Never Use Your Finger
By MIK Groninger
Last week Maestro flew in from Madrid to give a lecture-concert. I picked him up at Miami International. Naturally he was waiting in the Air France Lobby on the 2nd floor, not outside by arrivals, so I had to call him internationally because he didn’t get the SIM card I told him about. (Yeah I know you should not end sentences with a preposition, I hate it when they do that).
I’m driving him to Key Biscayne where his mom and brother live, and he asks me what have I been doing. I tell him I got a call on Thursday, flew to London Friday and was met at Heathrow on Saturday by an Indian cat holding my name on a sign. He escorted me to a silver Mercedes with the steering wheel on the wrong side and drove me to the Ship in Southhampton where I did a 12 day cruise to the Mediterranean. He said he didn’t get treated like that playing Baroque Music in Europe. I restrained my riposte “Oh yeah? Maybe you should take some lessons from ME!” So, we drive around Key Biscayne and inadvertently find his Mom’s crib. I of course have my Gamba but I politely say maybe we should pretend that giving me a music lesson is NOT as important as spending quality time with his Mom and Brother. “No, just give me 10 minutes with them and we can have a lesson”.
We repair to the ballroom and I set up a stand for him with Forqueray upon it. At last, after studying this repertory for 40 years I am in the presence of someone of like mind, someone I can finally share these phrases with and paint portraits in sound of these fascinating characters that have become my friends. I start at the beginning with “La Borde” an Allemande with great depth and feeling. I am swashbuckling through this masterpiece with aplomb and abandon, slashing my way through the constraints of society and morality, reaching into the realms of high Art. I have my eyes closed in ecstasy, but open them a bit when I notice he is not accompanying me very well, not really listening or responding to my cries of Pathos and Passion, but we are coming up to the Big Repeat and I figure he will be warmed up by then. As we get to the hugely climatic cadence, I am ready to assault the first part again with a new strategy of raping and pillaging when Jose practically shouts “Stop! You’ve got it ALL WRONG!” That was the last music I played, the rest was all bow strokes.
Maestro has developed a pedagogical method which he had the patience to inflict upon me. Start with the Bow Grip, of which he had numerous pictures on his computer. When I asked about tightening the hair of the bow with the index finger, he insisted that it was done only with the weight of the arm. “But I remember some passages in some Treatise that discusses using the index finger”. “Well Blah Blah no it is all done with the weight of the arm.” When I went home later that night, I found the passages by Louille which spoke at length about the pressure of the index finger.
The next day I made the pilgrimage again, figuring that I must need another Crucifixion. I have stopped to buy a car battery for the Cadillac that sits unused in the lot, and also a dozen roses for his Mom Marina, a delightfully interesting and vibrant former Ophthalmologist who has mesmerized me with colorful and descriptive stories of her childhood in Havana; being alone in a rowboat during a massive storm in Havana Harbor, attending High Society Balls where the gentlemen stood in line to dance with her. Her face lit up when I gave her the flowers, she said “I have not had any flowers since my husband died. I love flowers.” MIK Scores!
Alas, we go to change the battery. I have brought tools and gloves and manage to open the hood of the Caddy. I try to find the right size socket wrench, afraid that my ineptness will be revealed when I can’t get the socket on the thingy. Maestro’s brother, a recovering addict and alcoholic, surreptitiously hands me the socket extension which works like a charm. “Wow MIK, it looks like you really know what you’re doing” Jose says as I pray to the Car Gods that it’s not the starter, or the alternator, or the flux capacitor and I tell Jose to crank it. It starts right away! I reflect that this is a metaphor for my Gamba Playing, I pretend to know what I’m doing, dress for the part, and get the job done by some stray glimpse of Fate.
Another lesson ensues, Maestro patiently making sure I am absorbing his methodical approach to bow strokes. Turns out there is a copy of the 2nd volume of Marais “Pieces De Viole” in Rochester which Marais has marked up for a student with 35 different kinds of bow strokes and he tells me proudly that he has used all of them in his Marais recording. I’m kind of thinking that Marais had a rich student that he didn’t want to lose and captivated him with minutia because the guy had no creative aspect to his being, no Soul in his bow, no Hope in his Soul, no Soap in his Hole.
I take a break and walk the beach whilst smoking a cigar. Not as nice a beach as in Lake Worth, but it assuages my angst to some degree. I present myself for more scourging and begin to get bugged by this “Weight of the Arm” shit. I look Maestro right in the eye and hold my index finger right in his face. “You telling me you NEVER use this finger to EXPRESS?” No. Weight of the arm. He tells me I should come to the University the next day where he is meeting with the Gamba Players “You might learn something!”. I make the 90 minute drive and find myself in an Instrumental Room with half a dozen beginning Viol Players, and 90 minutes of more Bow Strokes.
I take as few days off to think about shit and practice. I drive back for the lecture-concert. It’s about Bach’s first Gamba Sonata, a 15 minute piece. Maestro and his harpsichordist play snippets while he tries to get his computer to show things on a screen. He talks for 90 minutes then says “Shall we pay the piece now?” I have a date in Boca Raton at 7 and it’s 6:30, I split.
Pick up my friend Concetta in Boca and pull up to the Jazzis Club, give car to Valet, music streaming out of the club, captivating and enticing, exciting and groovy a swinging’ Hot Spot! The joint is packed and the waitress brings us bar stools and we sit against the wall and dig the unabashedly sensual and emotionally revealing singing of Nicole Henry backed by a super-hot band. I order 2 glasses of Paradeaux wine, the one with a picture of 2 ducks on the label, figure it out! Concetta gets a little drunk and a little rowdy and is GAGA at Nicole. I don’t think she gets out much.
In the morning Nancy wakes me “MIK! Maestro shot himself! He’s dead!” Known him over 20 years, we played the 3 Bach Sonatas at the Plymouth Congregational Church in Coral Gabels over a decade ago. I talked to his wife and kid at the Concert. RIP.
Gonna blow some Gamba then go to the beach.