AMERICAN COMPOSERS

 

AMERICAN COMPOSERS

 

On the Oosterdam, the attractive pianist from Bologna -

eyes sparkle when her fingers touch the keys.

The viola from southern Georgia, an African-American

with thick, fuzzy hair. A Julliard grad, he exudes attitude -

finishes each stroke with a flourish.

The violinist from Toronto grins; the other

from Pittsburgh - displays passion when he plays.

The cellist from Sydney ramrod straight,

imperial like an exalted Chinese emperor

from the Ming Dynasty, which lasted 300 years.

 

They begin with Brubeck’s Blue Rondo a la Turk,

a favourite, but I have no idea from whence the title

is derived. Turk might be the name of Turk Broda

who played goalie for the ‘Leafs

or a jazz musician who impacted Dave.

Blue Rondo is a puzzle, yet its frenzied climax

reminds me of sex.

 

Next, they play the overture from West Side Story,

another favourite, and I suspect this session is tailored

just for me aboard a ship that waltzes through the waves

as I visualize Sharks and Jets dancing in their concrete

playground, aware that Tony and Maria are both doomed.

 

Then the quintet launches into Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue,

the predominant colour of the evening and the sea,

and I think that this powerful piece is the exact music

to be played at my funeral.

God, I love it so.