We're still settling down after a whirlwind tour of the USA this past summer. My husband, two children, and I traveled to New York City at the end of June, where I performed a reading and concert in the rotunda at Steinway Hall.
Steinway was bizarre for me. Wonderful, but bizarre.The place just reeks of greatness. When I lived in NYC, I used to think they wouldn't let me in the front door; that an imposter buzzer would go off before I even set foot in the famed rotunda.
Besty Hirsch, who is the champion piano sales person of all time, changed that for me when she decided our book should be front and center, at least for a night. Henry Steinway agreed. I got to chat with Henry for half an hour. He is ninety years old and defines the word dapper, with his walking stick, bow tie, and charming old school manners.
Irene, who basically runs the place, is a New Yorker with flaming red hair and a Brooklyn accent to die for. She looks like a retired Rockette, but I think she has been at Steinway forever, dishing out kind words and helpful tips to artists on the Steinway roster. When I met her, she had just finished reading my book. She said something like this: "I love your Grandma Curtis, and I used to go to the Marriott and the Neptune Diner all the time, and I knew that Viking on 57th Street, too, and by the way what ever happened to that Chinese convict, don't you just HATE going to Riker's Island, where's your daughter, I gotta meet her." And on and on. This is the woman who is dealing with Lang Lang. She is a gem.
I got to the hall at 3, long enough for me to cry over the flowers that Marian McPartland had sent, drink water with Robin Spielberg, and warm up on Horowitz's piano, the one he played at the famed Moscow concert. Really, Betsy took me in this gorgeous room and said, Here's the Horowitz piano, you can warm up here if you'd like. Compared to the other pianos in the hall, it's not so great, but the history makes up for it. I still get chills thinking about placing my hands on those well worn keys. NOTE: If you ever want to know anything at all about Steinway pianos, go talk to Betsy. She is passionate about pianos!
Voice of Doom did not kick in, but he was looming. Beta blockers helped.
John and the kids arrived around 5:30 and set up the book table. They had been to a diner to eat dinner before the event. More on that diner dinner later.
I decided to avoid the Evita entrance down the main staircase in the rotunda, and just mingle and chat with guests before the show. There were so many pianists there. Ted Rosenthal, Bob Dawson, Bill Mays, Kurt Wieting, Michael Abene, etc. In the middle of the crowd I spotted a little man with a straw boater tucked under his arm. Beautifuly dressed, sort of the Henry look, but on a smaller scale. He caught my eye and ambled over to introduce himself. "William Zinsser," he said, "call me Bill." He then proceed to say nice things about Piano Girl. I couldn't believe how positive he was about the book. Because I was suffering from pre-performance hysteria I can't remember exactly what he said, but the one thing that sticks with me was his comment that I managed to avoid the hard edged sarcasm so prevalent in contemporary memoir, and that I came at my subject from a loving perspective, unusual for a young writer. He is 84, so I guess I seem young. Anyway, I was pretty nervous until I talked to him, but when it came time to approach the piano, I did so with confidence. Talking to him gave me a big boost.
NOTE: William Zinsser is the esteemed author of the style book ON WRITING WELL. His book sat on my desk while I wrote Piano Girl.
When Betsy Hirsch introduced me, the audience made a lot of noise. With so many musicians and friends there, we weren't destined for a stuffy evening in the rotunda. It was a very rowdy bunch. Well dressed, but rowdy in a good way.
There were about 60-70 people there, including my good friends Carol and Emilio Delgado, Pamela Johnson, Robin Spielberg, and Claudia Trivelas. Bill Mays sat in the front row next to Julia, my ten year old daughter. The two of them were great laughers. John stayed in the back (he is a bass player, after all) with Robin Spielberg, and my dear son Curtis spent the evening sitting on the toilet in the men's room down in the artists selection room, suffering from a version of the South American two-step brought on by some bad fried chicken at the diner. He did tell me later that the acoustics down there were excellent, and that he heard everything.
After the show everyone hung out and drank the excellent wine purchased by Backbeat's Marketing Director Nina Lesowitz. Since Nina couldn't be there, she did the next best thing; she sent booze. I signed a bunch of paperbacks. Julia gave out change. Curtis stayed on the toilet. Oh yeah, John gets a gold star for not letting me know that Curtis was sick. He hustled Curtis into a cab as soon as the sales table emptied out. The poor kid made it to the entrance of the apartment building before throwing up all over the begonias, his shoes and his new suit. Being thirteen, he recovered quickly enough to give me a full blown critique when I arrived home an hour later. He said the fuck dance chapter got the biggest laughs.
Anyway, aside from Curt being sick, the evening was just great, at least from my point of view. Seemed like the audience had a good time and I know I did.
Steinway has invited me to do a premiere rotunda reading of my next book, whenever it is published. How great is that?
