Sammiches

The day started sunny and we weren't looking for trouble, my friend and I went all the way uptown near where he used to live. It was the second nicest day of the year and there was traffic blocking all the avenues because the city decided to pop a Sunday pop while the weather allowed. In the lobby of the 92nd Street Y there was a Purim carnival and between the seams again, youth and whatever, secularism and whateverism, sobriety and whatever (man), we bought two pairs of Hamentashen (raspberry and then apricot) and we snuck them into the Chopin tribute.

The Chopin began, it was his bi-centennial and although the cellist (Steve Isserlis) was the renowned one, the pianist really struck through us most. The violinist was also solid. We're in an economic crunch here folks so instead of just one bi-centennial, the 92nd Street Y and this Isserlis guy had a three-day series going of three bi-centennial celebrations....you know...a tri-bi-centennial of Chopin, Mendelssohn, and Schumann.

Two hundred years ago was the initial burgeoning of the Romantic Generation, a few stewards of which, the forefathers (or rather three) were Chopin, Mendelssohn, Schumann.

DID YOU KNOW?: Frederic Chopin was born in ZELAZOWA WOLA (say that one time fast!) a part of Warsaw before he moved to Paris. HOW THE FUCK DID HE GET NAMED FREDERIC CHOPIN if he grew up in Poland? My grandmother was Polish (or something) and her name was Esfira or something gargly like that for her entire life.

This fact seemed important to us for a little while and led us to say CHOPIN with overwrought FRANCH accentsoluement until the show began.

Introduction and Polonaise brilliant, Op. 3 (9 minutes): The introduction was boring but the Polonaise was delicious.

Piano Trio in G Minor, Op. 8 (29 minutes): Then there they were, three on the stage, the program said the beginning was to come in sonata form with verve, the Scherzo fleet and fluid and completed with rhythmic elan. The three were on the stage and the pianist really had them, he even had an apprentice (a page-turner), and the cascade of bone against ivory bone key was like a twinkling dervish that didn't end in our heads until when we walked out at intermission and saw it was raining outside. We stood beneath the porte-cochere and watched Purim revelers dance around some people smoking cigarettes in the mist.

The second half...was where it happened.

Mazurka for Piano No. 45 in A minor, Op. 67, no. 4 (3 minutes) Chopin published dozens of mazurkas which are these short Polish tunes -- triple meter in rhythm, the weak beats of the measures either stressed or accented, bag-pipe blare, modal basing -- to which denizens of the Mazovia region of Poland would normally dance.

Except that Chopin's short little numbers were not made for dancing. They were too full of the verve and elan of dragging and were too fluid and fleet with solemnity and haunting obfuscation. The soundtrack to the part of the movie where the woman drowns in the bathtub. Chopin wrote in a dance form without the intention of having people dance to it. He might as well have taken the Lord's name in vain. The brilliance of some motherfuckers.

The result, five-hundred octogenarians, plus myself and a friend completely compelled by this hypnotic melding of misgiving. Even those of us without permanent slouches and humped backs were leaning in forward like we were listening closely to a story with no words. A three-minute story with a two-century echo.

Barcarolle for Piano in F-Sharp Major, Op. 60 (9 minutes): I couldn't tell you.

Sonata for Cello and Piano in G Minor, Op. 65 (28 minutes): This was his last major work. It was about friendship. The sonata was dedicated to Auguste-Joseph Franchomme, a cellist Chopin met and collaborated with for 15 years before Chopin died at 39. With Franchomme on cello, Chopin played it as part of his last public concert.

The sonata had four movements: Allegro moderato, Scherzo: Allegro con brio followed by Largo and then Finale: Allegro.
He was so weak at the performance that they skipped the first movement entirely. At the end, moderato lacks all necessity.

The piece was another for the pianist, even if the cellist headlined. It was technically complex, burdening the pianist more, but with the cellist following closely behind. It was Chopin wanting to have his friend follow him down the last scales and traps.

It was an endurant dart-shot of sparks with the cello drafting off it. It was another dance no one else could dance to. The cello caught up sometimes to sync with the piano, sometimes it took the lead, but it was really about the dying marathoner being carried to zee pyre by his frere. They closed.

The unscheduled encore was a song the name of which in Polish, according to Isserlis meant I have not what I desire.

We walked across the park and took the train back downtown. At the end and before we split ways, we stopped for sammiches.