This past New Year’s Eve, I had the absolute pleasure of attending a Pink Martini concert at the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall here in Portland. First of all, I’d attend just about any show at the Schnitz. Steep stairs, tiered balconies, red carpeting, marble pillars, ornate walls, stained glass ceiling... it’s the only place in Portland where a gal can be dripping in diamonds and not look ridiculously out of place. (Incidentally, we learned that you still do look out of place in a backless, skin-tight, leopard print dress and gold platform shoes.)
Pink Martini, for those who have not been introduced, is a band comprised of a dozen or so classically trained musicians, including several violinists and cellists, a few trumpeters and trombonists, a flutist/clarinetist, a smattering of percussionists, one pianist, and one lead vocalist. Their four studio albums provide a whirlwind musical world-tour through jazz, salsa, bossa nova, polka, and swing, to name a few, and are often infused with well-known classical themes and melodies. “If the United Nations had a house band in 1962,” quotes their website, “hopefully we’d be that band.” Their lead singer, China Forbes, sings in no fewer than six languages (ironically, Chinese is not one of them). Their music is soulful and sensuous one moment and then playful, witty, and whimsical the next—not unlike many of my favorite people.
Listening to Pink Martini is a delight, but watching them is pure joy. They look fantastic, to start. The band is almost always in black-tie attire, and China wears the most splendid, flowing, bejeweled gowns complete with glittery eye shadow and sultry red lips. (Is it too much to ask to have a job where I, too, must wear gowns? From now on, I am going to do all of my parenting in the one floor-length dress that I own, just to see what that might be like. I think Madelyn will respond well. Children understand the importance of feeling fancy so much better than adults do.) These musicians play their instruments with their entire bodies; I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they burn as many calories during one concert as a pro-athlete burns during one game. The pianist, Thomas Lauderdale, is my favorite. He practically dances from his piano bench, but he is so connected to those 88 keys that no matter how much his arms might sweep, arc, or bounce or how much distance lies between two notes, his fingers always land precisely where they mean to. He is a marvel to watch, and by the perpetual grin on his face, you’d think it took no effort at all. I was rivoted and awed... but the more I watched him, the more familiar he seemed. Where had I seen these fanciful piano stylings before?
Ah yes! Josh!
Growing up, there was a boy named Josh who lived a few houses down from us on the corner of Tamarack and Basswood. He was an only child, if I’m remembering correctly, and he was perhaps two or three years younger than me.
Josh, my sister, and I all took piano lessons from the same teacher. I’ll get back to Josh in a minute, but I must pause to briefly introduce you to one of my life’s greatest characters: our piano teacher, Mrs. Hickey. Even as a youngster I knew that her name was giggle-worthy although I couldn’t necessarily articulate why. She was a petite, fifty-something woman with a crisp, bobbed haircut and conservative but expensive clothing. Her wardrobe consisted primarily of long skirts and high-necked blouses, and she peered at us through a pair of perfectly Dumbledore-esque half-moon bifocals. She had smooth, well-moisturized skin, and her make-up was flattering and current without being overly trendy. All the right pieces were present for Mrs. Hickey to be a classy, put-together gal, but, as is often the case with gifted artists, something always went a bit awry in the assembly. To begin, the buttons on her blouse were frequently misaligned, and as luck would have it, the gap always seemed to be right between her breasts, showing off her unexpectedly lacy braziers. (Those lacy braziers were a source of genuine confusion and concern for me. Mrs. Hickey seemed like a decently moral person. I was pretty sure she even attended church, but I was confident that you couldn’t attend church and wear lacy undergarments. It was a bon-a-fide mystery.) Her lipstick, while always a lovely shade of raspberry or plum, was inevitably smudged across her front teeth or in one corner of her mouth. And without fail, she would spend the better part of our hour lesson searching for her bifocals that were perched solidly and predictably on top of her head. She called me “Kimbuhlee.” As far as I know, she was born and raised in the United States without any identifiable speech impediment. I’m not quite sure what happened to that “r,” but hearing her speak always reminded me of the actresses from black-and-white movies who spoke with an accent all their own seemingly fabricated solely to sound glamorous.
Who can be bothered with buttons, lipstick, and “r’s,” however, when you routinely guest-star with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and experience music in all five of your senses? Mrs. Hickey had perfect pitch, and given that she frequently closed her eyes and furrowed her brow while giving us instruction, I suspect she “saw” music as well. One of our favorite requests of her during group lessons was to ask her to transpose a piece of music from the key in which it was written to a key of our choice, an impossible feat for us students that she accomplished with perfection down to the last eighth note almost as soon as the request left our lips. She was a stickler for accuracy in our notes, but I think her true goal was to teach us to feel music—to identify with the notes and express some part of ourselves using our entire bodies to play them. She would stand behind us and lean into us while we played, placing her arms along the top of our arms and her hands on our wrists showing us how to move within the phrases of the music to coax even the tiniest nuance out of every last note.
But back to Josh. Josh was Mrs. Hickey’s pint-sized protégé. With his feet still short enough to swing from the bench and his repertoire consisting only of single-note melodies, Josh swayed his tiny torso and approached every note with the arc and trajectory of an Olympic high-diver. From any vantage point, his index fingers could be seen rising and falling, often above his head, to, well, coax even the tiniest nuance out of every last note. My sister and I thought this was just hilarious and would frequently mimic him while practicing at home. We weren’t making fun of him, necessarily, and we were never unfriendly to him, but, come on, outside of Mrs. Hickey, who really played like that anyway?
Well, touché, Josh. I stood (or sat, rather) humbly corrected in my Mezzanine seat at the Schnitz as I watched Thomas channel your patented piano panache to dazzle and delight thousands. I hope, wherever you are, you’re still playing. Shoot, for all I know, you are Thomas Lauderdale and you’re really having the last laugh.
Pink Martini, for those who have not been introduced, is a band comprised of a dozen or so classically trained musicians, including several violinists and cellists, a few trumpeters and trombonists, a flutist/clarinetist, a smattering of percussionists, one pianist, and one lead vocalist. Their four studio albums provide a whirlwind musical world-tour through jazz, salsa, bossa nova, polka, and swing, to name a few, and are often infused with well-known classical themes and melodies. “If the United Nations had a house band in 1962,” quotes their website, “hopefully we’d be that band.” Their lead singer, China Forbes, sings in no fewer than six languages (ironically, Chinese is not one of them). Their music is soulful and sensuous one moment and then playful, witty, and whimsical the next—not unlike many of my favorite people.
Listening to Pink Martini is a delight, but watching them is pure joy. They look fantastic, to start. The band is almost always in black-tie attire, and China wears the most splendid, flowing, bejeweled gowns complete with glittery eye shadow and sultry red lips. (Is it too much to ask to have a job where I, too, must wear gowns? From now on, I am going to do all of my parenting in the one floor-length dress that I own, just to see what that might be like. I think Madelyn will respond well. Children understand the importance of feeling fancy so much better than adults do.) These musicians play their instruments with their entire bodies; I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they burn as many calories during one concert as a pro-athlete burns during one game. The pianist, Thomas Lauderdale, is my favorite. He practically dances from his piano bench, but he is so connected to those 88 keys that no matter how much his arms might sweep, arc, or bounce or how much distance lies between two notes, his fingers always land precisely where they mean to. He is a marvel to watch, and by the perpetual grin on his face, you’d think it took no effort at all. I was rivoted and awed... but the more I watched him, the more familiar he seemed. Where had I seen these fanciful piano stylings before?
Ah yes! Josh!
Growing up, there was a boy named Josh who lived a few houses down from us on the corner of Tamarack and Basswood. He was an only child, if I’m remembering correctly, and he was perhaps two or three years younger than me.
Josh, my sister, and I all took piano lessons from the same teacher. I’ll get back to Josh in a minute, but I must pause to briefly introduce you to one of my life’s greatest characters: our piano teacher, Mrs. Hickey. Even as a youngster I knew that her name was giggle-worthy although I couldn’t necessarily articulate why. She was a petite, fifty-something woman with a crisp, bobbed haircut and conservative but expensive clothing. Her wardrobe consisted primarily of long skirts and high-necked blouses, and she peered at us through a pair of perfectly Dumbledore-esque half-moon bifocals. She had smooth, well-moisturized skin, and her make-up was flattering and current without being overly trendy. All the right pieces were present for Mrs. Hickey to be a classy, put-together gal, but, as is often the case with gifted artists, something always went a bit awry in the assembly. To begin, the buttons on her blouse were frequently misaligned, and as luck would have it, the gap always seemed to be right between her breasts, showing off her unexpectedly lacy braziers. (Those lacy braziers were a source of genuine confusion and concern for me. Mrs. Hickey seemed like a decently moral person. I was pretty sure she even attended church, but I was confident that you couldn’t attend church and wear lacy undergarments. It was a bon-a-fide mystery.) Her lipstick, while always a lovely shade of raspberry or plum, was inevitably smudged across her front teeth or in one corner of her mouth. And without fail, she would spend the better part of our hour lesson searching for her bifocals that were perched solidly and predictably on top of her head. She called me “Kimbuhlee.” As far as I know, she was born and raised in the United States without any identifiable speech impediment. I’m not quite sure what happened to that “r,” but hearing her speak always reminded me of the actresses from black-and-white movies who spoke with an accent all their own seemingly fabricated solely to sound glamorous.
Who can be bothered with buttons, lipstick, and “r’s,” however, when you routinely guest-star with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and experience music in all five of your senses? Mrs. Hickey had perfect pitch, and given that she frequently closed her eyes and furrowed her brow while giving us instruction, I suspect she “saw” music as well. One of our favorite requests of her during group lessons was to ask her to transpose a piece of music from the key in which it was written to a key of our choice, an impossible feat for us students that she accomplished with perfection down to the last eighth note almost as soon as the request left our lips. She was a stickler for accuracy in our notes, but I think her true goal was to teach us to feel music—to identify with the notes and express some part of ourselves using our entire bodies to play them. She would stand behind us and lean into us while we played, placing her arms along the top of our arms and her hands on our wrists showing us how to move within the phrases of the music to coax even the tiniest nuance out of every last note.
But back to Josh. Josh was Mrs. Hickey’s pint-sized protégé. With his feet still short enough to swing from the bench and his repertoire consisting only of single-note melodies, Josh swayed his tiny torso and approached every note with the arc and trajectory of an Olympic high-diver. From any vantage point, his index fingers could be seen rising and falling, often above his head, to, well, coax even the tiniest nuance out of every last note. My sister and I thought this was just hilarious and would frequently mimic him while practicing at home. We weren’t making fun of him, necessarily, and we were never unfriendly to him, but, come on, outside of Mrs. Hickey, who really played like that anyway?
Well, touché, Josh. I stood (or sat, rather) humbly corrected in my Mezzanine seat at the Schnitz as I watched Thomas channel your patented piano panache to dazzle and delight thousands. I hope, wherever you are, you’re still playing. Shoot, for all I know, you are Thomas Lauderdale and you’re really having the last laugh.
lovely, delicious, and I wish I knew Mrs. Hickey!
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