Not an auspicious beginning to my trip. Didn’t pick up a work permit from the manager, forgot a commissioned piece of music at home, and missed the train here at Gare Nord in Paris to London because of a previously unknown thirty-minute check-in rule. Now it’s known. Internet isn’t working here as well because of a system error so I will have to post this later. I am heading towards England with a sense of foreboding. This state of mind should serve me well when I play a Paganini caprice live on BBC Radio tonight.

My small comfort so far is a book I picked up at JFK – 3 Nights in August, a look at a 3-game series between the Cubs and Cardinals in 2003 through the eyes of Tony LaRussa. I know I’ve completely lost you non-baseball fans out there. If you want to be my friend you’d better take a crash course on the Chicago Cubs because only then can you truly be annoyed by my lifelong nonsensical, unswerving passion (unless they’re totally depressing like this year) about them. Because I’ve been a fan since before I turned 3, the Cubs experience must have shaped my empathy for the underdog, my philosophical approach to failure, and my fanatical persistence in the face of losing.

2003 was a great year for the Cubs. They lost in the playoffs but I’ll take what I can get. There was so much hope. A team with a young foundation including three of the best starting pitchers in baseball. Never mind that 2/3 of those are now not even pitching because of injuries. A true Cub fan subsists not only on hope but also on the memory of hope. This hopeless hope also applies to my pursuit of perfect intonation, of being able to avoid ever shooting over 100 on the golf course, and of someday becoming one of those anally responsible people who accomplish all they set out to do each day and never forget anything in their life. Those poor stressed-out people. Maybe I don’t wish for that.
I was fortunate to make it to a playoff game that year in Chicago, probably the subject of my next post. My Cubs lost the game but even then it was still one of the most thrilling experiences of a lifetime.

Back to the book and my memories since the rest of today holds even less to look forward to than the Cubs’ 2007 season. Thank goodness it’s football season and the Bears are doing well.

Recording sessions. Photo sessions. Two things that musicians relish. What better way to spend a day (or three) than leaving audible or visible evidence of our flaws? Of course some actually do relish this thought. We call those narcissists.
I recently went through some sessions recording the Faure A Major Sonata and the Chausson Concerto for violin, piano, and quartet with pianist-uberblogger Jeremy Denk and the Jupiter Quartet. Show up to the Academy of Arts and Letters, say hellos, warm up, try to be ready to be “on” by 11am. Piano being tuned. 11am: tune. 11:20 (yes, 20 minutes for a fastidious quartet and violinist to tune properly by our recording standards!):
first sound check. 11:25: listen to first sound check, make set-up adjustments, “too close violin.” “too distant quartet.” “piano muddy.” etc. You get the picture. 1:30 (we could have run-through the concerto 3 times by now): Take 1!
Head was spinning by the end of the first day. Body was numb after the second. Spirit drained after the third.
In a few weeks I’ll probably get the first edit from the sessions and then the hours of listening will be almost as fun as staring at pictures of myself to decide which will be used for print media publicity, which will go on the cover of the CD, which will go in program books. No, that one looks like a smirk. That one looks condescending. Eyes too small. Violin hicky. Shiny scar. Glasses crooked. In the end I lament not having Brad Pitt’s parents and Kate Moss’s makeup artist.