, as in, "to Edgard from Pablo"--one I happen to remember. I am confident that others were of almost that order of magnitude.  He offered me coffee, I escaped uneasily and didn't tell.

Whoever those painters were, I may not know one from another, and never met "Pablo," but I knew Edgard, and played for him, and now the enthusiastic world is arranging it so he plays for me.

 

 

My summer blog is at dailygazette.com. Under the banner, click on blogs, right below that: life & arts, then scroll down till you see my ravishing face. Click on any blog entry you like.

Starting the Summer Where We Left it Last Fall

Tanglewood can’t be faulted for presenting three hugely-attended James Taylor concerts over the July 4th weekend. It’s a hard row to hoe selling tickets for the best classical music, and Taylor fills the place time after time. Bambambam.

He and Carole King are touring with their Troubadour Reunion, which has been on PBS during pledge week, so many people know just what’s on it. The concerts were sold out (until the last few days, when lawn tickets were advertised in the local paper). From checking the line of cars turning off route 7 onto route 183 Saturday around 4:30, one would guess it would take hours to get in for the 7 o’clock concert.

Never assume: at 6:45 I drove into Lenox, ready to time the traffic action from the thick of it. Not only was there no traffic, there were no cops at intersections, nor even a police podium at the monument on the road to the main gate. Ghost town! I zoomed down, wandered about the lawn on a lovely, soft evening.

I sampled the first two events and saw that more than a concert, this is an old-fashioned ritual. It’s the G-rated Dick and Jane crowd, having a nice quiet time. The lawn was full, back to the rear hedges. The walk near the Main House was lined with face-painting and tattoo booths. Some folks drifted around, others chatted or played with their children (the early hour was family-friendly), embraced on blankets or danced quietly. Most ate--under sparkling red, white and blue balloon markers shaped like hats or fish.

Screens outside the Koussevitzky Shed didn’t work till after dark, so most of the lawn crowd saw nothing, but still appeared contented. Everyone on the premises (and surrounding properties) could hear: amplification was so loud that someone who wears a hearing aid replaced it with muffling tissue.

Thinking of the strife in this world, and of the low annoyance threshhold at classical concerts, it was something to see a football land in someone’s picnic, and they simply threw it back. No one snapped when I stepped on their blanket. The tranquillity suggested that this was about more than the concert, but it happened because he and King made their particular sound in the gentle twilight.

July 4th: no traffic anywhere.  Going in, asked the cop how that could be, do they maybe have a master genius somewhere?  He shrugged.  I meant to get a second opinion on the way out, but no cops were to be found.

Taylor said in an interview that this was a spiritual experience. With apologies to Carly Simon, his former wife, that’s the way I’ve always heard it should be.