I headed down to the Jazz Standard last evening for Maria Schneider's 11:30 set. This was the third Thanksgiving in a row where I shared a night with Maria and her Orchestra. There is something about her lyrical interpretations of big band jazz and the 18 musicians crammed into that basement space that draws me back. (I had also seen Maria perform in Pittsburgh Manchester Craftsmen's Guild hall in early 2006; three of the four nights, if I remember correctly.) This evening's four-song set opened with three I had not heard live before: a beautiful, slower piece called Last Season off of her first album Evanescence; the more discordant (for Maria) Tork's Cafe, beginning and ending with distorted guitar; and I believe a Brazilian piece (Como Ser Genovo?). The set ended with the lovely bird-centered piece Cerulean Skies that she wrote for the Mozart Festival in Austria and is featured on her most recent album Sky Blue.
I had arrived early and grabbed a front row seat, to the right of her music stand, to the left of the theramin, in front of the saxes. In particular, Donny McCaslin and Scott Robinson. It was amazing to be so close, watching her conduct and mouth instructions. And to watch the musicians count and finger their instruments, watching Maria with upward glances. Perfect.
So, I was soaking it in after it was finished, settling up my Anchor Steam bill, and I saw Phil Lesh pass and head to the back. A wave of giddiness and hesitation. I moved my bill around on the table . . . And as he came back, I said hello and gave him a big smile. He smiled back, acted as he would say something else, and walked to his table. Big grin on my face. I waited some more, and followed him and two younger kids out. He was glancing at the CDs as I walked past and I couldn't help but ask if he had seen Maria before. He hadn't.
Feel like such a fan boy, lol.
(I had seen David Bowie and Iman leaving two years ago; she sure attracts a crowd.)
Saturday, November 29, 2008
One of Those New York Hours
So, when I talked with L early on Wednesday, she mentioned that she had some problems with the subway as she headed home this afternoon. Skipping stops, busy, people everywhere. To try and skip the Lexington line, I decided to take the C, up the West Side, until 81st. Where I would grab the bus across the Park, and head home. I like that commute -- it is civilized, I am above ground . . .
Everything was going well. I was listening to The Band, reading a recent New York article on Malcolm Gladwell. As I exited the subway, I noticed an unusual amount of children . . . and it occurred to me that I might be running into the Thanksgiving Parade Balloon Inflation Extravaganza. I heard it was a bit of a maze and madhouse.
As I made my way past the cop, to the right side of the barrier, I noticed a glow coming from the subway exit. And the hum of people. Lots of them. And as I popped out, the first thing to catch my eye was a sad-looking Sponge Bob, recently captured by some sort of big balloon hunters, looking forlorn on the street. Surrounded by hundreds of spectators. I exited directly into a mob of camera-weilding New Yorkers and tourists. I was swept up and fought to keep my footing -- while, of course, wielding my iPhone to try and capture the scene.
Next down the row, I was immediately drawn to Kermit. He looked a little perkier than SpongeBob, but was still roped down. I was comforted by the fact that he would soon be released, in just a few more hours, into the brisk Thursday air . . .
I was itching to get home, having worked a bit past the office early closing, so I did not explore any more of the balloons. Turning around and fighting upstream, I finally found the street, only to convince a cop to move the barrier so that I can try to find a cab. Or bus. Or something. I glanced around, and realized that the line of people extended south from 81st past the face of the Natural History Museum -- as an MTA commuter, I was able to bypass hours of line standing to see the sights. Lucky me.
I noticed a cab stopped at the light, letting out a mother and daughter, and my pace quickened. I guess the girl next to me felt the same, and she struggled with two bags towards the same car. She turned towards me and gasped "Where are you going? Do you want to share?" Always up for a chance meeting, I said sure and said I was heading to the 70s and 1st. Perfect, she was off to 83rd and 1st. And in we slid . . .
At the light, we soon realized that the cops were not going to let us turn left through Central Park; our ride is going to be a bit longer than we had originally assumed. It was clear from the back seat of the taxi that this was quite the production. Cops, gates, barriers, loudspeakers, bright lights. As we headed south, I noticed that the line that I had inadvertently cut extended down the sidewalk, past the front of the Natural History Museum. And then there were even more balloons on the other side of complex -- with their own lights and crowd.
My fellow passenger's exasperation with the production was quickly evident -- she had been lugging around bags of serving trays, with a party of 22 waiting her the next day. In her "large one bedroom." "It will be a buffet, we should be fine," she said. She somewhat apologized to me for her colorful language that had been spouted while in the presence of so many little kids. Upon questioning, I assured her I had no children and she was not offending me. The day started out poorly, it seemed, as she had been called in by an irate boss -- even though she had taken the day off. She had to make her way from the Upper East all the way out to the far Midtown West. Always curious, I asked where she worked -- the Sullivan Street Bakery, she said.
I love that place! I quickly told her I walk there from my office for their wonderful pizza rustica. It reminds me a lot of what I used to get at Pizza Pantheon in Rome, and the six or seven block walk is certainly worth while for their offerings. She said she is a manager and mentioned that I should ask for her the next time I swing by. Before we knew it the cab had driven all the way down to 65th -- the Park was closed everywhere else. And at some light, we introduced ourselves. Her name was Charlotte.
I learned that she was quite good at preparation, even if she was getting serving plates Wednesday night. She had already prepared her herb butter. Having access to all the bread, she was prepared to make three different stuffings with all of her breadcrumbs. A triple-layer pumpkin cake was made, as was cranberry sauce. And, she had prepared a turkey stock and celery soup. The stock was prepared two weeks ago, from neck and bird from some place in the Bronx. As we drove up Madison, finally on the East side, we joked how turkey throat probably can't be found on the Upper East.
Before I knew it, after what at first seemed like it could have been an ordeal, I was at 79th and 1st. And I was hopping out of the car after handing Charlotte some money for my share. She reminded me again that I should pay her a visit -- I assured her that I will try not to become a pest. And with that, we were off. Just another one of those chance NY meetings that I revel in . . .
Everything was going well. I was listening to The Band, reading a recent New York article on Malcolm Gladwell. As I exited the subway, I noticed an unusual amount of children . . . and it occurred to me that I might be running into the Thanksgiving Parade Balloon Inflation Extravaganza. I heard it was a bit of a maze and madhouse.
As I made my way past the cop, to the right side of the barrier, I noticed a glow coming from the subway exit. And the hum of people. Lots of them. And as I popped out, the first thing to catch my eye was a sad-looking Sponge Bob, recently captured by some sort of big balloon hunters, looking forlorn on the street. Surrounded by hundreds of spectators. I exited directly into a mob of camera-weilding New Yorkers and tourists. I was swept up and fought to keep my footing -- while, of course, wielding my iPhone to try and capture the scene.
Next down the row, I was immediately drawn to Kermit. He looked a little perkier than SpongeBob, but was still roped down. I was comforted by the fact that he would soon be released, in just a few more hours, into the brisk Thursday air . . .
I was itching to get home, having worked a bit past the office early closing, so I did not explore any more of the balloons. Turning around and fighting upstream, I finally found the street, only to convince a cop to move the barrier so that I can try to find a cab. Or bus. Or something. I glanced around, and realized that the line of people extended south from 81st past the face of the Natural History Museum -- as an MTA commuter, I was able to bypass hours of line standing to see the sights. Lucky me.
I noticed a cab stopped at the light, letting out a mother and daughter, and my pace quickened. I guess the girl next to me felt the same, and she struggled with two bags towards the same car. She turned towards me and gasped "Where are you going? Do you want to share?" Always up for a chance meeting, I said sure and said I was heading to the 70s and 1st. Perfect, she was off to 83rd and 1st. And in we slid . . .
At the light, we soon realized that the cops were not going to let us turn left through Central Park; our ride is going to be a bit longer than we had originally assumed. It was clear from the back seat of the taxi that this was quite the production. Cops, gates, barriers, loudspeakers, bright lights. As we headed south, I noticed that the line that I had inadvertently cut extended down the sidewalk, past the front of the Natural History Museum. And then there were even more balloons on the other side of complex -- with their own lights and crowd.
My fellow passenger's exasperation with the production was quickly evident -- she had been lugging around bags of serving trays, with a party of 22 waiting her the next day. In her "large one bedroom." "It will be a buffet, we should be fine," she said. She somewhat apologized to me for her colorful language that had been spouted while in the presence of so many little kids. Upon questioning, I assured her I had no children and she was not offending me. The day started out poorly, it seemed, as she had been called in by an irate boss -- even though she had taken the day off. She had to make her way from the Upper East all the way out to the far Midtown West. Always curious, I asked where she worked -- the Sullivan Street Bakery, she said.
I love that place! I quickly told her I walk there from my office for their wonderful pizza rustica. It reminds me a lot of what I used to get at Pizza Pantheon in Rome, and the six or seven block walk is certainly worth while for their offerings. She said she is a manager and mentioned that I should ask for her the next time I swing by. Before we knew it the cab had driven all the way down to 65th -- the Park was closed everywhere else. And at some light, we introduced ourselves. Her name was Charlotte.
I learned that she was quite good at preparation, even if she was getting serving plates Wednesday night. She had already prepared her herb butter. Having access to all the bread, she was prepared to make three different stuffings with all of her breadcrumbs. A triple-layer pumpkin cake was made, as was cranberry sauce. And, she had prepared a turkey stock and celery soup. The stock was prepared two weeks ago, from neck and bird from some place in the Bronx. As we drove up Madison, finally on the East side, we joked how turkey throat probably can't be found on the Upper East.
Before I knew it, after what at first seemed like it could have been an ordeal, I was at 79th and 1st. And I was hopping out of the car after handing Charlotte some money for my share. She reminded me again that I should pay her a visit -- I assured her that I will try not to become a pest. And with that, we were off. Just another one of those chance NY meetings that I revel in . . .
Monday, November 17, 2008
A Solo Sunday
Laura has been studying for a six-hour portion of the architectural licensing exam quite intently. So this past weekend, I decided to help keep the apartment quiet. Saturday afternoon, I watched the too-close-for-comfort Notre Dame game at a fellow arkie's apartment. That evening, just as it started to downpour, I dragged Laura out to meet us for some tasty burgers at JG Melon's.
Sunday, I decided to head to The Met. I had never walked through the expansive museum by myself, and I was interested in the idea of just putting on my iPod and strolling around the museum. I was also intrigued by a special exhibit documenting the life's work of Italian still life painter Giorgio Morandi. His work reminded me of the contemporary painter Roberto Rampinelli, who I knew through my old boss Ray Gindroz (we own a print of Rampinelli's).
It was colder than I had anticipated yesterday, and I was happy to have caught the bus across town. As I read 2666, the bus quickly made its way to Fifth Avenue and I hurried down to The Met. It wasn't too crowded outside -- maybe it was the cold -- and I made my way in and asked to be directed to the Morandi exhibit. At the time, I was listening to Iron & Wine. I soon switched, though, to Keith Jarrett's Koln Concert. One of my favorite albums of all time, it just seemed to fit.
The exhibit was actually in a wing that I do not think I had been in yet -- which surprised me, but it is a bit museum. The addition was modern, with this interesting double- or triple-height space that was essentially a sky-lit reading space -- no exhibits. You walk down a level through stairways that are hidden behind these walls, so that from the upper level, you look over the stairs,and the wall, into the space. The gallery is on that lower level, on the other side of the walls, in a lower-ceiling corridor. The Morandi filled the entire ring.
Aside: When I visit a museum, I often stroll the rooms waiting for visceral reactions. Yes, I have a second major in art history, but it is because of my gut reaction to art that I enjoy. Sure, I read the placards and try to understand the artist's intentions, or the backstory, but that is only supplemental. I want to look at a painting, and be sucked in. I want it to hit emotionally. I actually am finding that I experience some discomfort when going to museums. If I see a painting that hits me just right, I want to find more ways to hold onto that emotion. To carry it with me. I stare at the painting, so intent, trying to draw it all in.
With Morandi's work, I actually started to feel more when I read the back story. It was a bit of a change for me. I *wanted* to enjoy what I saw -- and there were certainly pieces -- but they did not immediately speak to me. But as I read more about the descriptions and took in the quotes that were hung on the walls, I began to appreciate Morandi's humble outlook on art and life. Knowing that as a bachelor, he lived with his three sisters. He was a professor at a small school, rarely if ever left Bologna, and devoted his life to painting simple, intimate scenes that explored light, space, surface, and subtlety. I left the exhibit knowing that I wanted to try it again, if I can, before it closed. See if his work changes for me at all, or if I can appreciate it on another level.
I couldn't just leave The Met after one exhibit, so I went to the 19th Century European wing and got a taste of Klimt and Monet. Had to. Along the way, I stumbled across two rather interesting photography exhibits as well as a wonderful print exhibit. Called Rhythms of Modern Life: British Prints 1914–1939, I was just in awe of the simplicity and bold gestures of solid color, the realistic abstraction of "modern life" in England. Liked it so much I bought the catalog . . .
So, with some time remaining, I strolled out of the Met -- now I was listening to Chick Corea and Gary Burton -- and stopped by Sant Ambroeus on the way home for a (decaf) cappuccino. And I made it home just in time for Steelers kick-off.
Sunday, I decided to head to The Met. I had never walked through the expansive museum by myself, and I was interested in the idea of just putting on my iPod and strolling around the museum. I was also intrigued by a special exhibit documenting the life's work of Italian still life painter Giorgio Morandi. His work reminded me of the contemporary painter Roberto Rampinelli, who I knew through my old boss Ray Gindroz (we own a print of Rampinelli's).
It was colder than I had anticipated yesterday, and I was happy to have caught the bus across town. As I read 2666, the bus quickly made its way to Fifth Avenue and I hurried down to The Met. It wasn't too crowded outside -- maybe it was the cold -- and I made my way in and asked to be directed to the Morandi exhibit. At the time, I was listening to Iron & Wine. I soon switched, though, to Keith Jarrett's Koln Concert. One of my favorite albums of all time, it just seemed to fit.
The exhibit was actually in a wing that I do not think I had been in yet -- which surprised me, but it is a bit museum. The addition was modern, with this interesting double- or triple-height space that was essentially a sky-lit reading space -- no exhibits. You walk down a level through stairways that are hidden behind these walls, so that from the upper level, you look over the stairs,and the wall, into the space. The gallery is on that lower level, on the other side of the walls, in a lower-ceiling corridor. The Morandi filled the entire ring.
Aside: When I visit a museum, I often stroll the rooms waiting for visceral reactions. Yes, I have a second major in art history, but it is because of my gut reaction to art that I enjoy. Sure, I read the placards and try to understand the artist's intentions, or the backstory, but that is only supplemental. I want to look at a painting, and be sucked in. I want it to hit emotionally. I actually am finding that I experience some discomfort when going to museums. If I see a painting that hits me just right, I want to find more ways to hold onto that emotion. To carry it with me. I stare at the painting, so intent, trying to draw it all in.
With Morandi's work, I actually started to feel more when I read the back story. It was a bit of a change for me. I *wanted* to enjoy what I saw -- and there were certainly pieces -- but they did not immediately speak to me. But as I read more about the descriptions and took in the quotes that were hung on the walls, I began to appreciate Morandi's humble outlook on art and life. Knowing that as a bachelor, he lived with his three sisters. He was a professor at a small school, rarely if ever left Bologna, and devoted his life to painting simple, intimate scenes that explored light, space, surface, and subtlety. I left the exhibit knowing that I wanted to try it again, if I can, before it closed. See if his work changes for me at all, or if I can appreciate it on another level.
I couldn't just leave The Met after one exhibit, so I went to the 19th Century European wing and got a taste of Klimt and Monet. Had to. Along the way, I stumbled across two rather interesting photography exhibits as well as a wonderful print exhibit. Called Rhythms of Modern Life: British Prints 1914–1939, I was just in awe of the simplicity and bold gestures of solid color, the realistic abstraction of "modern life" in England. Liked it so much I bought the catalog . . .
So, with some time remaining, I strolled out of the Met -- now I was listening to Chick Corea and Gary Burton -- and stopped by Sant Ambroeus on the way home for a (decaf) cappuccino. And I made it home just in time for Steelers kick-off.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Review Published: Edgar and Chris
I wanted to let everyone know that my review of the Edgar Meyer and Chris Thile concert from two weeks ago was published on Hidden Track.
Enjoy!
www.glidemagazine.com/hiddentrack/review-edgar-meyer-and-chris-thile-w-mark-oconnor
Enjoy!
www.glidemagazine.com/hiddentrack/review-edgar-meyer-and-chris-thile-w-mark-oconnor
Friday, November 7, 2008
The Brothers Punch
A week after seeing Chris Thile with Edgar Meyer at Carnegie Hall, I was able to see him along with the four other Punch Brothers, packed into the LES's Living Room.
Standing room only. My first experience seeing the Punch Brothers live was a good one. Their album Punch has been on the top of my list for 2008, and it was excited to have the chance to witness such an intimate albeit energetic show. The band also debuted a new bassist. Fresh out of college, Paul Kowert played quite well for never playing these songs in front of an audience before. I will be interested to listen to him after he becomes comfortable on stage a bit more. Blind Leading the Blind was wonderful, as to be expected, and the "first time played" Ophelia was a great treat.
It seems as though all five members are soon going to be living in New York, and I can't wait to see more of them.
Sometimes
Wayside
Punch Bowl
Beekeeper
Heart in a Cage
The Blind Leaving The Blind
Ophelia
This Is All Real
Bailey
Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground
---
It'll Happen
Watch 'at Breakdown
Standing room only. My first experience seeing the Punch Brothers live was a good one. Their album Punch has been on the top of my list for 2008, and it was excited to have the chance to witness such an intimate albeit energetic show. The band also debuted a new bassist. Fresh out of college, Paul Kowert played quite well for never playing these songs in front of an audience before. I will be interested to listen to him after he becomes comfortable on stage a bit more. Blind Leading the Blind was wonderful, as to be expected, and the "first time played" Ophelia was a great treat.
It seems as though all five members are soon going to be living in New York, and I can't wait to see more of them.
Sometimes
Wayside
Punch Bowl
Beekeeper
Heart in a Cage
The Blind Leaving The Blind
Ophelia
This Is All Real
Bailey
Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground
---
It'll Happen
Watch 'at Breakdown
Thursday, November 6, 2008
We Did
I should have written Tuesday night. At 11:00 pm. When I had the stupidest, biggest damn grin on my face. Sitting on the couch, across from Laura, with a phone full of texts and a computer full of maps in front of me. Watching MSNBC as they announced that the 44th President of the United States would be Barack Obama. For the next five minutes, we sat without saying anything, watching television while scenes from Chicago and Times Square and Atlanta were simulcast. No commentary, just the roar of the young and old, all races, in jubilation. But the last thing on my mind was blogging. And I am not too ashamed of that.
So here it is, two days later, and I am still feeling light on my feet. Or, as if you were wearing sunglasses, had forgotten, and somehow they were taken off of your face. What a great feeling!
I have more to share, but I will stop for now. Just know I am still smiling . . .
So here it is, two days later, and I am still feeling light on my feet. Or, as if you were wearing sunglasses, had forgotten, and somehow they were taken off of your face. What a great feeling!
I have more to share, but I will stop for now. Just know I am still smiling . . .
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Vote
Please.
We went this morning at 8:00, and headed out at 8:40. There were two lines at our location, for two "precincts." It was quiet, citizens were sleepy. The biggest hang-up it seemed to me was simply the process of checking names off of the list, signing below the facsimile of your registered signature.
The booths at my voting location were like those I first used in Pennsylvania -- levers, heavy, and made a loud noise when you registered your vote. I love 'em, and am so happy I don't have to use a computer. I love the tactile nature of the machines, that you can feel the lever churn and crank, you can year when your vote is registered. It feels real, permanent.
My parents are busy today, making food, hosting volunteers, and driving others to the polls. I love it! I hope it helps make western Pennsylvania as left-leaning as I know it can be!
Somehow I hope I can make it through the day . . .
We went this morning at 8:00, and headed out at 8:40. There were two lines at our location, for two "precincts." It was quiet, citizens were sleepy. The biggest hang-up it seemed to me was simply the process of checking names off of the list, signing below the facsimile of your registered signature.
The booths at my voting location were like those I first used in Pennsylvania -- levers, heavy, and made a loud noise when you registered your vote. I love 'em, and am so happy I don't have to use a computer. I love the tactile nature of the machines, that you can feel the lever churn and crank, you can year when your vote is registered. It feels real, permanent.
My parents are busy today, making food, hosting volunteers, and driving others to the polls. I love it! I hope it helps make western Pennsylvania as left-leaning as I know it can be!
Somehow I hope I can make it through the day . . .
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