Slap that Bass

Let me begin by confessing that I was mostly underwhelmed by the suggestion to attend the latest U of C orchestra concert. It's a concert featuring who, Edgar Meyer? A bass soloist? Wait, who does that?? Nothing against the double bass, but the instrument simply doesn't have the range and timbre to possibly be interesting as a solo instrument. From what I recall from middle school orchestra, the worst students were generally the ones relegated to playing bass, since those parts were the simplest and consisted mostly of straight quarter notes. Why would I want to listen to a bassist again? But the desire to look cultured, the inclusion of free tickets, and a lack of better alternatives prevailed, so I agreed to go check out the show.

The orchestra began with a romantic classic, Brahms' Variations on a Theme of Haydn. This is a gorgeous piece, and the orchestra performed it admirably, but this was nothing to write home (or blog) about. Actually, after the concert I was asked by orchestra members if I liked the Brahms, because they were worried about the audience being bored. I'm not sure what this says about the state of modern attention spans.

After this, it was time for the concert's featured soloist to emerge. Deftly carrying a double bass over his head, Edgar Meyer strode out to the front of the stage and set down his instrument with a flourish. The orchestra began to play Bottesini's Concerto No. 2 in B Minor for Contrabass and Orchestra, and as I watched Meyer attack his cadenzas, I suddenly had a newfound respect for the world's greatest living bassist.

Picture yourself standing on one foot. Now do it on tip-toes with your eyes closed. Now simultaneously juggle half a dozen balls and balance a fruit basket on your head while reciting the alphabet backwards. That task is almost approaching the level of Herculean technical difficulty exhibited by Meyer's bass playing. Sure, any virtuoso violinist can throw down speedy runs and rapid shifting between intervals, but these tasks are magnified to new heights of difficulty on a bass. After all, you have that much more distance to deal with. Meyer was polishing off jaw-dropping passages without a sweat. Harmonics? Check. Double stops? Check. This man definitely has a +18 for dexterity; little wonder he has been called the "Paganini of the bass." I bet if he wanted to, he could play triple stops. At the same time. That's right. Without a doubt, this was the most exciting orchestral soloist I have ever seen.

With a little post-concert research, I discovered that Meyer has won a slew of awards, including two Grammys for his work on Bela Fleck's Perpetual Motion and a MacArthur genius grant in 2002 (which has no application, comes with $500,000 and no stipulations on how to spend it). His work spans the gamut from Bach to bluegrass, and he has recorded with such classical heavyweights as Yo-Yo Ma and Joshua Bell. Meyer's bass is customized with a lower than normal bridge, which makes it easier to press down on the strings for upper range notes. The fingerboard is also extra long, which extends Meyer's range to a little over 5 octaves. Most bass players stick with a range of 2-3 octaves. And horror of horrors, Meyer's fingerboard includes dots to mark the placement of notes. Beginning string players often mark their instruments with tape or stickers to guide their fingers, but seeing this on a professional instrument is practically sacriligious. With the speed at which Meyer's fingers must move though, I am willing to give him a pass on the extra intonation guidance.

The second half of the program featured one of Meyer's compositions. Truly, it takes cojones to both play and write half of a program. Meyer's Concerto No. 1 in D Major for Double Bass and Orchestra includes three movements, titled very simply after their metronome markings: quarter-note = 109, quarter-note = 74, quarter-note = 180. This is undoubtedly a brilliant idea, far superior than titling movements after a subjective term like "allegro." The concerto went on to showcase Meyer's combination of classical training and Tennessee roots, with passages that exhibited bluegrass influences.

At the end, to thunderous clapping and loud hoots, Meyer took a bow and left the stage. And then came back and did it again. And again. And again and again. The audience was on their feet and not getting off the applause train any time soon. Finally, after Meyer's umpteenth trip back and forth from the stage, we gave up on the possibility of an encore and began filtering out of Mandell Hall. A reception with trays of hors d'oeuvres was set up in an adjacent room and we beelined in that direction. Note to Cornell: the CSO and WE concerts ought to be catered with fruit trays, cookies and mozzarella, basil & tomato skewers. This will greatly improve our US News ranking, I swear.

As he autographed programs at the reception, Meyer was warm and self-effacing, thanking audience members and heaping praise upon the orchestra. With an unruly mop of hair and '30s-style suspenders, I was reminded of a humble John C. Reilly. And if anyone is still considering switching to a music major, Meyer commented that at one point, he had been a math major before switching. I suppose it all worked out in the end, eh?

Sound Opinions

Some of you have commented in the past about my pop music illiteracy, and my only defense is that I am an NPR junkie. Discounting streaming internet radio like Pandora, 90% of the radio I listen to is NPR. My dad listened almost exclusively to NPR in the car as I was growing up (the alternate station was Lite 106.9, which is how I learned all my oldies). Even today, I associate clipped British accents with the BBC World News Report and I walk around humming the theme song for Morning Edition. All Things Considered, This American Life, Car Talk...no matter the topic, the programming is informative, witty and appropriately pretentious. I've seen Corey Flintoff live in "Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me." I own the NPR "Driveway Moments" CDs (a driveway moment is when you reach your location but sit in the driveway because you're waiting to hear the end of a story). Every year, as they beseech me to donate to their annual fundraising drive, I get a little bit closer to writing in NPR as the sole beneficiary of my will.

One of my more recent discoveries is the Sound Opinions program, which conveniently airs on Saturday mornings as I run errands. Each week features a musical guest, along with reviews of upcoming CDs. Past artists have included everyone from political activist turned musician Saul Williams to Portland's beard-sporting Blitzen Trapper. Groups tend to be fairly underground names, though occasionally there are almost-mainstream-but-still-have-indie-cred bands like Wilco and the Decemberists. With an intuitive "Buy It, Burn It, Trash It" rating system, Jim and Greg offer critiques and opinions on whether an album is worth buying, destined for the trash heap, or perhaps worth acquiring through, um, alternate means.

Yesterday's show featured guest Jill Sobule, with a review on Booker T. Jones' latest album. Sobule is a singer/songwriter with a talent for narrative lyrics with a touch of humor, one part "Flight of the Conchords" with one part Tori Amos. She has also made appearances at TED with comedian Julia Sweeney.

On past exes: Wendell Lee
On generational gaps: Nothing to Prove

I didn't hear the entirety of the Booker T. Jones review, but I was quite entertained by this cover of Outcast's "Hey Ya," which replaces Andre 3000 with More Organ.

Rare Instances of Phone > IM

About once a week, generally on Sunday afternoons, my mom and I have a long, lazy chat. There's never any purpose to the conversation, unless you count catching up on family gossip. Half the time, we put each other on speakerphone and casually throw out topics, as I chop vegetables and she sorts through laundry.

Sometimes I'll get stories from the past, from my mom's childhood in Vietnam, or my parents' struggles as fresh-off-the-boat immigrants. Today, my mom recounted how she excelled at dance class in elementary school, but the teacher wouldn't give her the lead role because she couldn't afford to buy the costume. "You could be a flower or a strand of grass, but those outfits were more expensive. What did I end up as? An insect!" Then she wistfully said that had she been born in a wealthier family, or a different country, she would probably be an excellent ballet dancer today.

Sometimes I'll get stories from the present, the latest juice on my brother's prom date (Korean & ditzy?) or my renegade 20-year-old cousin who eloped and ran off to Italy. Apparently she came back recently to give birth to a daughter, to ensure her claims to American citizenship, then immediately went back to Europe.

Often, I get unsolicited advice, gentle probing questions, and reassurances. Despite seeing my family once, maybe twice a year, they continue to shape and influence my decisions with an invisible hand. And these days, I pass on plenty of suggestions and knowledge too, from technical help, to how to make sushi, to reminders to buy extra-long sheets for my brother for next fall.

Mostly, I just want to say I'm grateful that my mom has always been super supportive, even when I posit crazy proposals, like quitting my job to do a master's in gastronomy in Italy. Not too many parents would immediately throw their weight behind something like this, and then suggest that I take advantage of Italian voice lessons while I'm over there.

I can only hope to someday be as great of a parent.

Culinary Historians Potluck

Last Sunday, the Culinary Historians of Washington (CHoW) were having their annual potluck, and I tagged along with Liz to check it out. You may be wondering how many people could possibly be making their living as a culinary historian, but the group simply consists of history buffs and enthusiasts who are passionate about food.

The potluck was themed “Presidential Favorites,” so the night before, we searched online intensely for favorite recipes of our Commanders-in-Chief. This proved to be more difficult than I’d anticipated because cooking has evolved drastically in the last 200 years and historical recipes are often intractable. Pre-20th century recipes tend to use esoteric ingredients, require lots of labor, and have few measures for volumes, temperatures or cooking times. (“Now, set the wood-burning fire at 350°…”) After ruling out Nancy Reagan’s Monkey Bread (too long rising time) and James Garfield’s Squirrel Soup (squirrel hunting on the National Mall, anyone?), we decided to make Harry and Bess Truman’s Coconut Balls. This recipe was ideal because 1) it was a presidential favorite (not just First Lady), 2) came from the Truman Library website and seemed historically credible and 3) required only five ingredients and 15 minutes of baking.

Now, my first rule for potlucks is to never bring a dish that hasn’t been tested before. But we were running short on time, so an hour before the potluck was due to start, we hastily mixed a batch of coconut ball batter (basically coconut flakes and condensed milk) and threw them in the oven. The kitchen smelled great, deliciously coconut-y! Much to our dismay, upon removing the cookie sheets, we discovered that the coconut “balls” had spread to 3” in diameter, and were now an oddly shaped sort of macaroon-cookie, with crisp browned edges to boot. Egads. On the other hand, they still tasted great, and who knows, maybe that’s what they were supposed to look like in the 1940s. We tossed the coconut balls into a storage container and dashed for the train.

At the potluck, a vast array of dishes were spread out over two tables. These ranged from the familiar macaroni and cheese (served at Jefferson’s inauguration, and considered quite fashionable at the time), to more exotic items like pickled watermelon, tomato bread pudding and Harrison-era sliced tongue. There was a violet soup, garnished with freshly picked violets, and a Johnson-era canapé “cake” constructed of hors d’oeuvres on toothpicks. President Obama’s affinity for Mexican foods was celebrated with pork loin and homemade molé sauce (this takes a full day of roasting peppers and pressing them through sieves). Amy Carter’s favorite peanut butter cookies were available, and a veal & bacon pie modeled after Martha Washington’s recipe was on display. Amusingly, there was a definite bias towards dishes from Democratic administrations, and even scattered apologies from people who had brought Republican administration foods.

Alas, someone else had brought Harry and Bess Truman’s Coconut Cookies, and they looked much prettier than our offering. After eyeing the competition though, we decided that the coconut cookies were distinct from coconut balls, since the former had flour in the recipe and were clearly different. At any rate, by the end of the afternoon, all of our coconut balls were gone, while half of the coconut cookies were left over. Victory was ours! As an additional aside, while waiting in line for food, there were definitely some comments made about “Harry’s Balls.” It’s good to know that you’re never too old to joke about balls.

I sat down next to a gentleman who works for the Department of Energy, whose wife is currently writing a book on sugar. (Books on single products seem to be very trendy these days.) Unprompted, he began spouting facts on early scientific instruments like the polarimeter, and how taxation on goods often drives scientific innovation. Apparently, the British developed methods of determining the alcohol content of beverages in order to properly tax them.

The rest of the group was full of interesting, intelligent people as well. As we circled around the room, explaining our dishes, quirky debates would sporadically break out over say, the origins of “Philadelphia” cream cheese or the foundation of industrial celery cultivation in Kalamazoo. I heard the tale of Andrew Jackson’s cheddar cheese; apparently a farmer from upstate NY gifted him a 2-ton wheel of cheddar, which he aged for two years and then set in the foyer of the White House. Anyone who could travel there was invited to partake, and the cheese was demolished in about two hours. And it was a good thing we put some effort into historically accuracy because some people had brought in copies of original, handwritten recipes on index cards. The woman who brought in cheese stick crackers said that she gave careful consideration to the type of cheese that she should use (cheddar, or rat cheese, as it was known in the ‘50s?) and how to replicate low-gluten Southern flour (3 parts cake flour to 1 part all purpose). Meanwhile, someone else apologized for “cheating” and using Knox gelatin, instead of boiling beef bones and using egg whites to capture the impurities. When it came to our turn, Liz took the reins in explaining our coconut balls, and someone quipped, “No wonder the Puerto Ricans were shooting at Truman, he was taking all their coconut!”

Needless to say, the first thing I did when I got home was look up the Culinary Historians of Chicago chapter.

Harry and Bess Truman's Coconut "Balls"

Dolly Madison's "Apple Pie" with Wine Sauce

Michelle Obama-inspired Violet Soup

Johnson-era Canapé Birthday Cake

Pillow Fight Day

Unbeknownst to many, last Saturday was International Pillow Fight Day, and the list of participating cities was quite impressive in scope. (Sao Paulo? Székesfehérvár?) Since I couldn't go to the Chicago gathering, I suggested to Liz that we try to join the pillow fight in D.C. There were, in fact, two taking place that day, one on the National Mall and the other at Dupont Circle, and the timing worked out perfectly such that we were at Dupont Circle at the appointed hour.

Since we didn't have pillows with us, the next task was to procure the necessary equipment so that we could participate rather than simply watch (which would have been quite lame). In the immediate vicinity was a CVS and a Books-a-Million, and we decided the CVS would be the more likely candidate to sell pillows. After asking if they carried pillows, the woman behind the counter gave us a long look and pointed us to the travel section, where neck pillows (for use on planes) were available. This seemed unsuitable, sort of like bringing a piddling water gun to a fight against a firehose. Just as we were about to give up, Liz turned around to discover...a dog bed. It was the type without raised sides, essentially a very large, dog-sized pillow, and it was on sale for the low price of $9.95. Bingo!

Back at Dupont Circle, we staked out a spot on the grass and tried to figure out which people were here for the pillow fight, and which people were muggles. The instructions had said we should conceal our pillows for maximum surprise, flash-mob style, so several people were carrying suspiciously puffy shopping bags. In a rather ingenious move, one fellow was holding a large stack of pizza boxes, which turned out to be hollowed in the center to hide his pillow. At about 3:05 pm, an "argument" was started between two of the fight organizers, who jokingly shouted for a bit, then started swinging pillows at each other. At least 50 or 75 people rushed to join the melée, myself included. I started whacking anyone within reach, lightly bopping people young and old, suited and mohawked, white, black and green. People were shouting, smiling, singing "Olé Olé," and jumping into the fountain with abandon. It was the most exuberant experience I've ever had with a crowd of strangers.

After about a half-hour or so, the fight tapered off as we all exhausted ourselves. Who knew that swinging pillows was such an excellent upper-body workout? Then, with shouts of "To the bar!" the crowd began to disperse. Subsequently, Liz and I were left with the unappealing prospect of carrying around a dog bed for the rest of the day. Thinking that it should go to someone who could use it, we approached a couple people walking dogs, and politely asked if they would be interested in a clean, lightly pummeled dog bed. Alas, our offers were rebuffed both times since the pet owners also did not want to carry around a dog bed. At that point, we decided to leave the dog bed on a sidewalk with a note attached, indicating that the dog bed was free. I do hope this didn't later result in phone calls to the police department for "suspicious packages."

Oh yes, before we left Dupont Circle, we were accosted by a guy with a camcorder, who asked us to say a few words on the pillow fight. So, somewhere out there, we are on camera explaining how we came to be holding a large dog bed. I wasn't able to find this online, however here is some footage of the pillow fight, though I didn't spot either of us on camera.

April Fool's Day

Aintaerjection has a good synopsis of how my April Fool's Day afternoon went. In a nutshell, I was dared to wear a condom as a hair tie for the afternoon, in exchange for dinner at Joe's Shanghai. This was easily done by tying the ends together and fashioning a sort of rubber band. Contrary to his claims of "shame," I will argue that, working in a large office building, this was a prudent move less I get hauled down to HR for creating an "uncomfortable work environment." You can see the super stalker-ish pictures here.

Though the hair tie was recognized for what it was at lunch, it did not seem to attract much notice from my economist. At least, I had two lengthy conversations with him that afternoon, and he failed to bring it up. This was probably for the best, as I imagine it would have only resulted in additional awkwardness, and I had already spent the morning explaining to him why wearing my rearview mirror was necessary.