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I had several subjects cluttering the top of my piano last week. Two, in fact. The subjects were men—one of them in his senior years and hitting on me and another, younger man in black leather who kept insisting I should let him play. I think he wanted my gig.

The older guy, let's call him Friedl, leaned on the piano and stared at me for an hour. Not pleasant, but okay, it happens. The brass buttons on his cuffs drove me nuts. Every time he shifted his weight they rattled against the wood.

The leather man, let's call him Sergei, was from Georgia, NOT the American Georgia, but the other one—it sounded like Korkia when he said it. He seemed very insulted that I wouldn't let him play. He might have worn me down, but the hotel really does have a policy about this. The piano is in a public space and management does not want to risk any Tom, Dick, or Sergei coming along and playing a 7/4 slavic hoedown or whatever they play in Korkia.

While the two lurkers were there the doormen—my favorite guys in the hotel (among them they speak about 140 languages, probably even Korkian) began circling the piano, watching for a sign from me that they should spring into action and bodily remove Friedl and Sergei from the flanks of the Steinway.

No harm done, eventually they wandered off without fisticuffs—Friedl to polish his brass buttons and catch a train, and Sergei to go pester some other working pianist. The scene reminded me of my NYC Piano Girl days. Weird, funny, and slightly sad.

Other than that? Easy, wonderful weekend of music!

I love your doormen. Just the thing for savage beasts for whom music's charms soothe too slowly, but a tranquilizer dart is just about right.

You, and they, are more tolerant than I. Any guest who rattled his brass buttons on my piano or drooled down my cleavage would find out pretty quick what the outside of my front door looked like.

But, at last, I have realized the inspiration for that aria in "Oklahoma:" "People Will Say We're in Love." The lyric must have been re-set in German, and I can't think exactly how it would go; I have a feeling it might be a bit lumpy. But any way you say it, "Don't throw bouquets at me; Don't say my name too much," obviously came to Hammerstein while pitching a game of hardball. Pitchers do have time to think. And then, "Your eyes mustn't glow like mine," puts it across the plate at 95 mph, followed by the umpire calling out the words you've been wanting to say to Sergei all night: "Get out!"

No, I mean, "You're out!"

True, but too late; the truth has already tunneled under the fence and escaped. And here come the doormen...

It sort of sets the stage for Oklahoma, which is, for me, one of the creepiest musicals ever written. That, of course, says a lot. It is a musical that one either loves for its folksy feeling, or one admires for the masterfully unsettling manner it deals with intolerance, a common theme in Hammerstein's musicals. I always come away from it with a feeling of unease, perhaps similar to what Robin was feeling about these two guys.

It does indeed have layers that I never appreciated in high school; now that I've seen it a number of times as an adult (usually middle school or high school productions) I realize there is more to it.

I have yet to play in the pit for it, but maybe someday. The musicals I have played (Guys and Dolls, Our Town, Bye Bye Birdy, Beauty and the Beast) remain peak experiences.

Take Back the Mink... and so many other things you would never hear a real woman say. But that's what elevates art. Forgive the lack of proper quotation marks. I spilled coffee into my keyboard, and now... it says what IT wants to, not what I want to.

I blame the creepiness of Oklahoma on Tennessee Williams. I should say, at R&H's looking sideways at what else was so popular on the stage in those years. Years of critics and audiences alike have determinedly looked past Oklahoma's quirks, observing to themselves that, after all, Tennessee Williams had no more business to try to write a musical than R&H had, to...

A fair bit of what's made it into the musical theater canon has its creepy moments. Ever think about the basic plot line of "H.M.S. Pinafore"? And we don't even need to get to Sondheim.

I've seen quite a few productions of "Oklahoma!", but my favorite was one done at the Arena Stage in Washington DC a few years ago. The director embraced the creepy bits and yet still retained the elements of the play that are traditional (at least, "traditional" after R&H started) elements of Broadway shows.

It worked. The choreography was pretty darned spectacular, too. Especially "Everything's Up to Date in Kansas City" and the dream sequence.

This week's winner, in the "compliments that sound like insults" category:

Man (foppish, happy, one of my favorite guests): I am coming to your concert on the 11th of Decemebr.

Me: Great—it should be a nice evening, I think you'll enjoy it.

Man: I am over the moon excited because I am bringing Brad. He will love, love, love you.

Me: Nice.

Man: You are the perfect choice for Brad.

Me: Really? Why?

Man: He is blind.

*****

How does one respond to that? Am I losing my Ginger edge? Should I provide blindfolds for our other guests, so that they too might have a perfect evening? Geez. I'm looking forward to meeting "Brad."

He meant that your playing is so beautiful it paints a picture in the mind, even for a blind man.
And no, you haven't lost your Ginger edge at all :-)

And you already have the first paragraph for your next book.

My mom used to tell a story about figuring out what to say to the preacher, as you're on your way out of the church after divine service:

"Oh, Reverend Felcher, I just can't tell you how much I enjoyed your sermon! Each one is better than the next."

She was a newspaper reporter, and yes, she did know better. I believe she intended it to strike somewhere between a funny story and a cautionary tale. Or maybe as a fallback, when you don't know what else to say. "Opportunity favors the prepared mind."

"Oh, Reverend F, I just can't tell you how much I enjoyed your sermon, and thank you for talking a little longer than usual. I saw that more than person in the congregation broke out in a sweat. Won't you come over and have lunch with us today? The roast may be tough as an old stump, but I believe I may be able to scrape most of the carbon off if I hurry home right now."

No, she would never have said that--- until the preacher was out of earshot.

Perhaps we should introduce them to Mrs. Lowsborough-Goodby:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FhIqnJHP0DQ

In the back-handed compliment/insult category: An elderly woman (Judy) in my hometown of Pittsburgh called my father (Bob the drummer) several years ago to tell him how much she enjoyed reading my book, "Piano Girl." Conversation went like this:

Judy: Loved "Piano Girl," Bob. Robin is so talented.

Bob: Thanks. Judy!

Judy: You used to have talent, too, Bob. But you gave it up for your family.

(Poor Bob is still scratching his head over that one.)

And here's another one:

"I love your music. Your music is perfect because I can hardly hear it."

That triggered a recollection. I wish this were funny but instead it's true.

I recently attended a clarinet recital by a local professor who was retiring. He had exceptional command of his instrument, and brought his pianissimo down to at or below the level of my tinnitus. That was kind of weird. When I told him that he gave me a really funny look, like it was one of those back handed compliments.

Happy Birthday to me! Yes, I turn 59 today.

November has been a bad month. Trump won; Leonard Cohen died; I fell and smashed my iPhone and lost contact with the world. With a veil of doom hanging over me, I've struggled to regain balance, or, at the very least, a sense of calm.

As some of you know, I performed for a group of inspirational American women two days after the election. My new essay, "A Broken Hallelujah," looks at what happens when you surround yourself with change-makers and everyday heroes. You stop moping and start taking action. I intend to do this with a piano and a pen, by speaking up for what's right and trying to protect my values from the orange crush of bigotry and hatred. Please join me by using whatever skills you have to promote love. Maybe that means playing for weddings or playing for your own mental health. Just do it. We need you now, more than ever.

Here is a link to my December essay. I would post it on this thread (as I usually do) but I don't want to put our dear Frank Baxter in the crossfire. It's a "strong" piece.

A Broken Hallelujah: Piano Girl vs. Trump, Round Two

Happy birthday, dear Robin, and thank you for all that you do!

Yes, a dirty campaign between two unlikable candidates. One of whom won on a platform of pure, unfiltered bluster. But, as your current president said - the sun will still rise tomorrow. And it won't help if we all treat those who voted the wrong way as n***ers. Along with treating everyone who subscribes to a religion as a deluded fool there won't be anyone left to talk to.

Happy birthday!

Happy birthday, Robin! Your escapades as 'Piano Girl' give me such joy to read.

Happy birthday, Robin!

Thank you for the birthday greetings. It should be noted that our esteemed leader, Mr. Baxter, shares a birthday with me. Happy Birthday, Frank! I think I may be older than Frank, but I've reached the age where I am older than just about everyone. How did that happen? My work colleagues are, like, 14 (not really, but they look awfully young to me). I am older than their mothers.

I played for a bride over the weekend, although it was just a part of my steady afternoon tea gig, not an actual wedding job. The bride was glorious! She and her husband came directly from the church to relax and enjoy champagne together before heading to the big dinner. Someone smart booked them for the Afternoon Tea all by themselves so they could get away for a few hours. The photographer followed them into the salon, but the bride booted her out after a few minutes.

On my break I stopped by the bride's table and told her she looked beautiful. She sighed and said, "I FEEL beautiful!" I love that.

My annual Concert in Candlelight is coming up on December 11th. It's that time of year when I am frantically attempting to relearn all my "December" music and figure out how to end "Carol of the Bells."

I love my gig. Last weekend I had the Jazz Police in one corner (forcing me to play more # 11 chords than usual), the Ladies Who Lunch in another corner, Puppeteers from LA in the third corner, and completing the set, my favorite wine expert in the 4th. In the private dining room just off of "my" room, I had 50 kids visiting a Candy Buffet and waiting for Santa. Santa did indeed arrive but he had so much facial hair that I couldn't even see his eyes—he was more of a Senior Sasquatch than a Santa. Not quite sure how he could breathe.

Deck the halls!