Barenboim, Fleming, Terkel And The Fighter Jets

By Author: Roger Wright
Total Articles: 12
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BEFORE THE SOUNDS OF THE FIGHTER JETS



And these are but the outer fringe of his works; how faint the whisper we hear of him! Who then can understand the thunder of his power?"



Job 26:14



In Chicago on the night before the annual Air Show brought the F-!6's to skim screaming across the city streets, set off the parking alarms and make frightened dogs howl: we're downtown. And it's calm.



You stand a few blocks west of the sprawling new Pritzker Pavilion and it looks like some sort of silver space junk. A giant shredded tin can defeated in a galactic battle of the titans by a monster can opener. Left dizzy and sprawled up into the sky.



But walk into the park and the very world you live in changes.



First, you're in Paris on a hot August night. Fountains and flowers. And in the lovingly crafted symmetry of the landscaping; somewhere Edith Piaf is singing, Jacque Brel is drinking, Picasso is scribbling and maybe if you walked just a few blocks from here there'd be this little dark place ...
... where Coleman Hawkins comes after the gig when it's just about him and the saxophone.



Then Paris folds into Chicago as you approach the pavilion. And as you stand and look up through Frank Gehry's silver diamond lattice work that somehow manages to pull together the stage, the seats, the sloping green lawn and the very sky itself---you begin to really sense the wonder in what looked like silver space junk from far away. A stage surrounded by a superstructure that's like an actor or singer popping the palms of their hands out to the audience—holding their palms way above their head and singing out--- from this place we will do the art that talks with God. From this place we will listen for those whispers.



Families of all shapes and sizes strolling the paths of the park. People linger on the benches. You stop on the side of the big stage to listen and watch. The orchestra in shorts and t- shirts. A leisurely rehearsal.



A curly grey haired man who even from a distance seems to just radiate some sort of musical glow---sits down at the piano. Around the orchestra---the musicians' shoulders slump at ease. Daniel Barenboim—is just goofing around. It's a break in the rehearsal. A few musicians get up and leave the stage.



Then a nondescript woman in jeans and a blue summer top walks over and leans on the piano. Barenboim ---with one finger—hits the same note eight times—Duke Ellington's C-Jam Blues---and the woman lets go with a laugh that one just might be able to hear across the lake in Michigan, Barenboim—still on a break—plays the first 2 bars of Ellington's Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me.



And then the woman, opera diva Rene Fleming, recognizable instantly by her voice, on a break this Thursday night, opens up the floodgates to sing. It is a voice as grand as the whole of our piece of the summer night sky. A voice that on a regular work night would be tossing off Puccini or Verdi on the stages of the world.



But tonight, on this break, on the night before the weapons of war come to parade across our horizon---this voice blending with Barenboim's solo piano and the Ellington tune



Do nothing till you hear from me

Pay no attention to what's said

Why people tear the seams of anyone's dreams

Is over my head.



Daniel Barenboim, Argentinean born, maestro citizen of the world takes the interlude. From back in the orchestra, a bass jumps in to give a bottom. Renee Fleming moves her shoulders to Barenboim's gentle swing.



That's when the real miracle begins. From the far side of the stage, something you didn't see before. This old, old man in a red checkered shirt plants his cane to get rise from his chair and steadies himself. Rene Fleming sees the man get up, laughs again like a star had just lit up the night and says: Ah, our host! Studs Terkel ladies and gentlemen! The orchestra applauds. And Renee sings to Studs:



Do nothing till you hear from me,

At least consider our romance,

If you should take the words of others you've heard

I haven't a chance.



And even off on the side in the distance, the sparkle in Studs Terkel's 93 year old eyes matches Fleming's grace—and as Barenboim takes the song around for one last quiet turn---Studs Terkel joins him, places one foot in front of the other, then shows an old slide step. A gentle soft shoe. Renee Fleming spreads her arms out in joy. Whispering memories of dancing in an old soft shoe that comes forth in the swaying of his shoulders while his feet still feel that they can keep the time. How faint the whisper of that memory of dancing: while the old man's eyes still shine.



Some kiss may cloud my memories

And other arms may hold a thrill

But please do nothing till you hear in from me

And you never will.





A whispering memory of the dance. Tapped out perfectly in time. As if it were a prayer of thanks.



Thanks.---before the manufactured thunder of the jets.

About the Author Roger Wright can be found on the Blog CHURCH FOOD CHICAGO