Guilty Secrets

Everyone has guilty secrets.  Most, we assume, are small ones.  I have mine which, at my age, I’m not longer quite so guilty about.  They are small secrets.  I don’t, for example, put panty hose over my head and rob banks (although I could use the money).  There are no crimes, major or minor, in my list of guilty secrets.  But it’s time to clear this particular closet:

—My favorite pizza is Tombstone frozen.  People roll their eyes when I tell them that, especially since I live in Chicago, famous for pizza.  I don’t like our Chicago deep dish either.  But Tombstone pizza, bumped up a bit with more cheese, some fake hamburger, slices of tomatoes, and fresh mushrooms, and you have my idea of a perfect pizza.  So sue me.

—I don’t like my pasta al dente; I want it, if anything, overcooked.  Why eat raw pasta?

—I love Jeopardy! in the afternoons.  Assuming I can get the ABC channel, which I can’t always with my antenna reception.  But I love sipping my afternoon coffee and proving that I really don’t know as much as I would like to think I do.

—I can rarely pass a 7-11 without getting a Slurpee.  But I am a man of discriminating taste: I only drink the cola flavor.

—I don’t buy ice cream often, but when I do I do not dish it up; rather, I eat it right out of the carton.  I’ve never claimed to be elegant.

—I prefer white rice to brown.  I know brown is healthier, but, perhaps because white rice is what I grew up on, I prefer that.

—One of the great joys of retirement is an afternoon nap.  Anywhere from noon to 4:00 you may find me recumbent, snuggled up with my cat Jake.  I never nap for long, usually about half an hour, but it is a regular part of my afternoon and it never seems to interfere with night sleep.  And to make sure I’m not disturbed, I turn the ringer on my phone to silent.

As sins go, this is a pretty pallid list.  But it’s all I’ve got to offer.  But there’s always the chance I might still rob that bank.

Catching Up

I read quite a bit.  Not as much as I used to, what with poor eyesight, knees and a hip that ache if I sit more than 15 minutes, and a multitude of distractions which I no longer seem able to block out.  Still, I do read as much as I can.  In my callow youth I felt like every book I started I needed to finish, no matter how hard or boring.  I’m not sure why I felt that way, but I did.  But since I’ve retired, I’ve let that attitude go, and now I read as long as I’m interested, and then I stop.  But sometimes, in recent years, I’ve stopped reading something I was actually enjoying but put aside for something else—and then haven’t gone back to the book.  It’s time I did some catching up, so I’m resolved to finish some important books that I stopped mid-book for some reason I no longer remember.  Here are the main ones on my list:

Moby Dick I read in college (prior to 1971) and recently decided to read again.  I stopped about halfway through to read something else, probably easier.  It’s time now to finish that sucker off.  And having read it before isn’t an excuse.

Ulysses, by James Joyce, is a famously difficult work.  I was reading it in conjunction with a Teaching Company DVD course on the book.  I’ve not read this one before, and it’s considered a major masterpiece of English literature, so I definitely need to go back and finish it.  Besides, some close friends have read it and, while we’re not in a race, I want to keep up with them.  So, after Moby Dick, it’s back to Ulysses.

The Iliad I’ve read many times, taught once, and studied recently in my four-year Basic Program for Liberal Education for Adults at the University of Chicago.  But after reading Why Homer Matters, by Adam Nicolson, I felt I wanted to read The Iliad yet again.  And about halfway through I got distracted by something, no doubt lighter and less . . . classical.  Alexander McCall Smith?  I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.  But I love The Iliad, and it is certainly worthy of another read.  So that’s number three on my catch up list.

Number 4 is indeed exceedingly difficult: all seven volumes of In Search of Lost Time (until recently usually called, somewhat inaccurately, Remembrance of Things Past).  This famously tough read by Marcel Proust has long been on my list to read; in fact, I’ve read the first two volumes already, some years ago.  And then twice (!) I got about a third of the way through volume three and gave up.  At least I’m not alone there: a little research and I found out a lot of people bog down in volume three.  At least that’s what I want to believe.  But I’m not getting any younger, so if I’m ever going to read all of In Search of Lost Time, I shouldn’t tarry too long.  Except it’s been so long since I read Swan’s Way and Within a Budding Grove that I’m going to have to start the whole process over again—accompanied by some coffee and madeleines: read Swan’s Way to understand about the madeleines!

There are other classics I need and want to read (Emma and The Prelude, for example), but that’s a different category.  And then there are some classics I will never read (Finnegan’s Wake is one).  But the four just listed I started and didn’t finish.  It’s time to bring those books to a close.  I’ll keep you posted on how I do!

Making Pickles

I can be, and have been, called a lot of things.  “Domestic Goddess” is not one of them.  Although there have been a few times in my life where I cooked on a slightly higher level, there haven’t been many.  And recently, most of my cooking involves reading the instructions on a frozen dinner from Trader Joe’s.  But I recently ran across a recipe for refrigerator pickles which looked good—and easy.  And so it turned out to be.

Refrigerator pickles are canned in the ordinary way, except the final steps of pressure cooking, sterilizing, and preserving for all of eternity are not used; the pickles are simply kept in the refrigerator until eaten, and they can be kept for “up to” three months, whatever that means.

Over several days I collected all the ingredients (see the recipe below), followed the instructions to the letter (with some minor exceptions), and the results you see above: delicious pickles!  And they aren’t going to last three months, either.  I’ve already gone through two jars and am on the third (of five).

My next kitchen magic:  madeleines!  These are the small sponge cakes, baked in a special muffin tin, each mold shaped like a seashell.  They are always associated with Proust and the opening of In Search of Lost Time.  I’ve already got the pan.  I just need to get the Moxie, and a few ingredients, to attempt them.  No doubt I’ll give a full report here.  I should also, while I’m at it, finish reading In Search of Lost Time.

In the meantime, here is the refrigerator pickle recipe for interested parties:

Brine:

10 cloves garlic peeled

2 cups white vinegar

6 teaspoons kosher salt

Several sprigs fresh dill

1 teaspoon celery seed

1 teaspoon coriander seed

1 teaspoon mustard seed

1/2 teaspoon black peppercorns

Vegetables:

6 Kirby cucumbers, quartered lengthwise [I used organic, unwaxed cucumbers]

6 medium carrots, peeled and cut in half lengthwise

A handful of green beans

A few pieces of cauliflower

2 jalapeños

Instructions:

1.  In a medium saucepan, boil 4 cups of water; reduce to a simmer and add garlic.  Cook 5 minutes.  Add vinegar and salt; boil.  Stir until salt dissolves.  Remove from heat.

2.  In two 1-quart mason jars [I used 5 1-pint jars], add dill, seeds and peppercorns.  Using tongs, remove garlic from brine and add to jars.  Pack jars with vegetables and chilies.

3.  Bring brine to a boil and pour over vegetables, to cover.  Cool, cover and refrigerate.  The pickles are best after a few days and keep for up to 3 months.

[Source: June/July 2015 issue of AARP Magazine]

Hypocritical Vegetarian

Being vegetarian isn’t easy.  And I don’t mean just giving up the meat I love (Vienna sausages!), but learning to adapt to a vegetarian diet and, especially, having to explain and justify my choices to others.  And that justification isn’t made any easier by my occasional—and limited—slippage into meat eating.  There are a variety of vegetarians: vegans (no animal products at all); pescatarians (no red meat but fish is okay); ovo-lacto vegetarians (no meat, but eggs and dairy products are fine); and even pollo vegetarians (these eat chicken but no red meat).  But for reasons I’ll explain, I have invented a new category for myself: a “hypocritical vegetarian.”

I first became a vegetarian after reading Animal Factories circa 1980, although a quick check on the internet suggests I may have that title wrong; regardless, I made the decision to become vegetarian based on a book (my partner said “You read too much,” which suggests where that relationship was going!).  Later, I slipped back into eating meat; it’s very easy to do.  Then when I moved to San Diego, and roomed with a pescatarian, I decided to follow suit.  Within a few months I quit eating fish, too.  And I stuck with that carefully while in San Diego and even after moving back to Texas.

Most of the time I call myself an ovo-lacto vegetarian.  I have tried being vegan, and I believe that is the right choice, but I haven’t been successful, mostly thanks to having to give up cheese.  So most of the time I believe in being vegan, but practice ovo-lacto vegetarianism; thus, I am a hypocritical vegetarian on one count.   Ah, but there is more on the slippery slope to hypocrisy.

After moving back to Texas I was careful about my vegetarian diet—until my first visit to New Orleans.  I found a vegetarian restaurant there, and had one of the worst meals ever.  So, I made the decision to eat crab cakes based on the totally specious logic that really they were just large spiders.  I know . . .  So, when in New Orleans, I would eat crab cakes.  Hypocrisy count two.

Later, when visiting my friend Roger in the wilds of Wisconsin, I was again faced with no options at restaurants except crab cakes.  It’s a good thing I love crab cakes!  

And then on my first trip to London and Paris, I decided that one simply couldn’t eat in Paris without having some kind of seafood.  Those scallops in Paris were delicious.  Hypocrisy count three.

Recently, my friend Keith, from San Diego, came to visit.  He’s the pescatarian with whom I shared a house.  There was nothing to be done but join him in eating fish.  And then when I visited him and his husband, Victor, recently, I again ate fish, especially when we traveled to wine country in Mexico.  And my first octopus.  Hypocrisy count four.

I still consider myself a vegetarian.  And roughly 99% of the time I follow that philosophy closely.  But I have my moments of “slippage,” and while I’m not ashamed of those fumbles—I am, after all, only human—I do try to resist and for the most part I succeed.  I can live with being a hypocritical vegetarian.

Living High on the Metaphorical Hog

I’m a diner-food kind of guy.  I consider Ann Sather’s Diner upscale because their fruit dish has a couple of blueberries in it.  No foodie I.  Actually, I’m not even sure “foodie” is a compliment or an insult.  But either way, I’m not one.  But I have friends who are.  Recently, my friend Keith visited from San Diego and he, by any definition, is a foodie (which in his case I mean as a compliment).  So while he was here I became a gourmand, eating way higher on the hog, metaphorically speaking, than I usually do—well, since the last time Keith visited.

Chicago has become one of the top three foodie cities in the U.S., after New York City and, probably, before San Francisco.  So Keith and I ate really, really well—mostly, I am embarrassed to admit, on his dime.  Dime?  Ha!  One of our meals cost around $180 per person—and we had to bring our own wines.  But I thought I would share some of our finer meals as I go back to Stella’s Diner and Monroe Diner. 

He arrived on a Friday and I had made reservations at one of my favorite downtown restaurants: Trattoria 10 (http://www.trattoriaten.com/).  So after getting him checked into his hotel in the Gold Coast, we headed downtown, first to look at some of the monumental sculptures and then a rather late dinner.  Trattoria 10 has been around for many years and is most famous for its ravioli; however, since I had decided to break my usual rule of no fish while he was here (I’ll save the explanation of that convoluted logic for another blog), I decided on the seared day boat scallops.  What a great choice!  Four huge, delicious, and perfectly cooked scallops.  We also had a cheese plate, cocktails, and wine.  It was altogether an outstanding meal (and I even paid for this one).

Saturday was El Idea (http://elideas.com/), which has a Michelin star, a fact, I’m given to believe, that is significant for foodies.  I’ve never been to any place like this, and I certainly have not paid those prices: I think the final tab was about $180 each—and we brought our own wine.  It is so exclusive they don’t even have a sign out front.  You pay when you make the reservation.  Sounds stuffy!  But, in fact, it was a delight.  It was very casual, most everyone in jeans and shirt sleeves, including the chef and crew; people moved from table to table sharing wine (“Have you tried . . .”).  Each of the courses was explained as they were served.  For the first one we were not given silverware and were told if we used our fingers, we would be embarrassed and thrown out: so we picked up the plates and licked them!  Later, a dish had a whole radish; the chef, in his explanation of the dish, said, “Pick it up with your fingers; fuck, you just licked your plate, pick it up with your fingers!”  There were thirteen courses; the photo above is of the turbot dish.  All the dishes were small and artfully arranged—and delicious.  One dish was french fries and ice cream—and it was amazing.  This restaurant was definitely not stuffy.  After the meal, which took close to three hours, some of us hung out in the kitchen with the staff, sipping coffee and, for some, downing shots of vodka.   What a delightful—and delicious experience.

We ate twice at Nico Osteria (http://www.nicoosteria.com/).  The first time was quite by accident; we were heading for another restaurant at Keith’s hotel’s concierge’s suggestion for brunch, but when we got there the line was too long.  So we saw this place nearby and took a chance.  It was simply a wonderful brunch.  I had scrambled eggs with crab.  Delicious.  So, we also booked dinner one night.  I had—damn, I can’t remember what I had there.  Anyway, it was excellent whatever it was.

We went back to The Green Zebra (http://www.greenzebrachicago.com/) where Keith, his husband Victor, and I had eaten on their previous visit.  This is an upscale vegetarian restaurant, with excellent service and terrific food.  I had the chilled somen noodles as an appetizer and for a main course had the spicy marinated tofu.  Anyone who says tofu is bland should try this!

For a special treat my friend Phil took Keith and me to Paladar’s (http://www.paladarchicago.com/), a Cuban restaurant owned by a friend of Phil’s—with recipes by the owner's Cuban mother.  Another delightful meal—and my first mojito.  We started with plantains served two different ways, with a variety of sauces, and then I had a stuffed poblano pepper along with garbanzos in a kind of soup and fufu, another plantain dish.  And live Cuban-jazz fusion music to boot.  Thanks, Phil for a delightful evening!

And then finally, on Keith’s last night, we went to the legendary Pump Room (http://www.pumproom.com/).  Remodeled since it’s days a a hangout for the rich and famous (see the photos on their web site), this is still a lovely restaurant with excellent service.  I had a ricotta ravioli and shared some of Keith’s truffle flatbread.  Wine and cocktails, of course, as with every meal.

And once we even had breakfast at Ann Sather’s Diner, too, and there were blueberries in the fruit dish.

Roger and Opera

My nearest and dearest friend is Roger, known to his many fans as the author Dorien Grey (www.doriengrey.com).  Roger may be the smartest man I know, a man of superior intelligence, wit, and charm.  And he is a man of impeccable taste in all manner of things.  But like all of us, Roger has a glaring flaw: his is that he doesn’t like opera (actually, he has two flaws: he doesn’t like Sondheim either).  He simply can’t abide opera.  He won’t listen to even a single aria of opera music.  I, on the other hand, am devoted to opera.  One of the main reasons I moved to Chicago was opera; I have season tickets to two of our opera companies, so at a minimum I see eleven operas a year.  Add the occasional performance by DePaul University Opera and our newest opera company, the Haymarket Opera, and I see a fair amount of opera productions.  But no amount of persuasion will get Roger to accompany me.

But take heart, my friend!  You are not alone.  Well, that’s hardly an issue, is it.  Of all my friends and acquaintances I can think of only three who have season tickets, and one of those is a half season.  There are one or two other people I know who go occasionally to the opera.  But the vast majority don’t.  Not to worry: opera, at least in Chicago, is doing quite well, thank you.  But, Roger, you needn’t feel that you’re the odd duck out—which I know you don’t.  Some experts have also made major misjudgments of opera.  Here are some comments by reviewers of now famous operas, comments that, I’m quite sure, Roger will agree with:

—Wagner is a good place to start.  Most operas by Wagner come in at around four hours, depending on the length of intermissions.  Here’s what a London reviewer said about Lohengrin in 1855:  “Lohengrin is poison—rank poison.  All we can make out is an incoherent mass of rubbish, with no more real pretension to be called music than the jangling and clashing of gongs and other uneuphonious instruments . . .”*  Roger loves the overtures to Wagner operas, but not the operas themselves: you know, the parts that have all the singing.  But even the overtures haven’t always been popular.  A French critic writing in 1860 described the overture to The Flying Dutchman as “a chaos depicting chaos, from which nothing emerges but a few puffs of chords emitted by the trumpets greatly abused by the composer.”

—Verdi is one of the “war horses” of the opera house, composer of such classic works as Macbeth, Rigoletto, Il Trovatore, and La Traviata.  But a writer in 1850 described his music as “screaming unisons everywhere, and all the melodies of that peculiar style the parallel whereof is rope-dancing; first a swing and flourish, hanging on by the hands, then somerset, and then another swing to an erect position of the rope . . .  The unfortunate man is incapable of real melody—his airs are such as a man born deaf would compose by calculation of the distances of musical notes and the intervals between them.”

—La Bohème is one of the most popular operas of modern times.  But in 1900 a New York critic said that “silly and inconsequential incidents and dialogues . . . are daubed over with splotches of instrumental color without reason and without effect, except the creation of a sense of boisterous excitement and confusion.”  Strident phrases are “pounded out by hitting each note a blow on the head as it escapes from the mouths of singers or the accompanying instruments.”

—Surely no one had any complains about Carmen?  Au contraire, mon amie.  A London reviewer in 1878 wrote that if  “it were possible to imagine His Satanic Majesty writing an opera, Carmen would be the sort of work he might be expected to turn out.”  Or from a French critic in 1875: “One cannot express musically the savagery and the caprices of Mlle. Carmen with orchestral details.  Nourished by the succulent harmonies of the experimenters of the music of the future, Bizet opened his soul to this doctrine that kills the heart.”

—I’ll end with the ultimate war horse of operas:  Madama Butterfly.  An Italian critic, writing near the beginning of the 20th century, said, “Butterfly is a replica of La Bohème, but with less freshness.  Instead, there is exaggerated emphasis and musical fragmentation, without precise character which would express sentiment, and identify types.”

I have often teased the ever-patient Roger that his musical lexicon ended with the death of Tchaikovsky.  All these musical experts I’ve quoted come, more or less, from the same period.  At least, my friend, you’re keeping good company!  Outmoded, but good.

*Lexicon of Music Invective: Critical Assaults on Composer Since Beethoven’s Time, Nicolas Stonimsky, 1953.

Me and Vietnam

I am, technically, a Vietnam veteran.  My discharge paper, my DD-214, says I earned the Republic of Vietnam Campaign Medal with Device and the Vietnam Service Medal with one Bronze Star.  Lest you’re tempted to be impressed, forget it.  Everyone who served in Vietnam got these; they were handed out wholesale, like popcorn  I saw miles and miles of Vietnam—and yet I never touched Vietnamese soil.  Instead, I cruised up and down the coast of Vietnam on my ship, the USS Galveston CLG3.

When I joined the Navy in 1963 I was only vaguely aware of what was happening in Vietnam.  I was 20 and hadn’t been drafted yet, although it was surely coming.  I was neither for nor against the war in Vietnam; I was “outside” politics.  I was, or was going to be, an artiste; I was above such matters.  I was a little unclear on the kind of artist I was going to be—musician, poet, novelist—but I thought Art was beyond the political.  I was a very stupid young man.  By the time I left the service, in 1967, my views had changed radically and I was vehemently opposed to the war.

50 years ago this month I was stationed on the Galveston, a guided missile cruiser, home-ported in San Diego.  We were preparing to leave for a six month tour off the coast of  Vietnam.  We departed June 4, 1965, and joined the 7th Fleet in the South China Sea on the 21 of June.  We saw our first action on July 8th.  The ship carried 6 inch guns in addition to the Talos missiles.  The missiles were only fired for practice; the guns we fired on a regular basis in support of troops, including Operation Starlight.  We returned to our home port of San Diego in December of 1965.  All the “action” the ship saw was was one-way: we fired hundreds (thousands?) of rounds; to my knowledge no one every fired back and certainly the ship was never attacked.

So, technically, I am indeed a Vietnam veteran, yet I am always quick to point out that my Vietnam experience had no relationship to those brave men who fought in the jungles and swamps of Vietnam.  I will not be wearing a “Vietnam Veteran” t-shirt as I don’t feel that I have earned that right, not when so many men went through the horror of real fighting in Vietnam—and dying in Vietnam.  They deserve those accolades, medals, and recognition.  Not me.

The hardest part of serving off the coast of Vietnam for us sailors on the Galveston was the lack of regular meals; we were constantly at battle stations.  For one period we were at sea for 40 days without going ashore; almost all of that time was spent at battle stations.  At first we were given C rations for meals, but I guess the captain realized that we weren’t going to be attacked, so we were allowed into the mess hall for regular food.

My battle station was Damage Control Central.  This was way down in the guts of the ship; in fact it was so far down that when we had abandon ship drills, those of us on that station just stayed there.  I guess the theory was that we would continue to try and control the damage and then go down the ship.  I tried not to think about it too much.

I manned a sound-powered headphone which was connected to another sailor on the bridge and I conveyed messages back and forth.  But since there was no damage to repair or report, I mostly read books.  When we were not at battle stations, I manned a typewriter in the Personnel Office.  When I had regularly assigned non-battle duty it was on another sound-powered phone on the bridge.  There was no reading up there as it was kept dark except for the red lights needed to read instruments.

So you won’t hear me bragging about my service in Vietnam.  I didn’t actually plan it to serve that way, although I did join the Navy for four years to avoid being drafted into the Army for two, so I had at least that much foresight; I expected to become a Naval musician (that didn’t work out, but I’ll save that story for another blog).  But I did as I was told and hope, although I have no way of knowing, that we helped in some way and that my minor bit of war service contributed . . . something.

Corrine Brown, My Mother

The picture above was taken on the Oklahoma State Capitol steps in 1928, just prior to Mom and Dad marrying in 1929 (a month before the Crash).  It’s one of my favorite photos of Dad and Mom, the the gangster with his moll.  Of course Dad was nothing of the sort; he was the kindest, gentlest man and wouldn’t hurt a thing.  Except snakes.  He hated snakes.  Mom was more “gangster” than Dad: she was a tough cookie, a woman of outspoken opinions (a raging liberal) and with no tolerance for ‘possums nor crows nor fools.

And yet under a rather crusty exterior, Mom was also a gentle soul.  She loved opera and got me started going at a very young age.  I remember driving into Oklahoma City to the Municipal Auditorium to see, among others, Die Fledermaus and Faust (performed, as I recall, by the Metropolitan Opera on tour, although I now strongly suspect it was some other company).  I also remember a performance of Handel’s Messiah.  Dad never went to those, nor did my brother.  But it wasn’t all high culture.  Mom and Dad also loved to party and would call up the local bootlegger (Oklahoma was dry in those days), order their whisky and all the setups, have it delivered to their door (ah, the good ole days), and then head out to a dance or a bar—where the music was mostly country-western.  There they would set the whisky bottle on the floor (some logic about hiding it from raids) and spend the evening dancing and drinking—but never to excess; neither were heavy drinkers.  One of my earliest memories is falling asleep on one of those high-backed wooden booths common in bars in those days.  I suppose now they would be criticized for bad parenting, but they were anything but that.  Oddly enough, one of their favorite dances was at the Catholic Church in the neighboring town of Harrah; as a devout Methodist, I never did understand a church condoning, even encouraging, drinking.  But Mom and Dad loved those dances.

I was a mama’s boy, no doubt about it.  Whether I was a mama’s boy because I was gay or I was gay because I was a mama’s boy, I’ll leave to the psychologists. But a mama’s boy I was.  That worked out really well as my brother, Ken, was a daddy’s boy (he, just like Dad, is straight and a conservative).  While I have little doubt that Mom and Dad loved Ken and me equally, this division of personalities worked out well for all of us.  I know sometimes Dad would look at me and wonder what hell he had wrought; but never once did he make me feel inferior or demean me in any way for being the little sissy boy I was.

Mom lived thirteen years longer than Dad, and I think that worked out well for several reasons.  For one, Dad relied on Mom for so much that I find it hard to imagine him without her.  I probably underestimate him, as he was certainly not a weak man, but he was devoted to Mom through all 50 years of their marriage.  Dad’s death was a terrible blow to Mom, but she picked herself up and went on to a new life.  She resumed her work as a porcelain artist (Ken and I have many works of hers), kept an active social life, and lived independently.  Only in her later years did I move to be near her.  And even when I lived across the state I would drive most weekends to spend with her as I loved that time together.  Our three favorite activities were driving around looking at the beautiful scenery of Eastern Oklahoma (and visiting cemeteries, which we both loved doing), hiking the many trails in the area (even with a cane—see image below), and going to Tulsa Opera (we had season tickets for many years).  She never stopped missing Dad, but those were good years.  And many of my strongest memories of Mom come from those times.

I miss her still, as I know Ken does, even though she died in 1993.  But I think of her with deep love and gratitude for the person she made me.

Banging on the Table

When I was looking to retire (7 1/2 years ago!), I had four options in mind:  stay in Killeen, Texas, move to Austin, move to San Diego (where I used to live), or come to Chicago, where my closest friend, Roger, lived.  I made what I think was the best choice by far: I moved to Chicago.  I suppose Killeen was never a real choice; I had a lovely home there, huge by Chicago standards, in a beautiful location.  But what would I have done there?  Mowed lawn, tried to stay cool, and fought off mosquitoes about covers it.  I figured I would start drinking by 10:00 a.m.  Austin is a lovely city, but it is central Texas, so, like Killeen, is hotter than the hubs of Hell.  Culturally, it offers a lot, mostly thanks to the University of Texas, but it’s certainly not in a league with Chicago.  San Diego is beautiful and is a city I love; culturally, it also doesn’t match Chicago, and it’s one of the most expensive cities in the United States.  Chicago has these long winters, but I love the cold and especially the snow, and Chicago also has some brutally hot and humid summer days—but not weeks and weeks in a row like central Texas.  But culturally there is only one city that matches Chicago, and that would be New York City, and who can afford to live there?  So Chicago was my choice and I have never regretted it for a second.

That long opening paragraph is by of introducing a most extraordinary performance I saw this Thursday: The Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center’s concert, themed “Drumming.”  As you might expect the group has access to the best musicians in the world, performing each concert both here and at Lincoln Center in NYC.  In December they did what has become their annual performance of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos.  I think it was perhaps the best performance of these well-known works I have ever heard; it was astonishingly beautiful.  This Thursday was something entirely different.

The emphasis was on percussion; in fact, the entire performance before intermission was all percussion.  All the composers were modern, or at least 20th century.  They ranged from one performer on a marimba to four players, two sticks each, banging on eight bongos of different sizes (this was a Steve Reich piece and if you know his music you have some idea of what was going on); somehow all four made it work and no one was stabbed nor were there any mishaps in this exciting piece.  The most unusual was Musique de tables for Percussion Trio, a piece performed by three percussionists sitting at a table making a variety of sounds using only their hands on the table (see photo above); It was a fascinating study of what kind of sounds can be generated in the most unusual of situations, and it was played a bit for laughs, with all the movements carefully choreographed, including some very funny moments built around the turning of the pages in front of them.

After intermission they did Béla Bartók’s Sonata for Two Pianos and Percussion.  In addition to the two pianos, there were timpani, a bass drum, snare drums, a gong, a marimba, and a triangle.  I don’t suppose it was to everyone’s taste (I heard some people talking on the train platform and they clearly were not as impressed as I was), but if, like me, you love modern music, this work was breathtaking.

And all this brings me back to the opening paragraph: I could never have heard a concert like this in any of the other cities I considered.  And yet it was almost a full house of people who, like me, loved every minute of it and applauded enthusiastically.  Discounting the old fogies on the platform!  And Chicago has offered me this.  I am grateful.

Addendum:  Here is a YouTube video of Musique de tables for Percussion Trio, performed by different artists than I saw.  There are several things to note here: one, in this production it is labeled a "ballet," which it certainly is; two, the hands almost seem to become independent of a body, puppets, as it were.  It's not long; do take a few minutes to watch it:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YygdWE9odV0.