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And "Today in Underage Wedding History:"

1770 – 14-year old Marie Antoinette marries 15-year-old Louis-Auguste who later becomes king of France.
1836 – Edgar Allan Poe marries his 13-year-old cousin Virginia.

It is also the birthday of Studs Terkel in 1912, and Liberace in 1919. Two names I never thought to see linked.

I gave Waltz of the Asparagus People to Darlene to read; she is such a big fan. She especially admired Rhythm, which will show you what a finely-honed taste she has for a great story well-told. It is also a fact that she faithfully returns borrowed books. But she seemed greatly surprised when I told her that you knew who she is.

"Oh yes," I replied, knowingly. "Robin knows all kinds of things." Not wishing to overplay my hand, I added, "She knows Dave, too."

Of course you know who your fans are. I'm only surprised that President Clinton hasn't written a personal note to tell you how much he enjoyed Piano Girl. Maybe Hillary got it away from him, or one of the aides kept it for himself. Maybe Bill just scanned it in the limo, on the way to the next interview, looking in vain for the story about the Three Wise Men. It's still in print these several years later--- well-outdistancing the industry average. That will tell you that someone liked it, and I'm sure you know who better than I.

couldn't you just send him home?

(you really are quite clever)

Please give my best to Darlene. Tell her I have fan radar and I hope she enjoys the book.

Great story, Greg!

Here it is, my report from the lower circles of heck—

The Toe:
I broke it going up the steps in the lobby of IKEA. It was Day One of my fitness program, and there I was, determined as *heck* to take the steps instead of the elevator or escalator whenever possible. Good plan, right? I had developed a bad case of writer’s butt (as opposed to writer’s block) and decided to get out there and go go go.

Well, those darn Swedes. I swear the steps at IKEA are uneven or irregular or some odd shape that can only be navigated by Allan wrench-toting residents of Stockholm. There I was, bypassing all of the lazy Germans on the escalator—and feeling mighty superior— when I tripped the first time. I recovered, but tripped a second, and then a third time. I don’t know which one of the three blows did the damage. I do know that I had to go to the IKEA grocery store and buy a bag of frozen köttbulle to put on my foot. Still, it felt okay, at least for the next few hours.

But by evening I couldn’t walk. Had to go up the steps on my behind. At one point—as I dragged myself into the bathroom by slithering on the floor—my husband said I looked like that Andrew Wyeth painting, “Christina’s World.”

Toes are such important things. But injuring one of them is embarrassing somehow. It’s not like having a sprained ankle or a wrenched knee, or one of those manly injuries. It seems wimpy to have a broken toe. But let me tell you, it does not feel wimpy. It was my right foot. My pedal foot.

There would be no Day Two in my fitness program.

The good news: I recovered in a week. The first joint was cracked, but the pain went away quickly. Now it is kind of numb, which is due to nerve damage. But I’ll take numb over pain, thank you.

I took off a weekend of work, but once I went back my pedal foot was pain free. I’m ashamed to say I broke this same toe once a few years ago, and pedaled left-footed, which had the unintended result of throwing my back out (now there’s a manly injury).

So that’s the toe.

The Book Launch Concert:
It went so well! How I wish some of you (Darlene!) could have been there. I read Waltz of the AP, Naked, The Girl Who Got Away. Then there was a break and all the nice audience people drank champagne and ate tidbits of expensive things on toast. Then I came back and read What to Wear, Mr. President, and The Accidental Ambassadors. (Note: For those of you have read the book, Volkmar Schulz himself was in the audience!)

These were abridged versions of the stories, and I read them in conjunction with a German actress (Heike Bänsch), so it was a two-language program. I played pieces I’ve written to go with the stories. My playing that night wasn’t the best—I was a little wired because we had some scary-great musicians in the audience—but I did okay and managed to have fun. Voice of Doom was NOT in the room.

So many people involved in either the book or the CD were there. I should have had them stand up and introduce themselves.

“HI. I’m Alex. I’m the German publisher”

“Hi. I’m Reinhard. I engineered the recording.”

“I’m Dagmar, I translated the book.

“I’m Sharon, the friend. I listened to Robin bitch and moan about all of you.”

“I’m Julia, the daughter. I haven’t had a decent meal in six months.”

“I’m Uli, the lawyer.”

“I’m John, the husband.”

Oh yeah, I remember him.

It’s odd. I’m a small potato compared to some authors, but still, there were so many people involved in bringing WAP to this point. And I didn’t even have the USA contingent there. I am humbled and grateful.

Anyway, when I counted, there were at least 40 people in the audience who had something to do with the project. The rest of them were strangers. I sincerely hope the strangers had a good time.

And, just so we don’t stray too far from our theme, let me tell you that one of the strangers at the concert called the next day to book me for a wedding in two weeks. I met with her on Sunday, at a country club not too far from here.

I got out of my car and she said: “I just want you to know, I read the book and I do not have tattoos, nor does my mother-in-law have a dancing dog. And no one, I promise, will throw up in the bushes.”

Pity.

Great story. And nicely told, as always.

I had a gig a little like that last weekend. I'll be circumspect about the details, since I'll play with most of these guys again.

It was difficult music, with a band that had not played together before, but made up of some good musicians. In fact going in I was prepared to be embarassed but it didn't turn out that way.

Ah, I guess I'll admit it was the pit for a musical. I won't say which one. Which, by the way, is at the same time the most challenging and most exhilarating thing I do. Musical related or otherwise.

In cases like this I'm careful to "do no harm." Loud mistakes are for rehearsal - not getting caught is for the performance, because always remember: every gig IS an audition for the next one.

So if I was not 100% sure of the count or the entrance, I eased in. Not so two of the band members, who played as loudly when in the wrong place or wrong key as when they were right. I was careful never to make them sound bad, but it struck me as odd. For me that kind of thing is a reflex, at least if you want to get hired again. Actually it is second only to being there on time, and way behind laughing at the leader's jokes.

Of course it wasn't as bad as your scenario, because they played well much of the time. It was just that they lacked situational awareness when wrong, and played through it.

i was a chef for a while.. quite a while and once dropped a frozen ham on my two outer right toes. .. broke both of them.

i'll just say ouch.

Robin.. I'm just loving this 'WAP' book... almost through.

A frozen ham? I'm sure it hurt, but what a unique way to injure yourself. Ouch is right.

Thanks for reading the book, Apple, it makes me happy to know you're enjoying it!

My husband is playing with John Scofield this week. I am preparing for my annual gig for the cookbook guys—a nice group of gentlemen in the cookbook biz who hire me once a year to play from midnight to 2 a.m. for their after dinner fete. (Apple, perhaps you would be the better choice for this event, given your culinary background!) I will stay awake, I will, I will. That's on Friday. Wedding on Saturday, but I'm only playing for the cocktail hour—a DJ got the dinner music gig.

Thanks.

For a fair number of the songs we play, even bad guitar is slightly preferable to no guitar. We're a fairly resilient bunch; even when it seems that the world might (mercifully) end due to egregious aural insult, there's always the next gig.

We've had other very long nights, including a few with the ultimate nightmare - a drummer who can't keep time. But they have been few and far-between, and in most of those cases the drummer was limited more by lack of skill than bad judgment.

There was one guy who apparently had been a good drummer back when the world was young, but he had put on a lot of rust in the intervening decades.

His sense of time seemed to vary with his confidence. He'd start off carefully, playing a simple beat; not rock-steady, perhaps, but decent. But then he'd have a momentary flashback from his youth; energized with almost-forgotten vigor, he'd let fly a more complicated fill or rhythm pattern and we'd have a measure whose time signature involved Pi. People seldom like the sort of dancing that requires Geometry.

Momentarily chastened (this guy seemed to be able to recognize his own mistakes), he'd play it cool for a while. But he'd eventually feel his oats again and it was back to rockin' with Euclid and Pythagoras.

Luckily, old age and frequent gigging has taught us that the average audience member doesn't notice even the most flagrant flaws. In fact, the way some people dance, 22/7 is probably about right.

“(Marion McPartland’s) relaxed interview style is not unlike her playing... she maintains an air of English graciousness—treating each guest like a long-lost best friend, using her warm and smoky voice to invite the listener into her living room for a little music and a cocktail or two.”

““She has played with, like, everyone,” says Nina as she scoops up a handful of fake ruby hair ornaments. “Oscar Peterson, George Shearing, Bill Evans, and well, the list goes on and on. She even had Clint Eastwood on the show. You know, he plays the piano.”

“Nina has done her publicist homework.

““Oh, Nina, stop. This is making me more nervous.””
------------------------------------------------------------

At first, I thought that this Clint Eastwood business was just another Three Wise Men story; any kind of liaison between Clint Eastwood and Marian McPartland simply seemed too wide a stretch. And this, mind you, so close to a story about a frozen ham.

It turned out that there is a lot more to the backstory than I would have imagined. Not that I've paid particular attention, but certain themes do seem to recur in the story of his professional work, the sentences typically beginning, “Panned by the critics in America, but awarded the highest honors in France: the Ordre des Arts et des Lettres, the Légion d'honneur, the Lumiere Award, and in Italy, the Venice Film Festival Golden Lion.” Or, “Panned by the critics, these turned out to be the highest-grossing films of his career.” Or, “Panned by the critics, this film won two Academy Awards.”

And yes, he is a jazz pianist; both performing and composing, which is “playing against type” if I ever saw it (that poisonous phrase of casting agents, who are at least as vile a pest species as wedding planners). He was bound to have a big career from the very start, weighing eleven pounds, six ounces at his birth in San Francisco. ("Lawsy, Miss Scarlett!") Growing up right here in the Bay Area, he lives to this day right down the road from me--- I admit, in a more upscale neighborhood--- right by farmers’ fields of globe artichokes and asparagus.

Eastwood had intended to attend university, majoring in music theory, but instead was drafted into the Korean War... and was posted right on the Army base where Bonanza was being filmed. He later worked on the series for some years. As for his first film role, I would never have guessed there was such a film as Revenge of the Creature, a sequel to The Creature from the Blue Lagoon. Modest. But, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clint_Eastwood says... "films featuring Eastwood have grossed an average of $37 million per film,” and that is no one's small potatoes.

His Wiki article carries 309 footnotes! It is fair to say that any short synopsis, such as the present one, is bound to produce a distorted impression of such a big life. I’ll include one last quote which offers some music-related highlights (and then shut up my yap about Three Wise Men stories and frozen hams):

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Personal_life_of_Clint_Eastwood says (in this abridged quote):

“Eastwood… has had a strong passion for music all his life, particularly jazz and country and western music…. in late 1959 he produced the album Cowboy Favorites, which… included some classics such as San Antonio Rose and Cole Porter's Don't Fence Me In.

"...during the off season of filming Rawhide, Eastwood… toured rodeos, state fairs, and festivals. In 1962, the act… earned as much as $15,000 a performance.

"Eastwood"s imprint, Malpaso Records,… has released all of the scores of Eastwood's films" (some of which he composed), "...and a 1996 jazz concert, [i]Eastwood after Hours — Live at Carnegie Hall."

While I'm posting, I might as well go ahead and say it: describing our work as 'small potatoes' seems not only unwise (for it is a delicious vegetable), but unseemly... and even unfair. It reminds me of a long-ago roommate's comment: "No meat," he said, "and very little potatoes." He was describing our handsome next-door neighbor. Alas, all is not as it seems, even in the vegetable world. But I've got to tell you, new potatoes and green beans, lightly sauteed with garlic, dressed with a vinaigrette, and served chilled is some mighty fine eating. Especially with summer coming on.

I seem to remember a movie, or perhaps a tv show episode, in which a man is murdered, killed by several blows with a blunt object. The detectives are stumped; they can't find a murder weapon.

All the while they are searching the house, the victim's wife is cooking a (previously frozen) leg of lamb in the oven, wearing a slight grin.



Cookbook guys? I'm trying to think of the various types of functions I've played at over the years. The one that comes to mind right now was a testimonial Dinner/Dance for the Long Island Pest Control Association, or some similar name. Those exterminators can really party. We were tossing around the idea of playing the (already comical) Rod Stewart song "Hot Legs" as "Six Legs", but didn't get around to it. Too many "Golden Thorax" statuettes to give out, crowning the "Flit Queen" and other such honors ate up the time probably.

Long ago - long long ago, like maybe 1971, I played a party for a CB radio club.

I almost felt guilt taking their money. These guys were talkers! They kept borrowing our PA to make announcements, and seemed in love with their own voices. I bet we played less than half the pieces we normally would have.

It was, of course, a polka band. Hey, it was 1971 in northern Wisconsin! The band leader played Cordovox, an amplified accordion that has become extinct with no known regrets. And yes, 22/7 was a not uncommon time signature.

My first paying gig would have been circa 1971. It was at the Kings Park Mental Hospital in Long Island. The three of us, who made odd flailing motions at a Fender Jaguar guitar, a Farfisa Combo Compact organ and a set of Japanese drums (back when "Japanese" did not signify "good" in the world of drums), would have been just starting high school.

We traveled to the "gig" (a word we would not have known at the time)in the back of the guitarist's Dad's Plumbing and Heating van. We sat on the floor in between our gear and the various pipes, toolboxes and cubbyholes of Elbows and Tees.

We of course sang through our instrument amps; what else was the second channel supposed to be for? Whoever had the loudest amp was the lead singer. I don't remember much of the repertoire, except for a couple of Creedence songs. I played left-hand bass on the reverse-colored octave of keys at end of the organ keyboard.

In retrospect, this may well have been a pretty depressing place. To us it presented a strange combination of feelings. We were playing on a real stage in a real auditorium, rather than in one of our basements. And we were actually being paid; $10, a princely sum for a 13 or 14 year-old in 1971. It was the big time, for sure.

But the audience was pretty unsettling, especially at our age. As best I remember it, the problems these patients had were not minor, and not difficult to spot. I'm afraid that there may have been more warehousing than care going on, but I don't really know. On that day they seemed to enjoy the entertainment, even given our limited skills.

As for "Testimonial Dinner Guilt", there's no use worrying about it. I'm sure I've played for at least a hundred of those (although I remember it as one very long one), and what you describe is more the norm than the exception.

These groups tend to be all Chiefs and no Indians, and all of the Chiefs must be recognized individually. This includes the Chief, the Vice Chief, the Adjutant Chief in Charge of Fundraising, the Past Chiefs Emeritus, the Sub-Chief for Community Affairs, their counterpart Chief-ettes in the Women's Auxiliary and their Brother and Sister Chieflings from lodges and associations across the land. This is not to mention the odd local politician and business leader.

I can remember one charity function in particular, a big one held at Terrace on the Park in the old World's Fair site. There was an announcement made that all of the honorees were to line up outside the room in preparation to march in as their names were called. At least 2/3 of the guests filed out.

It's best to find some comfy chairs away from the action.

The close juxtaposition of Pest Control and Testimonial Dinner is too pointed to miss. But the craze for guys speaking over a microphone to strangers, they know not who or where, is an easy riddle to read. Their wives never let them get a word in edgeways at home. And the wives tend not to hang out in the radio shack, a room which defies redecorating, and in which they hear phrases like, "Honey, could you be quiet please--- I can't hear Japan."

What a party with such people would be like, I just can't think (even though I am one, with an FCC license and everything). They are a friendly bunch, at least. But, Tim, the Cordovox is interesting--- it almost sounds like something you would upholster a couch with (or vacuum it; or a trophy mount of the head of some rare African species; or a Dr. Seuss animal), but I think it is actually more closely aligned with the clavinet. However, the clavinet is a charming instrument: basically an electrified clavichord.

For some reason you don't hear much classical music played on clavinet, though (and even fewer weddings). Maybe the confusion about their family antecedents makes composers (and fathers-in-law) suspicious. Those keyed instruments with reeds: do they belong more to the clarinet, sax, or hautboy, or more to the harmonica and harmonium? Keyed instruments that strike tines or tuned bars... well, you see how the real pianos edge away from them at parties. You would think they were Pest Control Canapes.

My 15 year old daughter is playing her first ever wedding gig right this very minute, as a member of the Lexington Flute Symphony. Why the bride chose a Flute Symphony for the music on her special day, rather than something much more sensible like the piano, I will never know. Contrary to popular belief, a flute does not produce a gentle melody floating on the breeze. Instead it produces a rather loud and strident air-blast akin to a warning siren. An entire symphony of flutes, and nothing but flutes, is capable of clearing out the most wax-clogged of ear canals. Trust me, this I know.

The venue for the wedding was also slightly odd, as it is taking place right smack dab in the grassy patch next to the rail at the Keeneland horse race track. On second thought, given that marriage itself is a gamble into which only the most intrepid souls dare enter, perhaps no better locale exists.

The weather, though hot (85 degrees), is cooperating, and the wedding coordinator did a nice job of creating a lovely aisle of rose petals indicating where the bride is to walk. I did not see the entire set list, but I know that an all-flute arrangement of Canon in D is in the works, along with a bit of Bach. For the wedding party's sake, I hope the symphony's rendition of "Moon River," a truly wretched arrangement with more key changes than should be legal for a five minute song, is omitted.

"Pest Control Canapes"

odd that you would even think of that Jeff.... kind of like something they'd serve at a roach motel.

i really dislike key changes in kid music.. I sat through the grade school band end of the year concert last week.. eek.

carry on now. I've been in church way too much this week with 2 funerals (no fun unless you play), 1 graduation, 1 awards ceremony, a novena.. the mother of all prayer services (I played for my student so she could go ride her horse).. and now it is Sunday.

Pest control canapés, a novena, and an army of flutists playing Moon River? This thread is alive and kicking, folks. This is very funny stuff.

Monica, can you please get a recording of L'ensemble Flute playing Moon River in eighteen keys? I have been laughing about this all day. I'd say the budget-minded bride is quite inventive---hiring a bunch of kids to play in a field. Imagine being down wind of that sound! Oh, oh, the Pachelebel! Fantastico.

I have to tell you about my cookbook guys. They are, you know, a very nice but very persnickety group. I have played for them for something like nine years. They spend a lot of money, booking overnight rooms at the castle, and taking their entire party to the Michelin 3-star restaurant for dinner. Afterwards, they come to the bar for cognac and whatever. That's when I play for them—from midnight to two in the morning. Each year the event is quiet and classy and—even though it's late—a delight for me.

This year, I arrived at the castle at 11:30, horrified to see, I kid you not, a CONGA line of wedding guests (from another party) parading through the main hall of the castle, around the very grand piano I was scheduled to play. The bride was in the front, drunk as a skunk and singing at the top of her very developed lungs. June was bustin' out all over. Chaos at the castle. Who was responsible for this madness? There was another pianist in the back salon, running his piano through a flanger and using a playback of German carnival songs to crank the wedding party into a complete frenzy. I know, he was just doing his job, but since I was about to do mine, I was ready to gurk him.

All I could think of was my elegant (and slightly snooty) group of cookbook guys expecting to show up (in a matter of minutes) to listen to delicate music and sip brandy.

My colleagues are the best. I grabbed the banquet director, told him we had a potential disaster on our hands and got him to wrangle the bride and her braying group of dancers back into the salon. The bar man singlehandedly moved my piano (a Yamaha C-7) from the lobby into the bar—a job that involved rearranging the heavy bar furniture, removing one of the French doors on the bar, and taking the lid off the piano. With a flick of the wrist he tossed some rose petals on the piano and lit the votive candles just as the cookbook guys strolled into the bar, completely unaware of what had happened just minutes before.

I'm pretty good at acting relaxed even when I'm a wreck, so I put on my calm hostess face and greeted my cookbook guests. The good news? The adrenaline woke me up and I was able to get through the gig without my head crashing onto the keys. Periodically I would look over my shoulder, through the closed glass doors, and see the bride and her cohorts tumbling through the lobby in dancing clumps. But it was quiet in the bar. Just me, seventy-five Salvador Dali lithographs, and twenty-two cookbook guys.

On his break, the pianist from the wedding came in to the bar to say hello. "Wow," he said. "It's really quiet in here. We've got a party going on next door."

Before I left, I stopped in the salon to say goodbye to him. He was playing some German folk song and the bride, wearing the world's poofiest dress, was dancing by herself in little circles around the piano. She was singing a different song from what he was playing. How I wish I had had a video camera. It was CLASSIC BRIDE.

Sadly, I accidentally stepped on the train to her dress as I was leaving. But she didn't notice a thing.

It is amazing how many places that have grand pianos also have doors just slightly narrower than the width of a grand piano. Julia Morgan should have known better!

Even more amazing how (at least in the UK) a newly-purchased sofa or other large piece of furniture DOES just fit through the door, once you work out which way up to turn it! And how you CAN get that upright piano into the most unlikely upstairs, round-the-corner location!

Standard door sizes are a VERY good idea, and seem to have become established many years ago. And furniture makers know EXACTLY what those sizes are.

"The venue for the wedding was also slightly odd, as it is taking place right smack dab in the grassy patch next to the rail at the Keeneland horse race track. On second thought, given that marriage itself is a gamble into which only the most intrepid souls dare enter, perhaps no better locale exists."

Nicely said, Monica, and with admirable economy of expression. Maybe Clint Eastwood's recording of Cowboy Favorites would be the perfect unusual wedding gift for such an unusual wedding. My brother's chosen instrument was the Bb cornet, and anyone who has heard scales practiced on this instrument (or the flute--- and an ensemble of them, even more so) knows that the higher the ceiling, the better. And at any time of the day or night, either, for there is no knowing when the muse will favor the teenage cornetist. It could be Moon River, or some number by Chicago Transit Authority, or The Washington Post March.

Well, he grew up to be a high school band director, so there can be no complaining about that. And he plays weddings; you know, churches... big. The same space that drinks up the sound of the piano like water, reverberates artfully to the sound of a silver trumpet with an expensive mouthpiece.

I notice that out of charity you granted but a nod (and obliquely at that) that the happy couple wed at the racetrack, on the very day that Animal Kingdom failed to carry off the Triple Crown. It was close, though. As the poet has said,

"I took up all of my winnings,
And I gave my little Bessie half.
She tore it up and threw it in my face,
Just for a laugh."

I hope that their run for the roses will pay off, in despite of the odds.

Now, as for that conga line at the castle, with the braying bride. I don't think there is much left to say, except, maybe, that a poufy wedding dress can cover a multitude of sins--- but not all of them. But what a troupe of pros you have on staff there, to snatch that piano from the very jaws of a bacchanal. This is a very cinematic moment--- it would look great onscreen; the right director could mine this for platinum.

Well, you do run into some situations where something will not fit through a doorway. Old upright pianos used to split at the sides to fit through very narrow doorways, back in the days before there were minimum standards. There are a lot of places where pianos do not fit.

yeah - drunk brides.. I don't want to say they are the worse things, but lets just hope there are not too many pictures.

I ran into my last one, Sharon, at one of the funerals.. she hugged me, she loved me, she tried to pay me twice with an offer for another check. She was drunk at the funeral too of course. She's the one who at the wedding said said "heck NO!" when the priest asked her 'would you love and honor your husband?'..they had already discussed leaving out the 'obey'.

edit: I'm not the one who wrote Heck.. the forum software did. the word I chose rhymed with bell.