Category Archives: The Musical Life

Of Robert Redford, London, and the Transformative Power of Travel

15 Monday Jul 2013

Posted by in The Cultured Life, The Musical Life, Transitions, Travel

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Before I was the Midlife Second Wife, in London's Underground

Before I was the Midlife Second Wife, in London’s Underground

I could have sworn that the blond man sitting near the front of the Gloucester Pub in London’s Knightsbridge district was Robert Redford. You don’t forget a chiseled face like his, nor do you forget that trademark orb of yellow hair. I’d been half in love with Redford since seeing the film that inspired me to major in journalism: All the President’s Men. (For most women it’s The Way We Were. Go figure.) If I hadn’t been with two friends, or so utterly gobsmacked by my first (and only) trip across the pond, I might have lingered to make sure that the flesh-and-blood visage sitting several tables away matched up with the celluloid version. But my friends and I, famished and travel-weary after our trans-Atlantic flight, were eager for nourishment before checking into the Chelsea Hotel* on the other side of Sloane Street.

And, truth be told, shyness and a sense of decorum prevented me from intruding on a celebrity’s luncheon.

I ordered the Cottage Pie because, you know, when in London…

The food was good but the coffee was bad.

Exiting the pub, we saw we were surrounded by designer boutiques. I noted three of them: Armani, Chanel, and a shop called À la Mode. And of course there was Harrods.

Princess Diana had died only a few months before—the city was still reeling from her loss—and we were in the heart of her territory. With her friends, when she was merely Lady Di, the area was their shopping stomping ground. As such, they were nicknamed after the fashionable street: they were the “Sloane Rangers.”

Walking towards our hotel, I saw more people using cellular phones (for that’s what they called them then) than I’d ever seen in one place before. Entering the sleek, contemporary lobby, the delicate fragrance of lemon verbena seemed to permeate the air. This is from the travel journal I kept for part of my trip:

There is a pervasive … citrus-y scent to the air in London—in our room, noticed it in the Rolls, even catch wafts of it on the street. This is a dream city, unreal, unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

I had been transported into a land of luxury.

How did I ever get here? The farthest I’d been from my home in Ohio was California. I felt as though I were living a dream I never knew I had.

My supremely talented friend was to thank for all of this. An award-winning classical violinist, she had snagged the performance plum of a lifetime: a bill on the program for a joint celebration concert: the 50th Anniversary of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra and the 50th birthday of Elton John. The gala event would benefit John’s AIDS Foundation. My friend had invited me to attend as her guest, along with her conservatory teacher, and another woman who would become my friend as well. We had only to provide the cost of our airfare and meals.

I started my journal on the plane. Since I was reading Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being at the time, I began the diary with a quote from the book:

17 December 1997
Sunday 11:45 a.m.

‘There is a certain part of all of us that lives outside of time.’

On the tarmac, reflecting on the route that would take me from Cleveland to Chicago to Toronto, then south of Newfoundland to Ireland, South Wales, and finally London, I wrote:

Imagine: When we do touch down, it will only be 15 minutes later! [I’m] moving backward in time…

Plucked from the rituals of my satisfying but ordinary life, I was time’s fugitive, granted six days to witness and experience sights and sounds (and fragrances, like the lemon verbena that haunts me still) that I never expected to encounter. Nor have I ever encountered anything like them again. Here are some highlights from my itinerary:

Monday Evening, December 15, 1997
A Rolls Royce picks us up at the Chelsea to deliver us to Mayfair, where the impresario who arranged my friend’s performance hosts us to a five-course meal at Les Saveurs:

  • chickpea soup with blood pudding
  • mushrooms in pancake timbale
  • sweet sea bass on aubergine with cherry tomatoes
  • lamb with risotto
  • chocolate mousse timbale with creme

On our way out, the chef, Jean Christophe Novelli, stops us to say he had taken particular care with our orders. I tell him the food was exquisite, and he seems genuinely touched. He asks where I am from, and when I tell him he says that a New York writer is dining at the restaurant that evening.

Tuesday, December 16, 1997
Christmas shopping at Harrods…saw a shrine to Diana and Dodi al Fayed [his father owned Harrods]—quite moving…beautiful portraits of them both.

To the Barbican Centre for L’s rehearsal, followed by a quick pilgrimage to the Guildhall School of Music and Drama next door. Afterwards, high tea at the Hyde Park Hotel, in a private area off the lobby.

HighTeainHydePark

Another quick pilgrimage—to Westminster Abbey—follows high tea, then a rushed trip on the Underground back to the hotel to prepare for a concert in the Purcell Room at the Royal Festival Hall given by another violinist, a friend of my travel companions.

The next evening, a Wednesday, was the reason for our trip: the gala performance at the Royal Albert Hall, with Vanessa Redgrave serving as master of ceremonies. L, resplendent in a red Armani gown, performed Sarasate’s Carmen Fantasy with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. (Who conducted? Was it Sir Simon Rattle? I cannot remember and I cannot find my program. This bothers me to no end.)

My two travel companions and I left London for Paris by way of the Channel Tunnel. In four days I would be back home. A whirlwind escapade in every sense of the word.

I’ve not been overseas since that trip, but it transformed me in ways that are still revealing themselves to me. (And I’m not thinking only about my sudden immersion into a heretofore unknown world of luxury.) I realize that because of that journey, I finally abandoned my fear of the new and unfamiliar. (I think I would even say hello to Robert Redford now, were I to spot him in a pub. Although I’d still maintain my decorum by being polite and mercifully brief.) I didn’t flinch when, 13 years later, I moved from the region where I’d spent my entire life to begin a new one with my new husband in Virginia.

Time, they say, waits for no one, but I made time wait for me while I settled into a new life.

“Time,” I wrote then in my journal, “is caught in fierce snatches…. No opportunity for extended reflection, so necessary in trying to capture the details of all we’re experiencing. Many entries—such as this one—recorded days later. Memory will have to shoulder the burden…”

Memory…and the scent of lemon verbena.

*The Chelsea Hotel is now the Millenium Hotel.

 

Taking Time Out to Remember Dave Brubeck

06 Thursday Dec 2012

Posted by in The Cultured Life, The Musical Life, Transitions

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With Dave Brubeck in October 2003, prior to taping a television interview with Cleveland’s WVIZ on the campus of Oberlin College. Photo courtesy of WVIZ-TV.

The world lost an irreplaceable treasure yesterday. The legendary composer and pianist Dave Brubeck, whose singular brand of musicianship and artistry changed the sound of jazz in the 1950s while ushering in an entirely new way to listen to the music, died the day before his  92nd birthday.

The Dave Brubeck Quartet had a sound like no other. Brubeck had studied classical music with French composer Darius Milhaud, and although he and his quartet were often considered integral contributors to the jazz genre known as West Coast “cool,” Geoffrey C. Ward writes in Jazz: A History of America’s Music (the companion book to Ken Burns’ PBS series), that there was “nothing remotely cool” about Brubeck’s playing:

He was a fiery, uncompromising improviser—dissonant, unsentimental, rhythmically daring. … His style was perfectly complemented by the playing of alto saxophonist Paul Desmond: light, lyrical, floating …like the sound, Desmond himself famously said, of a dry martini.

On a wintry March night in 1953, the Dave Brubeck Quartet performed in Oberlin College’s historic Finney Chapel. This alone was remarkable; Oberlin, home of the renowned Oberlin Conservatory of Music, was a bastion of classical music. Jazz? No one studied jazz at the conservatory in those days. Jazz was something kept under wraps and underground. Until Brubeck. And the aftermath was groundbreaking. Ward writes:

The audience—including the conservatory students—responded with ovation after ovation. The concert was recorded, and the album that resulted—Jazz at Oberlin—helped build enthusiasm for Brubeck. He was signed by Columbia, the nation’s biggest label; made another live album, called Jazz Goes to College; and soon found himself the leader of the most popular jazz group in the country.

Fifty years after that historic concert at Oberlin, I had the opportunity to meet Dave Brubeck. He had returned to campus with his current quartet to perform a concert marking the 50th anniversary of Jazz at Oberlin’s release. Because I was in charge of media relations for the conservatory, it was my task to publicize not only the concert—ensuring that every seat in the 1,200 capacity chapel was filled—but also the fact of the iconic jazz master’s return to the scene of his great achievement.

He was gracious and down-to-earth, with a twinkle in his eye and a sincere interest in Oberlin’s students. He generously signed the liner notes to my copy of Jazz at Oberlin. He walked slowly when he went out on stage, but when his fingers hit the keyboard, he was transformed; he played with the vigor and athleticism of a man half his age.

There are dozens of albums in the Dave Brubeck Quartet discography—1959’s Time Out is arguably the most famous and revered, and justifiably so. But my favorite will always be Jazz at Oberlin.

Click here for more information about jazz at Oberlin today, including a history of the development of the jazz studies curriculum.

With the Passing of Davy Jones, A Piece of Childhood Returns

01 Thursday Mar 2012

Posted by in Nostalgia, The Musical Life, Transitions

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In 1966, the answers to two questions firmly established one’s taste, refinement, and standing as a female connoisseur of pop music and teenybopper sex appeal:

  1. Who is your favorite Beatle?
  2. Who is your favorite Monkee?

At age 10, my bona fides in this regard were solid. I stood with the majority of young starstruck fans: My favorite Beatle was Paul, and my favorite Monkee—that made-for-TV music group modeled on the Fab Four—was Davy Jones. Yesterday Jones died of a heart attack at the age of 66 in Florida. When the ABC News tweet showed up in my Twitter feed, I stopped what I was doing and revised my priorities. My childhood crush had died, simultaneously taking with him a part of my childhood and giving it back to me. Respect must be paid.

As crushes go, mine was all-encompassing. There was something about that sweet smile, that guileless face, that thick glossy hair (I ask you: Was he not the Justin Bieber of his day?), that adorable British accent, that made me melt. So what if he was short? At 10 I was probably already as tall as he was. I didn’t care. And I knew that if only Davy Jones could meet me, he wouldn’t care either. (The conviction of a child’s crush is as immutable as, well, the sounds emanating from a transistor radio. I would fall asleep each night with mine tucked beneath my pillow, listening to CKLW, the AM rock station out of Windsor, Ontario, which cut a wide swath through the airwaves—I lived 25 miles outside of Cleveland.)

I watched each episode of The Monkees, saved my change to buy every issue of Tiger Beat featuring Davy on the cover, and even though I owned two Monkees albums, I still bought their singles on 45s. I’ve no idea now where the albums are, but in an orange 45-record case—buried somewhere in the attic or garage—and filed in careful alphabetical order, are “A Little Bit Me, A Little Bit You;” “Daydream Believer;” “I’m a Believer;” “(I’m Not Your) Steppin’ Stone (those three words tucked away in their parentheses fascinated me); “Last Train to Clarksville;” and “Pleasant Valley Sunday.”

Years pass. The Summer of Love in 1967 brings new sounds through my transistor. I start high school in 1970, and discover progressive rock. I no longer listen to CKLW; with the conviction of a music snob or dilettante, I keep my dial tuned to Cleveland’s WMMS. I distance myself from my obsession with The Monkees. They were for kids, and I had become a teenager, a young adult possessed of all the worldly wisdom you’d expect her to have, which is to say very little indeed.

Decades pass. I observe with detached interest (my musical tastes now running to classical and jazz) version 2.0 of several bands, including the Monkees. Aging rockers singing the old songs, God love ’em.

What strikes me now as I reflect on this, and on Davy Jones’ passing, is how vitally important some things become to us at certain times in our lives, how our fascination with them vanishes, and how, inevitably and with increasing frequency, mortality will bring us up short and return those things to us, as fresh and new as ever. We’ll never see Davy Jones flash that innocent grin again, or speak in that charming accent, but his music will live on. I reach for my iPhone and program Pandora to The Monkees station. Now the memories are flooding back. I can’t stop them, nor do I want to.

A Musical Postscript to Grandma Monia’s Breaded Eggplant

22 Saturday Oct 2011

Posted by in Food for Thought, The Musical Life

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Happy Saturday, everyone! I typically try not to work on the weekend, but I just had to share this with you. It’s a cozy day at home, and John is puttering around listening to his favorite Pandora station—Kenny Rankin. He came up to have me listen to a song by Michael Franks. “This is your song,” he said. When I heard it, I knew I had to add it to the post with Grandma Monia’s recipe for breaded eggplant. The name of the song is—say it along with me—”Eggplant.” According to JRFMRadio’s posting on YouTube, this was recorded live at La Cigale in Paris on October 7, 2010. And since I’ve been wanting to add a department for the arts, I herewith inaugurate “The Musical Life” section of the blog with this entry. Enjoy!

Serves 4, with ample leftovers. Kept in a tightly sealed plastic container or on a plate covered tightly with plastic wrap, these should keep for about a week refrigerated.

One medium-size eggplant
Salt
Four eggs
Seasoned Italian bread crumbs
Parmesan cheese
Good olive oil

A word before you begin: It’s always a good idea to read through a recipe a couple of times before you launch into things. That said, please don’t let the length of this recipe scare you away—it’s an easy dish to prepare! I tried to be as detailed as I could  because for this dish, it’s all about preparation and process. Have all of your ingredients at hand and ready before you start, and give yourself ample time for working on this, because once you begin frying the eggplant you really need to remain at the stove until you’re finished. But trust me: the reward will be delicious!

Fill a pot with cold, salted water and set aside. (I find the plastic tub from my salad spinner is perfect for this.)

With a vegetable peeler, remove the skin from the eggplant. Using a sharp knife, trim off the ends. Using the same knife or a mandoline slicer, carefully slice the eggplant into large discs, approximately ¼ -inch thick, placing each slice immediately into the waiting tub of salted water.

Let the eggplant slices soak for about ten minutes. Drain the water and rinse the eggplant slices with cold water, then refill the tub with cold salted water and repeat the soaking process.

(Why go to all of this bother? Because you’ll notice the water from the first rinse, and even the second, will be a yucky brown. The salted water is drawing the bitterness out of the eggplant. Trust me.

Drain and rinse well, then pat the slices dry with paper towels.

Whisk the eggs in a bowl large enough to hold several eggplant slices.

Now set up your preparation area:

Using a breading pan, place about two cups of breadcrumbs and one cup Parmesan cheese in one of its sections; mix well with a fork. (If you don’t have a breading pan, use two baking sheets with sides—I use two old pizza pans. Don’t do anything with the other section or the second baking sheet or pizza pan yet; you will use it to hold the breaded slices.

Line a third baking sheet with paper towels. Set aside. (You’ll use this to drain the fried eggplant.)

Place the sliced eggplant, three to four slices at a time, in the egg wash and making sure to coat each side thoroughly.

Then, one at a time, place an egg-washed slice of eggplant in the crumb-and-cheese mixture, pressing firmly enough to ensure a good, even coat of crumbs on each side. Set the breaded eggplant slice on the extra pan you have set aside. Continue this process until all of the slices have been breaded.

Over medium heat, warm a large sauté pan for about 30 seconds, then add enough good quality olive oil to coat the bottom of the pan. Increase the heat to medium-high. Once the oil is hot, place several eggplant slices in the pan, taking care not to crowd them. Brown for about five minutes or until the bottoms are golden brown, then turn them over and brown the other side. When the first batch is complete, remove from the pan and drain on the large, paper-towel-lined pan you had set aside. Then place a layer of paper towels on top of the fried eggplant slices, ready to receive the next fried batch. (You’ll end up with paper towels between each layer of eggplant.)

Complete this process until all of the eggplant has been fried. Note that after about two fryings, you’ll need to carefully drain the hot oil from the pan and replenish it with fresh oil, repeating this process as needed. (An empty coffee can works great for this.) You don’t want the oil to get black and smoky; this will burn the eggplant and ruin the taste. What you are looking for is nicely golden-brown slices.

Serve warm, or prepare ahead and refrigerate. These are delicious cold; I’ve never tried to reheat them. You can eat them plain. (I dare you to have enough left over to serve guests!) Although I’ve never felt the urge to reheat them, John suggests doing so and serving them with a warm marinara dipping sauce.)

Incidentally, this is also a great first-step in making Eggplant Parmesan—something that I’ve never attempted, for some inexplicable reason. As someone who is half-Sicilian and thinks her Italian cooking skills are pretty sharp, I’m embarrassed to admit this to you. Now I’ll have to hunt for a good recipe. If you have a great recipe for Eggplant Parmesan that you’d like to share, please post it in the comment section following this recipe!