Jonathan Bellman
OK, Re-Pete: by
popular demand, here is my one rather unfortunate connection with the late Stan
Getz. Late in my time at
Stanford—I believe it was the last year of my doctorate, 1989–90—I got an
eleventh-hour call from Charles Barber, a friend and at the time a conducting student there. He was organizing the Stanford
Orchestra concert, which was some kind of mixed program with Stan Getz, the
titular head of the Stanford Jazz Program. Getz had, I think, almost nothing to do with Stanford other
than showing up periodically, being a figurehead, disseminating misinformation
about the Jazz Program on Johnny Carson, and so on. There was a commissioned work on the concert, a symphonic
Jazz concerto for tenor sax and orchestra composed for Getz by I can’t remember
who (it is NOT THIS ONE, but MAYBE
THIS ONE, though I don’t think it was by
Bill Holman). This piece, as it
turned out, had a small piano part.
Since a Jazz combo was going to do a few numbers with Getz early in the
program, the pianist had agreed to play the part, until…he saw it, and
demurred. He doesn’t read much,
he’s an econ grad student, he’s really busy. Jon, please, could you…? It’s not that hard…
It was true; the piano part was not that hard—just some
strummed chords and stuff, so I agreed.
When I showed up, though, I found that the combined insecurities of Getz
(who didn’t like playing from music), the conductor Andor Toth, Sr. (who was
not comfortable with Jazz, though he was called upon periodically to do it),
and the logistics of the Jazz combo earlier in the program meant that I was to
be playing with my goddamned back to the conductor. To see
him, I would have to look backwards over my left shoulder while simultaneously,
one presumed, playing from my unmemorized part. I tried to object, but no, Jon, we’re sorry, we can’t do
anything, you’ve got to understand, you’ve got to work with it, Andor is
already upset enough, no don’t
bring it up to him, Getz has decided he won’t even play the piece anyway,
feelings are running so high…
Apparently Getz was not confident about his music-reading
ability. Another Stanford student
had made him a tape of the solo sax part played on piano, so Getz could learn
it by ear, but he was still insecure, and had decided at the last moment not to
perform the work. Everyone was at
sixes and sevens, and in walks yours truly, unhappy enough for my own
impossible situation, completely uninvested in Jazz per se and neither knowing
nor caring much about the fact that Getz was bona fide Jazz Royalty. Backstage, I meet…the composer, whoever
he was. He sounded to me like a
fast-talking Hollywood Mr. Smooth-It-Away type, full of strutting
self-promotion (“I mean, you can see
what I’ve accomplished with this piece!”), with his tux, big pink tie and
equally strutting adolescent son by his side. Since I was the only ear this guy could get, he began
playing me: I should go talk to Stan, get him to do the piece, I’m in the
piece, he’ll listen to me, it’s fine really, Stan should just improvise the
cadenza rather than play the one written (complete with fulsome
faux-flexibility: “That’s the feel I wanted anyway,” he claimed), etc. I was raised in Los Angeles county and
have a lifetime’s experience with the L.A. type, but still couldn’t fend this
guy off. So, somehow, I—a largely
Jazz-ignorant doctoral-candidate last-minute walk-on—was given the assignment
of convincing The Great Stan Getz to please play this guy’s concerto.
Well! Wasn’t this a recipe for success!
What tack to take?
Getz doesn’t know me from Adam, and he wasn’t even there for the
rehearsal. Maybe friendly
familiarity… [those of you thinking “Uh-oh; cue the Don Giovanni D Minor chord” have it exactly right.] So, I go to jolly him up; he’s
nervously talking to the strutting, oh-so-cool Jazz combo (you know how Jazz
guys can get when a classical musician is in the room). He’s reluctant, and I’m trying to jolly
him up (this is a stranger, remember) and I wound up with, “Oh, come on,
schmuck…”
FREEZE-FRAME.
PLEASE.
In my mind, I have always heard “schmuck!” in my father’s
voice, kidding and above all affectionate. Yes, thanks, I do
know what schmuck means literally, but in my family it always had a kind of
“ah, geddadda heah’ ya joik” sense; Dad would say “you’re a schmuck!” when I scored a point on him about his driving or
an unsavory aspect of his youth or my mother’s zinging him or whatever. So for me the word was always a slight
elbow in the ribs, always warmly meant.
OK, so my house was the
only one I knew that had any discernible yiddishkayt in it, and so I thought
our unique take on the various family dialects was standard, government-issue
American Yinglish. Wrong again,
Jon! This was brought home in a
very uncomfortable way when Getz snapped back
“DON’T YOU CALL ME A
SCHMUCK, SON!”
Oh, sh--. So I apologized, immediately,
profusely, and resentfully, turned and walked away, mentally washing my hands
of the entire situation.
The order of the program was changed, to put the concerto at
the end so Mr. Getz could change his mind at any point. Piece by piece the concert progressed,
and at the end we all went on.
Getz played, improvising during the cadenza rather than playing the
written one. I craned my neck wretchedly throughout and (if I recall correctly)
made hash of the piano part. After
the concert, I was about to exit stage left, and turned around once more: there
was Getz in the stage right wings, looking at me fixedly.
I thought this at the time, and it looks this way in my
memory, and for the rest of my life I will believe: there was regret in his
face. Probably I’m giving myself
far too much credit, but that’s what I saw: he was looking at me, sadly, as if
knowing our previous contact hadn’t gone right.
A mensch would have walked gingerly up to him, expressed
regret at our previous conversation, and congratulated him on his performance.
I turned back and left, sick of the entire situation: sick
of blowing my conversation with him and getting dressed down like a
fourteen-year-old (I was probably 32 or so), sick of the stupid, manipulative
composer's having put me in that position, and above all sick of the way I had
been forced into embarrassing myself on the piano. Two years later Getz was dead.
What was I saying about the strutting pride of those awful
stuck-up Jazz musicians? God knows
classical musicians never present any such behaviors.
It’s a shameful story, I freely admit. I was insecure and unhappy about my own
inglorious role and the untenable position I was put in, and I was resentful
about the way he snapped back at me—but this does not belong in the category of That Stan Getz and How He
Treated People. One ought to know
better than to call a stranger, particularly someone of Getz’s profile and
accomplishments, a schmuck of all things!
I have always been a slow learner, though. This one was my
fault, not his, and it is a memory I will forever be ashamed of. I do, however, hereby publicly own it. And yes, I warned you that it was a long story.
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