My heart breaks

December 28 now joins a sad list of dates that I remember with tears: January 10, the day both my Dad and Ian Poole died; January 19, the day Jan Palach died; November 21 and 22, when my Mom and President Kennedy died; December 7, Pearl Harbor Day.

Today, December 28, 2015, my dearest friend -- my best friend for fifty years – died in Richmond. Don Dale passed away, apparently of a massive heart attack. I am stunned and immensely sad. My last email to him was a little before noon today; he likely never saw it. I called and left a message last night; he did the same. I thought we’d talk later today.

Instead, we’ll never talk again.

I was sixteen when I met Don; we celebrated fifty years of friendship this past September in Richmond, where, save for an Air Force stint in Germany, he always lived. I am so glad we had that party!

As I said in the blog post about that festive evening, we had grown closer over the years. We emailed daily, often several times a day. We talked on the phone less frequently, but still often. We traveled together and I visited him in Richmond.

The size of the hole in my life is not yet clear. Already I’ve thought of half a dozen things I wanted to share with him. As I write these words I know that he, my most faithful reader, will never see them. I am sad beyond description.

But we did have fifty years. I will forever be grateful for that.

I love you, Don.

Merry Christmas to all American Xenophobes

Our friend Robin sent us this wonderful Christmas card. For those who don't know him, he is the wittiest friend I have. On the inside he wrote, "Yeah, right!"

Thank you, Robin, for pointing out that most Christians are such in name only.

Meanwhile in Canada they've opened their arms to the folks for whom our inns have no room. Merry Christmas, Canada, you deserve the best!

Don't drop the soap

You've probably heard about Martin Shkreli, the pharmaceutical whiz kid who reaps profits by raping consumers, or their bank accounts at least. As the New York Times reported, Shkreli’s company, Turing Pharmaceuticals, recently acquired the rights to Daraprim, used to treat malaria and various infections — and on the List of Essential Medicines published by the World Health Organization. Overnight they raised the price from $13.50 a pill to $750 each.

Pause. Scratch eyes. Read again.

Today Shrkreli was arrested by the feds on securities fraud charges from his time with MSMB Capital Management and Retrophin.

He may well already be out on bail — no doubt he has highly paid lawyers on speed dial — but I’m going to revel for a moment in the thought of this vaguely cute small man locked in a jail cell with other career criminals, many of them much bigger and hornier than he.

As above, my advice when you're in the prison shower: don’t drop the soap, or you'll run the risk of learning what it's like to be screwed by the man.

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I haven't written in weeks because the news, from Paris to San Bernardino to the Republican halls of power, has shut my smartass voice down. But I couldn't resist the chance to make fun of this selfish money maker. I'll be back soon I'm sure.

Just a hand?

This headline caught my eye, from today's New York Times:

Omaha Zoo’s Three-Legged Tiger Bites Woman Who Tried to Pet It

Just a bite on the hand? If ever there were a chance for the magnificent tiger to thin the (human) herd, this was it.

Drugs, alcohol and stupidity -- what a combination! You can read more here.

Boxers to the rescue

Two of our three dogs are mutts. Cassie, the eldest, is an Aussie Cattle Dog mix and Zack is a lab and who-knows-what else mix. Only Zeus is a purebred, a Siberian Husky.

I’ve never had a Boxer.

I’ve never even liked the underwear.

Until today.

The one part of cruising that is never enjoyable is the disembarkation – getting off the ship for you non-cruisers. You have to pack your bag the night before and leave it outside your cabin by 11pm. One time, years ago when I still drank, Ransom and I enjoyed too much wine at dinner, came back to the cabin and passed out before packing and putting our luggage outside. It wasn’t til morning we realized our mistake. The staff was NOT happy.

Last night we didn’t make that mistake; our three bags were out in the hallway by 11pm. All packed.

A bit too well packed it turned out.

At perhaps 11:15 I realized that the pants I was planning on wearing off the ship were not hanging in the closet. They were not laid out on the bed or hanging in the bathroom. They were instead in one of our suitcases – one of our suitcases that was already deep in the belly of the ship, waiting to be off-loaded in the early morning. I frantically looked outside to see if maybe one suitcase was still in the hall.

It wasn’t.

I’m a briefs kind of guy. I had a fresh pair, socks, shoes and shirt, but no pants to wear off the ship. Luckily Ransom is a boxers kind of guy and had a clean extra pair of plain grey ones. From a distance, with a cursory look, anyone would think they were shorts, right? I’d be fine, right? All I had to do was make it to my suitcase, grab a pair of real shorts and all would be well.

It didn’t quite turn out that way. Don’t get excited, this tale does not take an R-rated turn, but I did end up wearing those boxers over my briefs for far longer than anticipated. When I collected my suitcase we worried that the customs officials might not look kindly on my rooting through it, so we just kept going. Then we were all of a sudden in the queue for a cab, then in the cab, then in the hotel checking the bag because our room was not yet ready – and there was I -- still in Ransom’s boxers.

For the next six hours! Hanging around the pool, going across the street for some Church’s fried chicken, more hang time – it wasn’t til 3:45pm that we got into our room and I got out of Ransom’s underwear.

A sartorial experience I will not soon forget.

Here’s to you, Rick

Fifteen years ago I toured English cathedrals and abbeys on my own, training from town to town to see as many as I could. It was a glorious holiday. I stopped in Winchester, Norwich, Bath, Romsey, Cambridge, Tewkesbury, Wells, Durham, Ely, Peterborough, Lincoln, York and Durham. My favorite cathedral, and one of my favorite towns, was Salisbury; I even double-backed there to catch a performance of Haydn’s Creation.

On the train from Bath to Salisbury I noticed a good-looking man who, for whatever reason, I assumed was a Yank. I wanted to talk to him but my natural reticence prevented me. For an hour I kept rehearsing opening remarks, but tossed all of them. When we pulled into Salisbury, he got off the train just ahead of me.

What a fool I had been. We might have become great friends, or at least spent a lively hour over a pint.

Sometime later I was talking to my childhood friend Ricky (now Rick). He told me of traveling on a train heading north from London. He struck up a conversation with a solo traveler and they talked all the way to their destinations. That was decades ago. They became fast friends; their families have met and shared weddings and vacations. They are very close and have enjoyed many years of each other’s company – all because Rick took the chance and said hello to a stranger.

I’ve had the opportunity in the last few days to make up for my mistake on the Salisbury train. Stuart and Angie are traveling in the cabin next to ours; we met as the four of us were on our balconies when the Summit pulled away from New Jersey and headed under the Verrazano Bridge and out to sea. We chatted for a bit and then headed inside. They told us they were from York.

Tuesday afternoon I wrote them a note asking if they wanted to get together for drinks or dinner. We settled on dinner, but then ran into them in the Rendezvous lounge and so did both. And what a lovely time we had. They are both very attractive and very charming and of course have that lovely accent we Americans can’t get enough of. We spent maybe three hours together and the conversation was non-stop and varied. I hope we’ll see more of them in the three days left.

We may not become the oft-visiting friends that Rick and his pal became – though who knows? That doesn’t matter. What matters is the reward already paid for a simple hello.

Dishonoring my cynic’s colors, yes, but well worth it. Thanks, Rick, for the inspiration.

 Two views of the incredible York Minster, in Stuart and Angie's home town

Fighting the demon

Guilt is a powerful thing. Catholic guilt is especially powerful, right up there with Jewish guilt. Tina and I were a couple in high school and beginning college; we used to fight about whose fault something was. “It’s my fault.” “No, it’s mine.” “No, it was me.” (“You mean 'I’?” Snark. Snark.) This could go on for twenty minutes. I was Catholic and she was a Jew. We both wanted to take the blame, to assuage our guilt.

I’ve worked years to limit guilt’s hold on me, but it’s a powerful monster and hard to tame.

Since Monday I've lost the fight. We’re on vacation, sailing on the Celebrity Summit to Puerto Rico, but I spend about three hours each day doing Yale work. I could have blown it off but the guilt I would have felt would have been worse than just doing the work.

I could protest that the work was time-sensitive and how, working in a one-man office, there’s really no one else who can easily do it -- but the truth is it’s my work and I would feel guilty not doing it.

Damn those Catholics! I’d rather just be enjoying my vacation!

In fact though, I am. Today is the third sea day in a row and it’s a delight to be back aboard Celebrity. The ocean’s been a bit choppy but today it’s smooth as Connecticut ice. The usual drill is in effect: Ransom stays in the cabin all day while I go out and take in an activity now and then (or do Yale work!) and we get together for three meals.

Last night after dinner he returned to the cabin and I went out for “The World’s Hardest 60’s Music Trivia.” It was a lot of fun -- and definitely hard. I came in second, stumped by questions like, “What famous product did the mother of one of the Monkees invent?” I also missed “Lulu’s real name” and “Who wrote Daydream Believer"?

I’d tell you more about the cruise, but I have to check my Yale email.

I will tell you: Michael Nesmith’s mother Bette invented White Out, Lulu’s real name was Marie McDonald McLaughlin Lawrie and John Stewart of the Kingston Trio wrote Daydream Believer – not Neil Diamond as I and many others said (Diamond wrote I’m a Believer. I knew that.)

Blu, our dining room aboard Summit

Ladies and gentlemen, the Beatles! (Sorta)

I went to several concerts this past summer; you may remember reading about some of them. Felix Cavaliere, leader of the (Young) Rascals, led a crack band doing most of their big hits at the Tarrytown Music Hall in June. A week later the Happy Together Tour also stopped in Tarrytown: an oldies show with the Buckinghams, the Association and the Turtles (among others). The Family Stone, sans Sly but in great form, played in Hamden, CT, as did the Tokens (excellent) and the Drifters (not so good).

I chose not to stay in West Haven, CT, on July 25 for “A Temptations Review” (sic), part of the Savin Rock Festival. That show was advertised as featuring former lead singer of the Temptations Barrington “Bo” Henderson.

Bo Who? Turns out that Henderson fronted the Temptations from 1998-2003. That’s 33 years after their best-known hit, My Girl, and 25 years after their last Top 10 hit, Masterpiece. To call last summer’s gig in West Haven a Temptations show is a bit of a stretch.

Last night I returned to the Tarrytown Music Hall for a show that made no pretense whatsoever at being original. In fact music director and lead guitarist Rob Phillips (pictured) announced at the top of the show that no effort was made to look like or act like the original artists but only to play one of their classic albums note for note, track by track.

That album? Abbey Road by the Beatles.

It was an excellent concert. The group didn’t always sound like the Beatles – though they were usually damn close – but the music was, as promised, note for note spot on. I never thought I would hear Come Together, Something and Here Comes the Sun live, almost as if the Beatles were doing it. It was, uh, fab!

The second half featured a fascinating mix of megahits and lesser knowns. I wasn’t ready for – and could’ve lived without – Why Don’t We Do It In the Road, but I loved hearing I Am the Walrus and Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da and was absolutely blown away by the last four songs of the night: While My Guitar Gently Weeps, A Day in the Life, She Loves You and Twist and Shout.

To hear this music the day after what should have been John Lennon’s 75th birthday was poignant and emotional and an excellent way to celebrate his legacy. Thank you, Lu and Harriet, for joining me on such a fun night. (Have you defrosted yet from our al fresco dinner?)

No room at the inn. No inn at the inn.

In July of 2000, at the end of my solo tour of English cathedrals, I spent a night in London. When I got to the B&B I had booked there was a handwritten note tacked to the door; it directed me to another address around the corner. When I rang the bell at the new location a gentleman unlocked the door and said, “Welcome, Walter.” It was a bit odd, but all turned out well.

Yesterday in New York Ransom and I had an odder experience that turned out even better. We had booked a room at the Park Central Hotel, 7th Avenue at 56th Street, just across from Carnegie Hall. As we were driving down the West Side Highway, Ransom phoned the hotel to ask about parking; the cheery woman on the phone told us they managed their own garage and we could park there – for $60 per night, but that’s a story for another day.

We chose to park at a different garage and walked into the hotel. The man behind the desk gave me an odd look when I said, “Room for Wilson, Ransom.” He swallowed a look of confusion and smiled as he responded, “This hotel is closed.”

That made no sense. We had a confirmed reservation. We had just called the hotel ten minutes ago. WTF?

He was, of course, right. The hotel was closed. Something about a broken water pipe and the city forcing the hotel to close. How a broken water pipe could close an entire 761-room hotel is beyond me. Even odder, a Google search and an online search of the New York Times turned up no more information. When I visited the Park Central’s website everything looked normal, except that there were no rooms available for every day I checked.

But there’s a silver lining – a gold lining really – to this tale. Although the hotel failed to let us know it in advance, they did have a room for us at the Doubletree at 51st and Lexington. That’s not as convenient as the original west side location, but we could manage – especially when they told us they were refunding our entire room charge and the Doubletree would be ours for free – full hot breakfast included. We had paid $311 for the Park Central so, as I say, this deal was golden.

The Doubletree was lovely, the breakfast first rate and the whole reason we were in the city, the New York Philharmonic’s showing of The Godfather, was thoroughly enjoyable.

(Regular readers may remember that I saw the NY Phil screen 2001: A Space Odyssey while the musicians played the score and that I traveled to Boston to hear the BSO do the same with West Side Story. The Godfather would not have been my third choice, but it was my birthday and seemed a fun thing to do).

We ate dinner before the movie/concert at Pasha, an excellent Turkish restaurant I’ve been to several times.

Thank you, Ransom, for a wonderful trip. It was a grand birthday -- and if I can say that AND save $311 then I’m all in favor of “odd.”

The lobby of the Park Central Hotel; it was just about this empty when we walked in yesterday.

It all started with Coke

My friend Chuck was a budding journalist in the spring of 1965. He was the editor of The Gavel, J. R. Tucker High School's newspaper in Richmond, Virginia. He was also the Coke Teen Time reporter on the local rock station, WMBG. Once a week or so he would go to the station to record school news. Chuck was a busy boy though and asked me if I would take over for him.

I was thrilled! To be recorded at a radio station by an on-the-air DJ; to hear my voice on the radio -- how cool was that? In April or May of 1965 I went with Chuck to meet the disc jockey who created the segments. That would be local Richmond celebrity, Don Dale.

Last weekend, fifty years later, I traveled to Richmond to celebrate the remarkable friendship that started in 1965. There have been ups, there have been downs, but through it all Don and I have remained friends and are likely closer now than we’ve ever been. What started with “Hi, this is Walt Foery from J R Tucker High school with Coke Teen Time News” has grown into a lifelong relationship that has anchored me over the decades.

As I am wont to do, I prepared music for the dinner and for party favors. It was all from 1965, and what a great year that was: Downtown; Stop! In the Name of Love; Eight Days a Week; My Girl; I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch); Mr. Tambourine Man; I Got You Babe; Yesterday; Unchained Melody; Like A Rolling Stone; and THE song of the summer, Satisfaction, by the Rolling Stones. (And many others, including probably the worst song ever to be named song of the year, Wooly Bully).

Don invited four family members, his niece Terry and her husband, James, as well as his nephew Mike and Mike’s wife, Becky; I invited my brother Raymond, my dear friend Malette – who drove up from North Carolina – my Richmond friend Sally – the “best person” at my wedding – and Lu and Leslie, who drove down from Laurel, MD. No one of us knew everyone at dinner but we all had a connection either to the summer of 1965 in Richmond, or to me or Don. Don and I, my brother and Lu were the four in the group who actually partied together fifty years ago.

Me circa 1965

Don, circa 1965

That summer was perhaps the happiest of my life and Saturday night was one of the happiest dinners I’ve ever attended. We ate fantastic food at Southbound, a hot and cool restaurant in Stony Point that opened last fall; ironically, it is in the same shopping strip as the Charley's that opened back in 1986 – the Charley's for which I was supposed to be general manager. (See "My Husband".)

Southbound's food, service and ambience were exquisite and added mightily to a fabulous evening. I know I speak for all when I say that. Don already wants to do it again for our 51st!

Yes, it really is that good

Ben Brantley opened his New York Times review of "Hamilton" three weeks ago with the words above. And you know what, he was absolutely right. It IS as good as just about everyone had said, whether they were talking about the off-Broadway version earlier this year at the Public Theatre, or the dazzling concoction I saw yesterday at the Richard Rogers Theatre.

I expected to love it, even though I had my fears: I am NOT a hip-hop kind of guy and rap makes me want to leave the room. Both of those genres had been used to describe the score and so I was worried. But virtually every word I read about the show was positive; surely not all those writers love hip-hop, I thought, so I decided I’d love it too. And I did.

The music is never off-putting – far from it; I'd use the words melodic and tuneful to describe it. The lyrics are as clever as Gilbert and Sullivan couplets – there’s even a shout-out to their Modern Major General. The cast is extraordinarily talented, from Daveed Diggs as both the Marquis de Lafayette and a wonderfully over-the-top Thomas Jefferson to Leslie Odom Jr. as a compelling and convincing Aaron Burr, to a personal favorite of mine, Jonathan Groff, as a hysterically funny and jaunty King George III.

Lin-Manuel Miranda wrote the book, the lyrics and the music – AND stars as Alexander Hamilton. You may not know that Hamilton was born a bastard in the West Indies and orphaned as a child before becoming an aide to George Washington, a defender of the Constitution and the first Secretary of the Treasury. We would be a far different nation without him.

That this Founding Father could be the subject of a big Broadway show with an urban sound is one of the magic tricks that Miranda performed in creating his must-see musical.

I’ll quote you below some of the insanely inventive lyrics; they’re from a live performance that Lin-Manuel Miranda did at the White House in 2009. What I heard yesterday was no doubt somewhat different, but you’ll get the measure of Miranda’s brilliance. The original cast album is not due until October; I am impatiently awaiting its release and may have to renege on my commitment to not buy music anymore.

Until then I will savor the feelings I had for almost three hours in New York yesterday. "Hamilton," at least at this close distance, is right up there with "Sweeney Todd" on my list of clever and creative musicals, and that’s mighty company to be in.

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How does a bastard, orphan, son of a whore
And a Scotsman, dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot
In the Caribbean by Providence, impoverished, in squalor
Grow up to be a hero and a scholar?
The ten-dollar Founding Father without a father
Got a lot farther
By workin' a lot harder
By bein' a lot smarter
By bein' a self-starter
By fourteen they had placed him in charge of the trade and charter
And every day while slaves were being slaughtered
And carted away across the waves
Our Hamilton kept his guard up
Inside he was longing for something to be a part of
The brother was ready to beg steal borrow or barter
Then a hurricane came and
Devastation reigned and
Our man saw his future drip drippin' down the drain
Put a pencil to his temple
Connected it to his brain
And he wrote his first refrain
A testament to his pain
When the word got around, they said, "This kid is insane, man!"
Took up a collection just to send him to the mainland
Getcha education, don't forget from whence you came
And the world is gonna know your name!
What's your name, man?

Alexander Hamilton. His name is Alexander Hamilton
And there's a million things he hasn't done
But just you wait. Just you wait.

Happy Birthday, Cassie

Most of us now know that the popular wisdom we grew up with is wrong: a year in a dog's life is NOT the equivalent of seven human years. There's no one calculation that works for all dogs since there's a big difference among the four dog sizes (small, medium, large, giant). On top of that, dogs age at different rates at different times in their life: they age much faster when they're younger than when they're older.

By any standard though, 15 is a remarkable age for most dogs, so it is with great joy that today we celebrate that milestone with Cassie. She's not only the oldest dog in the family but she's still the Alpha, though Zack is clearly understudying the role.

I found versions of the chart below on several websites; each varied from the other but the numbers were fairly close. Cassie weights about 50 pounds so in human years she's roughly 83 to 93.

Our longest-living dog, Toby, "the best dog that ever was," lived to be sixteen. Here's hoping Cassie tops that record. The saddest thing about the chart below is that it doesn't go beyond sixteen. Some dogs do live longer, but not many. It would be a much better world if they all did.

And, just like with kids, I can't play favorites, so the other two demanded their pictures be included. All were taken today, sans professional lighting or skill.

Zeus, the middle child

Zack, the youngster

Powerful Old Man

I've always been a sucker for the Arthurian legends. I likely first encountered them in the Prince Valiant comic strip in the 50s, though it had nothing much to do with Camelot, only claiming to be “In the days of King Arthur.” I think I saw the Disney animated film, The Sword in the Stone, but I can't swear to that. I certainly saw and liked Excalibur, John Boorman’s 1981 film with Nicol Williamson and Helen Mirrin.

In college I read Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of England (Historia Regum Britanniae) as well as some of Malory’s famous account, Le Morte d’Arthur and Tennyson’s Idylls of the King. Later came Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and The Once and Future King, T. H. White’s easily digested pop rendition.

So it was with some sense of loss that last night I watched the last of the BBC’s five-year tale Merlin. It featured the sweetly pretty Bradley James as a young Arthur and the geeky but charming Colin Morgan as an even younger Merlin. Some of the 65 episodes were terrible, but mostly it was great fun. NOT high art for sure, but diverting and even a tad sexy what with an often-shirtless Arthur and a slightly homoerotic bond between the two leads.

As I said, this was the young Merlin. The image we mostly had in our minds before the BBC’s take was of an old man with long white hair and a long white beard -- the same image that Peter Jackson created for Gandalf in the Lord of the Rings movies (and movies and movies).

Powerful old man.

I have neither long hair nor a long beard but I am old and the other day I was called, for the first time to my knowledge, an old man.

I am a fierce defender of pedestrian rights and I regularly stare down drivers who threaten to drive through a crosswalk. I make them wait.

Now, I'm no fool, so I take into account the speed and proximity of the vehicle and I never start to cross unless I’ve locked eyes with the driver. Most stop, shamed into obeying the law. Some speed through, and I let them.

Last week, crossing Broadway on the edge of the Yale campus I stood on the curb as a late model coupe sped by way too fast for me to engage. Behind it though was an older sedan with two young men in it – twenty somethings I’d say. I stared them down, and they stopped.

As I traversed the crosswalk one of them called out, “Powerful old man!” He may have said more; maybe, “You're not so powerful, old man” or perhaps “Stupid, powerful old man. I don't know; I only heard the three words.

I liked the powerful part. The old man, not so much. But I'll take them both.

University of Texas Sharp-shooter Kills 14. Shooter Murders 32 at Virginia Tech. “Yale Gunman Kills 8”.

When Charles Whitman started shooting from the UT tower (right) in Austin, TX, on August 1, 1966, most of us would have never considered such a thing possible. It was shocking that someone would open fire on strangers, killing so many. By the time Seung-Hui Cho went on his rampage on the campus of Virginia Tech on April 16, 2007, we were all too used to this kind of story. The fact that the horror of Sandy Hook, CT, where 20-year-old Adam Lanza fatally shot 20 children and 6 adults, did nothing to change the culture of gun violence in this country shows how complicit we have become in this madness.

Today gun violence came as close to me as I would ever want it to. I took part in an emergency preparedness drill run by Yale’s Director of Emergency Management, Maria Lavandier Bouffard, and her hard working staff. The headline above should be labeled "This is only a drill."

I was a volunteer actor; in the morning I played the father of a Yale freshman; unable to reach my son after hearing the news, I drove up from New Jersey in a near-panic. Luckily for my character, the boy was found safe. Many more parents were not so fortunate. Eight families lost someone in the drill; many more were injured.

In the afternoon I played the brother of a Yale employee who was shot and taken to hospital where he was pronounced “critical but stable.” Another volunteer played my brother’s wife and she and I portrayed nervous, scared family members being informed and consoled by Yale staff.

The day was far more intense than I expected it to be. Even though I knew “this is only a drill,” the emotion welled up repeatedly. It’s the disturbing age we live in. Everything depicted today was entirely believable and all too real.

I am honored to have taken part and I applaud Yale’s initiative in running such a large scale drill – hundreds of people were involved – but I deplore the fact that it is necessary.

And I deplore the NRA for continuing to deny their culpability in the madness that is the gun culture of America in the twenty-first century. It is time to stand up to the NRA. It is time to outlaw the manufacture or sale of guns. It is time to repeal the second amendment.

Johannes, Wolfie and Sly

Years ago, when Ransom and I lived on the Upper West Side, I went several times to Shea Stadium for Mets games. I remember one particular day, I think it was a Saturday; I know it was a glorious sunny day and that the Mets won. I took the train back into Manhattan and went out that night to one of the other Mets – the Metropolitan Opera. I don’t remember that performance but I do recall wondering how many other people in the audience had been at the ballpark that afternoon.

Damn few, I'll wager. Maybe none.

I was reminded of that day last night while attending a Mostly Mozart Festival concert at Avery Fisher Hall. It was an evening of Bach, Mozart and Brahms. The night before I had attended a free outdoor concert in Hamden, CT; it was an evening of Sly, Family and Stone.

In point of fact it was a Family Stone concert; Sly no longer plays with them. We heard three of the original members of the group -- Cynthia Robinson (trumpet), Jerry Martino (sax) and Greg Errico (drums) -- with some new, and very talented, additions – including Phunne Stone, aka Raw Syl, Sly’s daughter. Like her, the band was funky and fun; I knew and loved every song, including Everyday People, Hot Fun in the Summertime, Sing a Simple Song and, of course, I Want to Take You Higher, among others.

The point is, you couldn't ask for more different music: Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 20 compared to Dance to the Music; Brahms Fourth Symphony versus Stand!

This time I wondered how many people at Fisher had been listening to (Sly and) the Family Stone the night before.

I take no credit for my catholic tastes; they're just part of me. My mother started me collecting rock and roll when she bought me a 45 of Elvis singing Love Me Tender. Living in Richmond, VA, exposed me to soul music as well as rhythm and blues and funk.

And where did my taste for classical music come from? Well, I’d credit my first boyfriend, Sandy, with jump-starting my interest. He studied piano and introduced me to pieces as varied as Scriabin’s piano preludes and Verdi’s Requiem. I thought of Sandy last night at the pre-concert mini recital when Orion Weiss played Brahms’ Klavierstücke, Op 118. This popular piece tickles lots of emotions; it is soothing and tender, passionate and lyrical – much like Sandy -- and Weiss played beautifully.

Of course the driving force behind my love of classical music is my husband. I've heard him conduct Brahms several times: the Academic Festival Overture, the Violin Concerto (Itzhak Perlman, soloist) and the first Serenade, among others. As the music director of the OK Mozart Festival for over twenty years he of course conducted lots of Mozart too, and I was there to enjoy plenty of it.

He and I share our love of classical music.

Brahms up above and Mozart to the right, yes. Sly, not so much.

Meeting and hearing genius

What do you get if you put together a violin and a piano? That’s easy, a violin sonata. What if you add two basses, a marimba, a vibraphone and a second piano, and put a conductor in front of the lot?

Then you have John Luther Adams’s brilliant 2001 piece The Light That Fills the World, performed last night on the Banff Centre’s Music for a Summer Evening series. Ransom conducted; the performers were mostly students here for the Strings and Winds Master Class and Mr. Adams was in attendance. In fact Ransom and I had lunch with him earlier in the day, before my trip to Canmore. (They've worked together before; I was just meeting him).

It was an intense and wonderful concert. Student composer Jean-Sélim Abdelmoula’s Variations fantômes opened the program, with the composer at the keyboard. To my ear it was moody and rapturous, showcasing a composer with great promise.

Another student, Jared Miller, introduced his Bloom for solo cello and mixed flute ensemble. Miller told us the piece was inspired by a bicycle ride on which he came across hundreds of birds singing in the trees above him. It was a charming piece that clearly owed a debt to John Luther Adams's songbirdsongs; you may remember that Ransom did that more layered work a few years back with Le Train Bleu; you can read a review here. For last night's piece Ransom was center stage, facing the audience, conducting the cellist to his left and eight flutists who were scattered throughout the theatre’s aisles.

The rest of the evening belonged to Mr. Adams. We heard two solo piano pieces, Among Red Mountains and Nunataks (Solitary Peaks), both convincingly played by Tyler Wottrich, and an emotional, strange and wonderful string quartet, The Wind in High Places, sensitively rendered by the Rolston String Quartet. In introducing the quartet Adams had warned us it would likely not sound like any string quartet we had heard before, since the instruments would all be played open stringed -- that is, the players do not use their fingers to stop the strings. He was right, I had never heard a quartet like it, and I found it intense and plaintive and absolutely compelling.

The highlight of the evening was The Light That Fills the World. It sits on a timeline that leads to Adam’s 2013 Pulitzer Prize and Grammy-winning Become Ocean a piece that has changed my understanding of modern classical music and given me hours of joy over repeated listenings. If you don't know it -- or even if you do -- go, now, and listen to it here.

The Banff Centre has a history with John Luther Adams.  In 2009 he premiered Inuksuit, a piece for 9-99 percussionists, in an outdoor venue on this beautiful campus. On the Summer Solstice that year the rains came hard and heavy until, fifteen minutes before time to make the decision whether to cancel, the clouds parted, the sky lightened and the concert went forward. How I wish I had been here that day.

I thoroughly enjoyed meeting John and I think I can say this about him: he will almost certainly never develop an ulcer, for he pours his emotions into his music, where they soothe and challenge and ennoble the listener. I can't wait to hear more.

It’s a small, huge world

I spent an hour this afternoon in Canmore, Alberta, a lovely little town about 25 km from Banff. It’s the furthest one can get on the local transit bus; I really just went for the ride. Turns out there was a farmer’s market today so I bought a few presents for the folks back home. It was a pleasant diversion.

I support mass transit whenever I can. I almost never take a New York taxi, preferring the subway instead. Here in Canada I bought a three-day bus pass for $17.50 ($13.50 US) and it proved its worth the first day.

The best part of the story though was the encounter I had at the transit office. A lovely Japanese woman sold me my pass and we had this exchange:

Me:  Where are you from?
She:  Japan.
Me:  Yes, but what city?
She:  Do you know Yokohama?
Me:  Yes, I lived not far from there, in Sagamihara.
She, tapping her chest while her eyes went wide:  I am from Sagamihara!

It was a remarkable moment. She told me she could hardly wait to tell her mother, who still lived there. So it truly is a small world, but as you look at some more pictures from this area, you can see that it’s truly a huge world too.

The Fairmont Banff Springs Hotel

From the top of Sulpher Mountain, via the Banff Gondola

The incredible Lake Louise

Lake Minnewanka