MUSIC IN THE MEMOIR
From Chapter: Art and the Music
From the Memoir:
Art rarely listened to jazz at home or in the car during our long L.A. drives to and from local gigs. Listening to contemporary players made him nervous, jealous of what seemed to him unearned popularity or, worse, earned popularity that should have been his, too. He listened to classical music.
Usually I drove, and when I finally pulled into our driveway, Art couldn’t wait to get into the house, pull off his clothes (the hernia corset!), and lie down. But twice the music was so good he lingered with me in the car. Once it was for Heinz Holliger, an oboist whose tone and technique and elegance had us both gasping. Art whispered, “You can’t even hear when the note ends, where the sound stops!” And another time it was Kathleen Ferrier singing Brahms’s “Alto Rhapsody.” I cut the motor and we sat enraptured until the music ended.
From Chapter: Art and the Music
From the Memoir:
Art rarely listened to jazz at home or in the car during our long L.A. drives to and from local gigs. Listening to contemporary players made him nervous, jealous of what seemed to him unearned popularity or, worse, earned popularity that should have been his, too. He listened to classical music.
Usually I drove, and when I finally pulled into our driveway, Art couldn’t wait to get into the house, pull off his clothes (the hernia corset!), and lie down. But twice the music was so good he lingered with me in the car. Once it was for Heinz Holliger, an oboist whose tone and technique and elegance had us both gasping. Art whispered, “You can’t even hear when the note ends, where the sound stops!” And another time it was Kathleen Ferrier singing Brahms’s “Alto Rhapsody.” I cut the motor and we sat enraptured until the music ended.