Encore Peace

The lone figure in black sits at the long ebony Steinway on a large stage filled with musicians, also dressed in black offset by white shirts. The St. Louis Symphony Orchestra. The pianist has recently completed a complex and demanding solo with the Symphony, Bartok’s Piano Concerto #3, to great acclaim. Now he is summoned by a standing ovation to return for an encore. 

He pauses before playing, as complete silence envelops the concert hall. The audience holds its breath in anticipation. Will he play something dashing and energetic? Will he run the scales and pound ferociously with his left hand? Will he attempt to dazzle us with blazing dexterity?

He begins the encore, slowly, quietly, and there it remains, a thoughtful mood, a gray sky with overtones of gold, a fading day. He plays as though playing for himself, in his music room at home, alone, contemplative, as though only he hears his song. The music is pensive, gentle, surprising in its delicacy. The entire focus of all eyes and ears throughout Powell Hall are on the pianist, the way he leans over the keyboard, his fingers assured in every move. All ninety members of the orchestra, focused on him, sit as still as the columns that surround them, cradle their instruments in their arms, as though holding an infant or a puppy.

The mood is holy. In close proximity to religion, maybe even closer to God. The audience is held in a spell. The audience, the music, the pure silence between notes and phrases, no one moves. We have entered the Kingdom of a Higher Power, a holy place, another world contiguous to ours where all is peace and love and delicate harmony. We are all one with the music, the simple yet complex sequence of notes. This, you realize, is how beautifully music binds us together.

The pianist leans and bends, his hands bringing forth clear notes that move us in inexplicable ways. His feet shift slightly under the keyboard, toward the pedals, away, his eyes move from the black and white ivories to somewhere above and beyond the piano, some distant scene only he can see.

Quietly, it draws to a close with no flourish, just a single fading note. A moment of silence. Then the two thousand of the audience and the ninety of the orchestra tell him how much they love him and what he has brought them.

The encore is over. In many ways, however, the music and the mystery will linger forever.

TIME PASSES, OCCASIONALLY PAUSES

There are weeks that pass without leaving a trace of themselves. Silent strangers that pass without a whisper or a footprint. We ask ourselves, “Where did the week go?” Occasionally, however, a week will pause, declare itself with emphasis, mark its passage in neon. Recently, it was more than one week. Almost two.

The days and nights contained fulfilling highs and, sadly, a painful low. Such is time. Such is life.

At the risk of seeming indulgent or boring, here’s how the past twelve days went down. If you have something better to do, like rake leaves or bake chocolate chip cookies, go to it. Just click “like” or whatever you click on the blog so I know someone’s reading these things.

The events began on a Wednesday night, Oct. 14, with a play at New Jewish Theater. A friend and fine actor, Peter Mayer, was hilarious in “The Sunshine Boys,” one of Neil Simon’s funniest in my opinion. John Contini  was his able partner in comedy. I covered it for a new theatrical online service called “BuzzOnStage.com.” 

Thursday I attended a dinner at Acero, in Maplewood, in honor of a guy I used to work with at D’Arcy Advertising. I thought he had died years ago, but turns out he died earlier this year. Stan Moon always wore a bowtie and had a vocabulary that made me feel like a high school dropout. He had been living in Asheville, NC, where he had retired to. Delicious dinner, though (scallops for me), sat between two former D’Arcy guys - Wes Custer and Ed Smith. It was a fine tribute put together by his son Nik.

Friday morning I was at Powell Hall for a “donuts and coffee” concert. One of my favorite events. Kind of a senior Woodstock. The SLSO performed music by Bernstein (“On the Waterfront” suite), a piano concerto by Schumann, and a dynamic rendering of Gershwin’s “An American in Paris.” The bad news was they ran out of donuts. I only got one. The hall was packed, lots of young people from high schools. I’m sure they ate most of the donuts. To be young and unafraid of sugar and fat.

Saturday night and Sunday brunch was “best friends forever” time. 

Five of us guys who stretch back to grade school. One of them was in town from Aspen, where he lives in something between an estate and a castle, on a mountain of course. He was the smart one. Dinner with our wives at the house of one of the couples, Steve and Julie Plax. Then brunch on Sunday at Brasserie by Niche in the Central West End. Guys only. 

Leisurely, laughter, stimulating conversation, perfect Eggs Benedict. followed by a leisurely walk around the Grand Basin in Forest Park on a stunning autumn day.

Last Monday night Mary Lee and I saw Josh Groban in concert at the Peabody Opera House. That guy has some pipes, as they used to say. A beautiful show in a classy venue, although I don’t think it’s changed much since I went there when it was Kiel Opera House. Best memories of it: Jazz at the Phil, and the St. Louis Symphony with Vladimir Golschman conducting. Probably when I was in grade school. I can’t believe I remember his name. I’ll remember Josh Groban’s name too. The place was sold out.

Tuesday around noon I got the call from Jerry Sexton. As soon as I saw his name on my iPhone, I knew. His wife Maryann had passed away during the night. Jerry and Maryann - names forever linked - were two of our dearest friends. The four of us shared so much, enjoyed each other’s sense of humor, appreciation for good food and movies and theater. I have photo albums filled with pictures of us - in Brazil, in China, in Louisville for the annual Festival of New American Plays, and on and on. We all knew time was running out for her. Still……

Skip to this past Thursday. A gentle day, fall weather holding nicely. Mary Lee and I, along with Sadie and Lexi, took a day trip to Ste. Genevieve (an 

hour away), for fried chicken and onion rings at The Anvil on the town square. Then a short stop in Hawn State Park. Bad idea. The Conversation Dept. was doing a once-every-3-year burn. We drove down the road, around the curve, and ran into thick smoke and approaching flames. You’d think they’d put up a warning sign. We got out of there, watery eyes and all, went for a short hike at Pickel Creek, then ended up having coffee at ColJac Cafe in beautiful, downtown Farmington. They make a mean iced frappuccino and the best biscotti I’ve had in years. By the way, there’s a very old state mental hospital in Farmington. Why is this meaningful? Because that’s where the sister of Tennessee Williams spent the rest of her life after a less than successful prefrontal lobotomy many decades ago. We didn’t go there.

I was reminded of how precious life is on Friday evening. Visitation, or a gathering of friends, for Maryann. The line was out the door and stayed that way for two hours or more. I always have trouble making any meaningful conversation at times like this. I basically sit and stare, which some people write off as “he’s unfriendly.” No, just quiet. At times like these, the strength of family and friends makes itself felt. Afterwards, Mary Lee and I needed a bit of an uplift, so we used our two tickets to the Symphony at Powell, my mind bouncing between the music and Maryann and Jerry. Then a quiet trip home to our waiting golden retrievers, who were unusually attentive. They understood.

Saturday morning I went to Mass. Not one of my favorite things to do. But this was for Maryann at Holy Redeemer in Webster. In front of us, on stage, five priests in white, an urn, and a smiling photo of Maryann. Highlight of the morning, for me, was the eulogy delivered by Tim, their son. Maybe the most meaningful eulogy I’ve ever heard. He writes for a living - a screenwriter in LA - and he showed just how beautifully he can write, how deeply he can reach. 

Final installment: last night, Sunday, Oct.25. Stevie Wonder at Scottrade Center with his “Songs in the Key of Life” tour. I can't believe how many great songs he's written. At age 65 he doesn't slow down, putting all his energy into a 3 1/2 hour concert. It doesn’t get any better than that. 

So, if you're still with me - and I hope you are - take heart in the fact that occasionally time will slow down to make an imprint on your life, even as it refuses to completely stop. But you know that wouldn't be any fun. It's in the passing that makes the pauses so meaningful. 

A Pause Before the Turkey

It's been a tough year, right? And it's not over yet. But looking back over the past 11 months, there are a few things I will not give even a small "thanks" for. 


Let's start with the weather. In a word, it sucked. Except for a stretch of 3 or 4 weeks in late summer/early fall. But how about those tornadoes? I used to think it'd be cool to see one, for real, not on the weather channel or a high-budget sci-fi flick. No more. Anytime the skies begin turning green, the wind picks up, and distant sirens wail, I'm going to head for the basement and watch a stack of old movies on my hand-powered DVD player. 


Autumn was colorless, thanks to lack of rain. Winter hurt. Especially at 10 at night when my dog expects a walk. This winter I'm training her to use the flush toilet. And think of the plastic poop bags I'll save. 


The weather has become as unpredictable as the stock market. 


Onward to the Economy: Jobs. Demonstrations. Greed. Madoff Fall-out. China. The new four-letter dirty words: Bank. Debt. Rams. And a St. Louis County Executive who thinks the answer to balancing the budget is to close up County Parks, at the same time he's hiring administrative staff. An advanced case of muddled priorities. 'Nuff said.


Politics. The End of Bipartisanship. Ugly undercurrents. Nasty sound bytes and angry faces. Don't get me started. 


So here is what I give thanks for. My wife, my kids, my dog, my health. Good friends. My brother. The Cardinals. The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. An occasional good movie and even some good TV, as in Dexter, Homeland, and the new Woody Allen doc. Good jazz available on a limited basis, the St. Louis Symphony, the blues (hear 'em, not have 'em), a right shoulder that still lets me serve and hit an occasional forehand winner. Sumatriptin (if you get migraines, you know what I'm talking about). And the joy of writing, which I don't do nearly enough of but enjoy when I do. Like this one.


Happy Thanksgiving.

Another Taste of Chaplin

If things go as planned, my novel, "Shadow and Substance: My Time with Charlie Chaplin," will be off the press by next weekend. Later in the week I'll probably post the first chapter. In the meantime, here's a wonderful scene for your enjoyment. It's from "The Great Dictator," (1940) with Chaplin performing a marvelous pantomime to a familiar piece of classical music.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=monaXOpmH1U