George Gershwin was Incredible

Though he only lived 38 years, the remarkable music and genius of George Gershwin will last forever. I was reminded of that again last night!
by Charlie Leck

I had a great date with my wife last night. She took me to a jazz concert – Gershwin in Paris. We had a wonderful time. I don’t know how it could have been better. The music was glorious and was provided by musicians from 11 years of age (Emma Taggart) to the remarkable Irv Williams at 94 and still making mellow and beautiful on his saxophone. It was one of those evenings that just went by so very, very quickly. I got lost in it and was reminded again of the genius of George Gershwin and his brother, Ira.

I was also reminded again that, given the brevity of his life, Gershwin composed the music for an enormous number (15) of Broadway musicals. Among them were…

Nice Work If You Can Get It
Strike Up the Band
My One and Only
Show Girl
Lady Be Good

Of course, he and his brother, two years older, were probably most famous for their opera, Porgy and Bess (1935). It’s amazing to realize that this particular work was a commercial failure. Today, it is regarded, world wide, as the finest of all the strictly American operas.

Among a number of orchestral pieces, George Gershwin is most famous for American in Paris and the remarkable Rapsody in Blue.

In Brooklyn, Gershwin was born into a Russian Jewish heritage. Thirty-nine years later he died in Beverly Hills, California, of a brain tumor. If you were to take a look at his creative achievements in that period of time you, as I did, would shake your head in wonder and disbelief. The man had style in his living and he had a particularly identifiable style in his music. His love for jazz was deep and he carried it over into his classical compositions and his creations for the opera and Broadway theater as well.

My purpose here, however, is to write of last night’s experience and to tell you that the concert sponsored and staged by the University of Minnesota Landscape Arboretum was a grand and lovely success. It is part of the Arboretum’s series called Four Seasons of Music. You can find out more about the series by looking here on the Arboretum’s web site. Don’t dilly-dally, however, because each of the four concerts in the series will sell out.

Bruce Henry was the main vocalist last night and he is a clear professional with a brilliant and well trained voice that has a remarkable range. He’s performed with the best because he’s one of the best. Denis Evstuhim and Ivan Konev were the duet pianists and they were brilliant. Both of them have classical Russian training on the piano. They play delicately, but with rare and appropriate power.

Surprises!
But there were some startling and remarkable surprises in store for the audience last night and the full-house crowd responded enthusiastically and cheerfully to both of them. After a very casual preconcert performance by accordionist, Dan Newton, and a few piano and vocal presentations of some of Gershwin’s American in Paris composition (while a very nice photographic exhibit of Paris was splashed on the walls behind the performers), the first surprise was presented.

Irv Williams
94 year old Irv Williams was introduced to the audience and he came delicately out on to the stage carrying a saxophone that seemed as big as he was. This master and terribly popular local performer out did himself. What crystal clear and remarkable music he makes. Williams is “a legend of the big band era.” He’s played with and for some of the best jazz vocalists in American musical history, including the legends Ella Fitzgerald and Sarah Vaughn. He thrilled the crowd. He may not be as powerful as he once was, and he needs a little time to get from here to there when he comes out on the stage, but, when he sits down with his shiny, gold instrument in front of him, he makes very mellow when he begins to play.

Emma Taggart
I was personally blown away by the piano presentation by 11 year old Emma Taggart. She played two pieces by Debussy, who had such a remarkable impact on Gershwin’s skills, and then Three Prelude by Gershwin. Well, I sensed that the audience was in awe. Taggart played like a well-honed and experience professional who had been doing this for decades. She was delicate and light on the keyboard, but with great definition and strength. She began playing at age four and at age nine won the International Piano Festival Performance Award at the International Music Festival in Italy. She has a neat little list of other international and national awards she’s also pulled down. I just can’t imagine!

John Blanda
Then, just for fun, you can throw in the post-concert performance by a local high school student by the name of John Blanda. A piano student over in Maplewood, he presented a solo piano performance of his own arrangement and interpretation of the music of George Gershwin. What a treat! Strong, powerful and delicate, all at the same time, Blanda was extraordinary and was the perfect exclamation mark on a really great evening.

The entire event, which began with some lovely starters and a very nice wine bar, was beautifully planned and very comfortable.

The Minnesota Landscape Arboretum is a very special place and we’re more than proud to be members and contributors to this important and beautiful institution. Thanks to all of you folks over there for a fabulous evening. If you’d like, pay them a visit on-line.

 I took this snapshot in the summer of 2008 when we took a significant walk through the huge arboretum property. It is a remarkable way to spend a nice summer or autumn day. There is a tour vehicle that allows one to ride through large parts of the park, but the best way to see it is on foot. The big central building on the grounds houses a really good restaurant and a number of exhibits and art work that is really worth taking a look at.

This project of the University of Minnesota in one of our state's treasures and we are always urging friends to visit and join.

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France Turns to the Socialists

     Louis Aumont (center) with his wife, Clare (left) and my cousin, MaryAnn (right) in Paris in 1994.

Government that lacks concern for the agonies of the little man often forgets how many little people there are!
by Charlie Leck

I have a friend in Paris who is an ardent Socialist. His name is Louis (Louie). I’ve written about him here before – years ago, however. He doesn’t speak English very well and I don’t speak French all that well. We end up doing most of our communicating with hand signals. I haven’t seen him for years, now. When I think about him, I miss his bright, sparkling eyes and his wide smile.

I called Louie le communiste. He would laugh at me and simply refer to me as le comédien américain.

Louie has a large head and large facial features. His heart is also immense. He’s kind, loving and gentle. He’s also very reasonable and just.

The French, I have found, after a period of living there and after many voyages to that nation, are unusually kind and generous people. They are also well-schooled and extremely intelligent.

Frenchmen don’t make very good criminals. I was climbing up some stairs out of a Metro station one day – four or five years ago – when a man came racing by me, taking two or three steps at a time. He awkwardly bumped into me and knocked me forward and I had to catch myself by putting my arms and hands out. As I did, I felt someone fumbling at my rear, hip pocket and I could tell my billfold had been extracted. I stood up quickly and saw a young man starting to race away down the stairs. I shouted out to him!

“Arrêter monsieur,” I screamed, “s’il vous plaît!”

He stopped, dead in his tracks, and turned to face me. It was but a boy – a teenager – and he dropped his head in embarrassment. In one of his hands he held my billfold. I stepped forward and pulled it way from him. I was angry, but I was touched by the boy’s humiliation and discomfiture. I spoke gently to him.

“Allez maintenant!”

He turned and ran down into the tubular shaped tunnels. I put my billfold into my breast pocket where it should have been in the first-place and I headed slowly up the stairs toward the daylight.

Now
France has voted in a socialist President. It’s their first in nearly twenty years. Many of the expert observers here in our country are calling it a rebuff of the French policies of austerity.

“…policies that have caused misery around the continent while failing to remedy its currency and debt crises.” [Washington Post editorial]

Francois Hollande will now take up residence in le Palais de l’Elysée and one of his first goals is to significantly raise the income tax rates of the wealthy. He will also hire thousands and thousands of new teachers. It is wrong to think that Hollande is a radical. He, like many thinkers in the U.S., believes that the financial crisis in Europe is caused by a lack of spending and not by too much spending. He believes the economy needs stimulation and money put back into it – and money spread over a much larger percentage of the population. Let’s call it a “stimulus plan.”

Do not believe what some are tempted to tell you – that France is now in communist hands. That foolishness – as foolish as I was being when would call my friend, Louie, “un communiste.”

America will, however, now have an opportunity to be a spectator as France changes the formula for economic recovery. They will try to spend their way out of it rather than cutting every government expenditure in sight.

France and America have been following similar routes in the last few years. It has amounted to severe austerity. It isn’t that this movement was or is wrong; rather it’s just that it went too far, too quickly and with too little concern for the injury being done to the lower and middle classes in our wonderful nations. France will now be controlled, as least for a while, by a government more sympathetic to le petit homme.

The Tea Party should take notice!

Appended here is an essay (Back Down on the Farm) I wrote nearly twenty years ago about my friend, Louis Aumont and me… of course, it will only be interesting to my hard-core followers…

One moment we are at Saint Sulpice, looking for a little street that will take us to l’Eglise de Saint Germain. Pigeons soar by us at shoulder height, scanning the ground for treasure. Paris is alive with the calm and quiet of a Sunday morning in the closing days of summer. The air is cool and the faint tintinnabulation of church bells approaches us from all directions. Les boulangerie are open for a few hours and long lines of Parisians are waiting for fresh baguettes and croissants. Neighborhood bistros are scrubbing down from a Saturday night of hard drinking. Little autos are parked, two wheels on the sidewalk, narrowing to a meter our passageway along the ancient buildings on la rue Bonaparte. An elderly woman is exercising a tiny terrier that dutifully shits, bigger than we ever believe it could, in the street along the curb. My littlest daughter giggles and looks away.

But, most of Paris is sleeping. A few elderly couples make their way toward mass at Saint Germain des Près.

L’Eglise and its gardens are striking in the dull, morning light. Standing in the little courtyard, in front of the church, we are bathed by the sound of the great organ.

It is Paris. It is September. It is beautiful.

In another moment, on the same day, we are back in my town, rolling down the gravel road toward the mailbox that hails us and bids us welcome home. The big car grinds the rock beneath its tires and churns up dust in big, ugly billows which drift behind us.

I will awaken in the morning without warm croissant and brioche. I’ll plunk an English muffin in the toaster and pour a bowl of Raisin Bran. I am back down on the farm again.

And, it is good, and peaceful, and quiet. There is grass in need of mowing. Flowers must be pinched and freshened. Some hedges need trimming. All the trees are showing signs of winter’s approach and remind me that it is time to do a chore list. The farm is to be readied for winter. The sheep must be moved to fresh pasture. Paddock fences ought to be mended before it is too cold to strike hammer upon nail.

It is not Paris, but memories of the city of lights will warm me for months. It is not l’Hôtel Ritz I will remember, nor the Champs Elysées, nor the warm afternoon in Neuilly. It is the love and joy in the little back alley house on la rue Lecourbe that will build fires in my heart all winter long. ‘Tis the remembrance of putting my arm round the broad, wide shoulders of Louis, the socialist, and hearing his deep, true laugh, that will bring happiness into my soul during the bleak, dark days of January.

I love Paris, but not the Paris that most travelers know. I like the little streets in Cité Trévise, near Gare du Nord, where tenacious, persistent men of labor dwell. And, I like the little garret on Boulevard Voltaire where my friend, Claire, lives. I return to Paris again and again so I can argue with Jean Marie about this and that. Le Musée d’Orsay. I love it. He does not. The new pyramid entrance at Le Musée du Louvre. It descends a few stories down to a magnificent wonderland of marble and stone, mixing modernity and the ancient, original walls of the outer city. Breathtaking! Jean Marie shows disdain for it. His lips flutter and sputter and pulse like a motor boat as he dismisses the gigantic achievement.

“One must climb,” he says. “A grand entrance is always above. You enter and go up to be astonished, as the old entrance did. To go down is not right. You must believe me!” Jean Marie knows. He is certain. He speaks from his soul — from deeper than his soul. He pours me more wine and laughs at me.

“You are a real American!” He says it affectionately. It is not a criticism. “So you can not understand!”

This is the Paris I love. I could sit quietly near Saint Séverin for hours with big Louis. He speaks no English and I can say nothing in French. Yet, he laughs with me and slaps my back and breaks off another hunk of fromage for me. He lifts his glass of wine and points to a big piece of sky. He winks long and hard. I nod, to explain that I have that same chunk of sky at home, in my town, down at the end of my dusty farm road. And, that cloud! I point it out. I have seen that very cloud form over my farm before.

“Oui,” he says, “j’ai compris.” He laughs and, with an open hand, slaps my leg firmly, just above my knee.”

The visit to Paris is too brief, too filled with demands, and quickly ended. There has been no time to see George. It is always fun to bend an elbow with him. I took him once to Harry’s American Bar. He was overwhelmed with discomfort. We drew back to Café Bleu, in Cadet, where men laugh like men and women watch their derrières.

Nor could I find Gigi at Chez Gustave. So, I left a little note. It said simply: “Charlie was here — Charlie etait ici!” I felt maudlin about not seeing her. So, I walked back to my hotel via la rue Saint Denis. I passed the doorways where the women of the night would stand, later in the evening, to ply their trade. They were not there, so I pretended they were smiling at me, calling to me.

I stopped by the big museum on la rue Beaubourg and watched a mime try to imitate my stare. I laughed at him and he laughed back.

I took one more quick look at the wondrous cathedral on the île Saint Louis and then found the Boulevard Saint Germain and my way back to the hotel.

I love Paris and my moment there again was good. Now I must cut back the trees that are pushing in against the hay fields. And, the big thistle bushes near the pond need to be chopped down and cleared away. It is not Paris. It is this little town between here and there in America’s cold heartland. I am glad to be back home in my town. Soon I’ll get to chat with Millard and I’m due to sear some lamp chops with Ed. I’ll tell them both about Paris — about Jean Marie and Louis. I’ll tell them again about Gigi and how sad I was not to see her. I’ll slap Ed soundly on the back and point up to a big piece of sky and swear to Christ that I saw it also in Paris — near Saint Séverin.

Ed will hoist his glass. He’ll chuckle and say, “How yuh gonna keep ‘em down on the farm?”

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THIS & THAT

Here's some good stuff I picked up in my reading yesterday that is still fresh enough for you to check out.
by Charlie Leck

You know, this morning I took a look at the left over French baguette from dinner two nights ago. It was hard as a rock. What a waste!

That’s the attitude I had when I set up a little place to live in Paris as a young man, searching for F. Scott, Ernie and Sylvia Beach. One morning, George, the fellow who lived in the flat next door, saw me taking a stale hunk of baguette to the trash. He nearly flipped out and struggled to tell me that this was not the French way.

“Mais non, Monsieur,” he shouted to me. I looked at him in wonder and couldn’t imagine what had stirred him up so.

“Vous ne devons pas gaspiller le pain,” he continued (You musn’t waste the bread!). “Venez!”

He motioned me to follow him into his flat. I watched him fire up his oven and push it up to broil.

“Je vais vous montrer quoi faire! (I’ll show you what to do!).

He sprinkled a little water on both sides of the bread and then, with a sharp knife, slit it long-ways right down the middle. He slapped a little butter on the inside of both slices of the bread and slid them under the hot fire.

After a moment, he smiled at me and had me peek through the little crack he left in the oven door.

“Regardez! Le pain est au coeur de la vie,” he said to me with a big smile, speaking slowly so I might follow. “Nous Français ne jetez jamais de pain! (We French never discard our bread!)

The bread browned up beautifully before my eyes. George removed it carefully by stabbing it with a fork. He pulled the slices from the oven and put one on a plate for me and another for himself. He had steaming cups of hot chocolate ready. He motioned me to sit down. He pushed the butter toward me.

“Plus de beurre sur le pain!”

Yes, yes. More butter. I spread a healthy (or unhealthy) amount across the long piece of baguette. George pushed some kind of jam toward me also and pointed at it.

“Confiture de fraises,” he said, pointing toward my slice of bread. “Avec de beurre!”

We sat and ate the French toast together and both of us smiled with pleasure. We sloshed down our hot chocolate – chocolat chaud! The baguette was better than even the night before.

“Merci, mon ami,” I said to George, “merci beaucoup! Le pain est trés bon!”

“Allon-mous aller aux courses de chevaux?” George asked me if I wanted to go to the horse races. It was a daily activity for him. He tried to make a living that way. By the looks of his dismal garret apartment, he wasn’t doing too well.

He was not exactly the fellow I’d come to Paris to meet up with, but perhaps this is how John Dos Passos got started as well.

“Oui,” I stuttered out, “trés certainement, allons!”

So, below I’ve browned up for you some day-old baguette. It is still delicious and maybe, upon reflection and after this bit of browning, even better than yesterday, when it broke in the papers.

CHINA & GOOGLE
China is clearly lagging behind where we had hoped it would be in terms of granting both human rights and freedom of information to its people. We, half-way around the globe, need to remember that China is not a democracy or a republic and is, therefore, in the precarious position of needing to protect the position of national leaders who would be threatened by too much information spread among the people and certainly by granting human rights too freely.

“This is not your father’s China,” as I once said here in a blog; however, it is also not yet a free and open society.

One of the mega-corporations has stepped up to challenge China by informing the nation that it is willing to pull its sizeable investment out of there and leave the nation before it will allow it’s systems to be hacked, attacked and abused by the government. It’s a brave stance and we need to watch the story closely. [You can read the NY Times story about Google challenging China by clicking here!]

TAXING THE EXTRAVAGANT BONUS
Someone at the NY Times (in an editorial) has sprung a marvelous idea. Let’s wallop the crazy, astronomical corporate bonuses with an astronomical mega-tax in return. That’s a way to attack our deficit! What a great idea! The paper also endorses a White House idea to levy a substantial tax on large banks to make up for the bail-out money that had to be spent to stabilize an industry that had been run very poorly in the first decade of this century. Go for it! [Read the NY Times editorial!]

LOOKING FOR PURITY IN YOUR FOOD? JOIN THE RUSH TO KOSHER!
The New York Times carries a feature story this morning about the rush by non-Jews to buy kosher food. The story indicates that only 15 percent of purchases of kosher food are for religious reasons. I honestly don’t know a great deal about kosher foods and this article was helpful to me. You might enjoy learning a bit about the subject, too. [You’ll find the NY Times story here!]

SENSA
Sensa is a diet fad! I’m married to the greatest woman in the world. She’s spectacular in a thousand ways. However, she’s got this weakness. She just believes every advertisement she sees or hears. I try to keep her away from commercial television and radio. I urge her to stick to her iPod and her Audible books and to public broadcasting only. Recently, in an effort to help me get hold of my exploding weight problem, she purchased some Sensa for me. She heard, on an ad, how miraculous, quickly and easily it works. With Sensa there is no need to exercise or change the foods you eat. Sprinkle some of the miracle product on top of your food and, voila, you will begin to lose amazing amounts of weight.

Do you believe that claim? If you do, there’s a bridge in Brooklyn I want to tell you about. (Boy, I love that one and it’s as old as I am and my old man said it a thousand times within my hearing: “I’ve got a bridge to sell you, boy!”) Keep those bridge salesmen away from my wife.

No charge for Sensa for the first month. Completely free trial. Only problem is that the second, very expensive month is already posted on our credit card and we’ll have a dickens of a time getting it back. Sucker punched again.

You can read a thousand reviews on-line (try googling) about why Sensa doesn’t work. The Fitness Shack blog has one of the best of them, but that’s only the beginning. In a year or two you’ll never again here the word Sensa, but its current promoters will have made off with millions by then.

Here’s a cute one for you: “If you’ve got any sensa, don’t buy Sensa!” (I’ve got ‘em by the thousands, you know!)

HARRY REID IS NOT A RACIST
Oh my god, I’ve heard that crap from people a million times! I mean, you know, I’m talking here about what Harry Reid said ages ago (2008) about Barack Obama’s good chances of election because he was “light skinned” and basically free from the “Negro dialect.”

A bunch of people out there have brought that up again and suggest that Reid ought to step down from Senate leadership! Here’s the problem: If everyone who said something stupid like that had to step down from what they’re doing there’d be several million vacant leadership spots in the country. I sure would have to stop pretending to be a blogger.

There’s a real good take on this issue on AlterNet, a really significant alternative news source.

ELECTION TUESDAY IN MASS TO FILL TEDDY’S SEAT
Boy this is an interesting one! None of us thought it would be. We thought it was a “walk-off” victory for the Democrat Martha Coakley. Instead, we’ve got a very close race and anything could happen in the election on this coming Tuesday.

What the heck happened? Well, first of all, her opponent, State Senator Scott Brown, has proven terribly capable. He did a great job in a debate between the candidates and he is well received on the campaign trail. Even if he loses, but makes it a close race, eyebrows are going to be raised and questions asked about how it could happen in such a heavily Dem state. A lot of fingers are going to be pointed at the President. [If you’re interested in this there’s a really good story about the race in the Washington Post.]

Hey, don't throw away that day-old baguette!