Flashback 2008: Fading into oblivion, Jackson not interested in being an elder statesman

Still Life of Fruit and Nuts, by Giuseppe Ruoppolo (Metropolitan Museum of Art)

     Rev. Jesse Jackson was in the news this week, as his putative replacement took a powder. I was tempted to pile on, but Jackson, to me, is something of a pitiable figure by this point. I've had my say over the years. One moment that stayed with me is when he showed up at the editorial board to make his case for getting the credit for Barack Obama.

OPENING SHOT

     "Nuts," like "balls," is one of those words whose acceptability shifts dramatically depending on the context — perfectly fine when referring to dense, oily fruits (yes, nuts are actually fruit) such as almonds or pecans, but much squishier, so to speak, when used as the vulgar slang for testicles, as the Rev. Jesse Jackson did, into an open microphone on Fox News.
     "I want to cut his nuts out," the minister said, referring to Barack Obama.

FORGIVE ME FOR WHAT I WILL SAY . . .

     In a rare switch, the usually edgy Sun-Times dashed the word in its Thursday edition, 

"n - - -" as if it were an obscenity, while the more staid Tribune unblinkingly ran the cheery little term, and on its front page, no less.
     Such confusion is natural, since threatening castration blazes new territory in political discourse — I was intrigued by the use of the adverb "out," which seems more suited to talking about removing an embedded object, such as a heart. "Off" seems to be preferable when discussing something so pendulous.
    This kerfuffle was probably inevitable. It seemed odd and out-of-character when Jackson made the rounds a few weeks back, head bowed, quietly lobbying for recognition of his role in the historic ascension of Obama. An ego as massive as Jackson's could not remain in a humble supporting role for long.
     Of course he'd slip and grab at the curtains. Dreams die hard and dreams of power die even harder. The old guard seldom quietly departs, and it was too much to hope that Jackson could age gracefully into an elder statesman for the black community. Rather, he seems set on becoming the crazy uncle in the attic, the guy you can't introduce to your friends, because he has evil thoughts and a dirty mouth.
     The other noteworthy thing about Jackson's humiliating gaffe came about because Fox was the only news outlet in possession of the tape of his crude remarks, and held onto it to hype Bill O'Reilly's blabfest in the evening.
     This led to the unusual situation of the apology preceding the insult, as Jackson, savvy enough to know what was coming, leapt to say he was sorry even before the offensive words became public.
     This breaks his previous apology record, where news of his out-of-wedlock child was followed almost immediately by his plea for forgiveness and an announcement that he had gone into seclusion for several minutes of soul-searching and was now ready to resume his place as guardian of the nation's conscience.
     Perhaps this will be the start of a trend, as politicians gaze into the future, imagine what slurs they will utter or excesses they will commit, and apologize for them ahead of time.

    —Originally published in the Sun-Times, July 11, 2008

Trumpet story post mortem

 
     As someone who loves his job, I don't keep scrupulous tabs on my hours. The penumbra between working and not working is so gradual and hazy, that doing so would be impossible. Am I on the clock lying in bed in the darkness, thinking about the lede to a story? Sitting in Orchestra Hall listening to a symphony? Life and work are like two ballroom dancers, in tight embrace, gliding across a polished floor. Best not to try to pry them apart.
     Technically, I'm scheduled Monday through Friday. But every Sunday morning I'm prepping Monday's column. Not that I'm complaining. Monday afternoon might find me working in the garden. Both the Sun-Times and I seem satisfied with the arrangement.
     I'm expected to turn in three columns a week, to run Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Before the blog, I used to smile, inwardly, when somebody said they read me "every day," thinking, "What are you doing the other four days — hallucinating?" But now of course there is this blog, where that is possible.

      Though sometimes circumstances dictate that I write one or two extra columns in the paper, reacting to breaking news events, and I don't mind those —it's good to be wanted. Though last Sunday's epic about trumpets was something of an exception, because involved so much work — what with driving to Elkhart and three trips downtown connecting with Conn Selmer and the CSO. I was ready to involve Schilke, another trumpet company in Chicago, and a guy who makes mouthpieces in the Fine Arts Building, when I realized I had gotten far beyond anything that could reasonably be put into a newspaper. The column got shifted to Sunday, because there is more real estate to fill, which was fine, but I didn't want to then disgorge an extra column too.
     The original plan was to miss Monday. But then I decided to break off the two Morgan Park High School students from their reduced role at the end and let them shine a bit in their own column. So that ran Monday. And Tuesday, batting out a blog post about the Seder, I fluttered my fingers over the keyboard and thought, "You know ... this is good ... maybe it should run in the paper." So we ran it Wednesday, and I'm glad, as a lot of readers seemed to really appreciate the column.
     But I did take Friday off, mostly to show I can. I d0n't want to be one of those guys who can't not work, can't step off the treadmill. Though it left me with the question of what to run here. My first thought was the picture above, a Conn Selmer worker checking the straightness of a length of tubing. And a few words to go with it. A whole lot of words, now that I look at it.  One does tend to go on. And on.
    There was something about the photo that appealed to me; the pose, obviously, something almost triumphant about his attitude, like the Bowman and the Spearman, the deco Native-Americans on horseback at Michigan and Ida B. Wells, with their straining bows. Maybe it was his goggles, or the red — his shirt, some kind of scoop device in the foreground, and that beam — cutting the industrial gray.

     There's something appealing about photos of people in protective gear — masks, gloves, helmets. They must appeal to the little boy in me. Like this stooped fellow with his blue balaclava and ear cups. When I see guys who have jobs like this, grinding burrs off trumpets eight hours a day, I remind myself once again to try to appreciate the job I have, one that takes me wherever I want to go, when I want to go there. Because sometimes I forget.

     There are difficulties. A story like the trumpet piece, you are so immersed, it can be hard to stop. I get used to working on them, and hate to just let the subject drop. As it is, I plan to circle back to the CSO. 

     I hadn't planned on stumbling across the voodoo hacks — Bud Herseth's silver bridge ending up as patches on the bell of Esteban Batallan's trumpet — but in giving space to that, I had to lose some cool details of the production process. I woke up Sunday morning thinking. "I didn't mention the Crisco." The factory lubricates one of the 490 steps to make a trumpet with Crisco oil, which I found charming, the out-of-place foodstuff in a manufacturing process, like discovering that deep at the stern of a diesel ship is a collar of lignum vitae, a dense, oily wood;  the shaft passes through it, from the engine room, outside the hull, connecting to the propellers.
     Nor did I mention the workers who go over the finished trumpets, circling dings and scratches in a red china marker so they can be buffed out — nobody wants to spend $3,000 for a trumpet that arrives with a ding or scratch in it. Imagine doing that all day.
     There were two interesting errors in the original story. At first I called the organ on stage at the CSO "a church organ," which prompted two readers to observe that church organs are found in churches. I changed that to "pipe organ." And originally I hyphenated Conn Selmer. I had asked Mark Dulin, the artists' rep, whether it is hyphenated or not, and he said it wasn't. But working for the company didn't necessarily make him the final word, and looking over the corporate material, the hyphen seemed to be used more often than it wasn't, so we went with it, because the crown in the logo seems to be a hyphen. Then after the story ran, the Conn Selmer folks asked if we could take it out and, since it's their company and they should be called what they want to be called, I laboriously plucked all those hyphens out.

      I've gone into the weeds, haven't I? Time to wrap this up. I need the day off.

      You might wonder why I take photos at all — with ace photographer Ashlee Rezin right there. Three reasons, I suppose. One: force of habit; the paper was without a photo staff for many years, I just got used to taking my own photos. Two: it's quicker to take a photo than jot down the details of a scene, and I use them in constructing my story; and Three: to use here. I don't want to seize the work of my photographer colleagues, and so take my own shot to illustrate my blog posts, though the pro shots are always better, and I often seek permission to use them. Nobody has ever said 'No.'

    Anyway, a bit of background, in case anyone's interested. If not, well, there's always tomorrow.

Jim Dwyer buffing trumpets at Conn Selmer.

Flashback 1995: Landmark Deli Serves Its Last Meals

     I was never an admirer of the Illinois Holocaust Museum & Education Center, but that can be chalked up to ignorance. Every time I went was to write about something else — its opening ceremonies, or police cadet training, or one of the museum founders. My complaint was that they had watered down the horror of the 20th century into a lesson for 5th graders about bullying. 

     That wasn't fair, as I learned when I actually went through the place, and for the strangest reason. My wife had never gone at all, but they had a special exhibit about Jewish delis. Who doesn't love a Jewish deli? She wanted to see it. 

     The show seemed an odd fit, the sort of thing I'd criticize without actually experiencing. But it got us there a few weekends ago, the day before the show closed. 

     We saw the deli show first, which was smart. It was well done, adroitly tying the rise of the deli to Jewish immigration, and linking specific Chicago delis, like Kaufman's, to Jewish refugees arriving here immediately after the Holocaust. 

    Then we saw the museum itself. Not the full nine-ring plunge into Dantean hell like the one in Washington. But a thoughtful representation, well worth the, oh, three hours we spent there. The most sober aspect is how current the 1930s feel today.

     In the deli exhibit, I noticed a sign for Nate's, which sparked a memory. I visited before they closed it down, and bought a jar of herring from the last batch. This is my brief report.     

     The smell of dill pickles, the rhythmic kathuck-kathuck of the corned beef slicing machine, fresh rye bread, the murky green jars of pickled tomatoes and kosher dills and, above all, the happy fluttering of human voices.
     "This is all you want, young man?" says Robert L. Williams, from behind the ancient counter. "You want some hot peppers? You said mustard? Why certainly you can. Thank you, sir."

     The smells, the sounds, the voices — all this will disappear when Nate's Delicatessen closes its doors forever today, after 74 years at 807 W. Maxwell.
     "It's going to be sad to walk out of here after 48 years," says Nathan Duncan, 64, who has worked at the deli since 1946, and owned it since 1972. "I've never had another job."
     The deli is a true anachronism — an artifact from the days when Maxwell Street was a sprawling Jewish ghetto. The Jews have moved away, but Nate's, and its hearty Jewish fare, has remained.
     As humble as the deli is — with its decrepit tin ceiling, hand-cut wooden floor rails and seating for, maybe, six — it has known its share of fame. Blues legends such as Muddy Waters and Hound Dog Taylor have eaten there, as well as a range of celebrities from Red Skelton to Sen. Everett Dirksen. A scene from "The Blues Brothers" was filmed there.
     But Nate's isn't about fame. It isn't even about Jewish food. It's about people — meeting, talking, eating together.
     Duncan points to a bespectacled gentleman sitting by the stove.
     "Frank has been coming here since he was a little boy. He'd rather sleep in that chair than sleep at home."
     "It's a tremendous loss," says Frank Williams, 45. "This place is a relic. Politics was discussed here. It was a meeting place, people met here and talked."
     Unlike the old Maxwell Street Market, Nate's was not forced out. But Duncan realized it was just a matter of time. So he sold to the University of Illinois at Chicago, which plans to build a parking lot and an athletic field.
     Displaying a jar of pickled herring, Duncan says, "I just made my last batch. This is a Russian dish."
     He savors the irony.
     "A black guy making a Russian delicacy." He smiles. "I learned the recipe from the mother of the former owner. You know, the Jewish ladies, they tried to get the recipe out of me. They tried to con it out of me. But I never did tell them. They still don't know."
       —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Jan. 15, 1995

Passover during wartime

     Being Jews, of course Monday night's Passover Seder veered onto tangents. Non-standard digressions based on the concerns of those present: salaams toward mysticism and solemn recognition of Oct. 7 and the ongoing war in Gaza. So much that the usual tug-of-war over gender equity mostly fell by the wayside.
     I was not involved with any of these flourishes, my lone suggestion — place an olive on the Seder plate as mute representation of Palestinian suffering — steamed away in a glare of reproach. No olives, no oranges — keep it simple. It was as if I suggested the egg on the plate be replaced by a sheep's eye, to represent social media. I get that. Each group cherishes its own injuries while diminishing those of everybody else; that's why the world is the way it is.
     Instead there was an empty chair affixed with a picture of a hostage, Naama Levy, 19, and a reading describing her many fine qualities. A poem explaining that Elijah will not be coming today. He usually shows up, notionally. We always open the door to greet him. The kiddies love that, and in years past would sneak out beforehand and present themselves as Elijah, disguised. Not this year; we didn't open the door to greet the tardy prophet because he's too busy tending to the truly bereft, supposedly.
     "We're never eating," I muttered to my wife, about 8:30 p.m., with the show barely begun.

     Mostly, I'm a go-along-to-get-along type of host, so I smiled and nodded at almost anything anybody brought to the table. Though the smile grew tight as the Seder progressed. At one point I felt compelled to point out that this is not our first rodeo, suffering-wise, that Jews held Seders in concentration camps, and that while I'm all for recognizing the crisis, I would hate for Passover, at heart a celebration of freedom, to lose its sense of joy, obscured by current events. We should still appreciate the bounty before us and the company of each other, loved ones whom history has, through some uncharacteristic oversight, failed to murder, so far.
     "We're still singing 'Chad Gadya,'" at the end," I observed, referring to a strange song about "one little goat my father bought for two zuzim." That's my favorite part.
     Much went as it always does. My wife's matzo balls were the ideal cannonball density. The chicken was excellent, despite having to linger in the oven for longer than was strictly necessary as the various sharp edges of the present were flashed. The children still played under the table as if the world were a wonderful place to explore, ready to welcome all with open arms.
     My life can be broken into three 20-year Seder blocks. From 1960 to 1980, there were Seders at my grandparents in Cleveland, with my grandpa's machine-gun, Polish shtetl Hebrew, that always sounded like "hamma-humma-wumma-chumma."
     Then 20 years at my in-laws in Skokie, with Irv whooping over the hotness of the horseradish and Dorothy fussing over everybody and the repurposed cleaning lady in the kitchen, doing dishes. I sometimes wondered about her: What did she make of our singing "Dayenu?" The chorus sounds like "Die! Die! Anu!" Did she think the Jews were chanting for death? Because that's how we're viewed in some quarters. I used to sometimes wish we actually were the hard, unified, bloodthirsty people we are made out to be — though looking at current events, I'm reminded that you should be careful what you wish for. Because sometimes you get it.

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Flashback 2010: Here's one thing you didn't know about Mike Royko

      Sir Andrew Davis died Saturday. The renown conductor and music director steered the Lyric Opera through challenging times for two decades. I of course had reason to talk with him over the years, and figure this piece, about an unexpected connection between a certain  gruff columnist and opera, might merit sharing. What stands out, 14 years later, is that in 2010 the Lyric could put on "The Mikado,"  which would never happen today — cultural appropriation, etc. I'm fairly certain the unnamed colleague was Albert Dickens, the well-loved sports department assistant. We talked about opera all the time, and I miss him, and miss that whole era where one went to a place regularly and found interesting people there.

     Now and then, a reader will try to compress all my flaws into one sharp jab. "You're no Mike Royko," he'll say, meaning that I am not a Chicago born and bred tough guy writing the universally acclaimed best column in the city.
     And I always surprise him with cheery agreement — yes indeedy, I'm no Royko, nobody's Royko, it's impossible for anyone to be Royko ever again and, having somewhat known Royko and thus vaguely familiar with all that being Royko entailed, I'd prefer to carry my own load than his. Thank you.

Non-Royko and son heading boldly to the 
Lyric in 2010 to hear "Macbeth."

     For instance, by not being a tough guy, I have no tough-guy image to maintain. Thus I am free to go to Opening Night at the Lyric Opera, as I did Friday, to hear Verdi's "Macbeth," done up in my poncy tuxedo and froufy silk bow tie and twee gold studs, and not have to worry about shocking anybody.
     Royko, meanwhile, was captive to his legend. He had to keep a secret, which, with the opera season under way and him gone lo these many years, I now feel free to divulge: Mike Royko loved opera.
     "Dad was a classical music fan, and passionate about it," said his son, David Royko. "While there were columns alluding to that, it wasn't something that fit his image."
     Royko was a Lyric season-ticket holder.
     "He was a serious fan of opera, of operas that he liked," said Royko. "He had strong opinions about the opera. I remember him reaming out Carol Fox, director of Lyric Opera in the '70s. There was a premiere of a Penderecki work, 'Paradise Lost,' this incredibly atonal, difficult stuff to sit through. And was saying, 'Why don't these guys produce ''Porgy and Bess''?' He was just revolted by Puccini's 'Girl of the Golden West.' He thought it was absurd, a spaghetti western with cowboy hats."
     Which brings us to a little-known truth about opera: You don't have to like everything. In fact, it's certain you won't. Just as booing butterfingered infielders is part of being a fan at Wrigley Field, one of the joys of opera is scorning stuff you don't like.
     Earlier this year, I was at the press conference announcing this season's lineup — "barnburners" like Bizet's "Carmen" and Wagner's "Lohengrin," but more obscure works like Handel's "Hercules" and froth such as Gilbert & Sullivan's "The Mikado."
     The opera press present fell like wolves upon the selections, which were either too popular or too obscure. Didn't you just do "Carmen" five years ago, somebody asked.
     And then there was "The Mikado" — not a proper opera at all, but a comic operetta and sung in English at that.

Sir Andrew Davis
(photo courtesy of the Lyric Opera)

     "I know there are folks who don't think we should be doing that," said Sir Andrew Davis, the Lyric conductor. "But if you're going to do 'Fledermaus' and going to do 'The Merry Widow,' why not? I think the music has depths and I intend to bring them out."
     One reporter asked a question I'm sure many subscribers wonder about: Why not just fill the schedule with all-time favorites?
     "We do have an obligation to do new work," Davis explained.
     At first that struck me as eat-your-peas pedantry — art as duty. It's an entertainment, I thought, plagued by memories of Berg's "Wozzeck." Why assume airs? Put the slop where the pigs can get at it.
     But you can't discover you love something until you hear it — I had never heard of Franz Lehar until I saw "The Merry Widow" last year — now my kids play it on on the stereo. Every opera has its fans.
     For instance; I dutifully listened to CDs of "Macbeth," getting ready for the performance. Hmmm, I thought. Opening night was swell — I dragged my 13-year-old linebacker along, and he pronounced it "very good."
     So now we're in the newsroom, and I'm trying to explain my cool reaction to a colleague. "Let's put it this way," I said. "There are 12 Verdi operas in my copy of Henry W. Simon's 100 Great Operas, and 'Macbeth' isn't one of them. I just don't like the music."
     Which prompted another colleague to leap to its defense, literally standing up.
     "You don't like 'Macbeth'!?" he said, incredulous. "It's one of my favorite operas — I have it on my iPod. I can't wait to go."
     And he started to hum the overture.
     One man's ceiling is another man's floor. Like life, opera has highs and lows; you can't spend every minute with your hands folded over your sternum, drowning in bliss.
     Do you find "The Mikado" lightweight? I think it's both hysterically funny and tuneful and am taking 100 readers to its first night for my annual opera sweepstakes.
       Darn, out of room again. Circle Dec. 6 on your calendar, and I'll explain how to win tickets in my column Friday.

     — First published in the Sun-Times, October 6, 2010

Playing in the high school marching band makes you 'part of something bigger'

 

Morgan Park High School music teacher Steven Schnall, left, guides 8th graders Khaliah Lastic (center) and Jaydah Keefer as they practice their trumpets.

     Lunch begins third period in Morgan Park High School, which might sound odd, since the bell sounds at 9:25 a.m. Students use the time to eat, study, or in the case of Khaliah Lastic and Jaydah Keefer, both 14, both 8th graders, both friends, to slide by the band room with their trumpets for a little practice.
     "B flat scale, let's do it," says music teacher Steven Schnall, who plays 13 instruments and has a doctorate in jazz from the University of Illinois.
     They play.
     "Good, good, excellent job," he says, when they finish. "When you get to the higher notes, make sure you're supporting just as much as on the bottom notes." Then, snapping his fingers to set a tempo. "One, two ready go..."
     If you read the Sunday paper, you might have seen my column on how trumpets are made. The story began with a Chicago Symphony Orchestra performance of Richard Strauss's "Also sprach Zarathustra," with principal trumpeter Esteban Batallán playing the first three notes, CGC, made famous in "2001: A Space Odyssey."
     I originally thought it would be a fine thing if the story that began with one of the great musicians in the world ended with students just learning to play.
     But getting to know Lastic, looking smart in her ROTC uniform — 5,444 CPS students are in JROTC — and Keefer, with her purple dreadlocks, made it impossible to confine the South Side teens to a stylistic flourish in the last few paragraphs of a long story about making trumpets.
     "My dad played it in high school," said Lastic, playing a Horton B-flat trumpet, explaining why she took up the instrument.
    "My friend was in it, and I really wanted to join her," said Keefer, who has been playing a Blessing Scholastic for about six months."I thought it would be really cool to try to learn something new..."

     Plus playing a trumpet is a way to stand out.

     "So I can flex on people," Keefer said, as her friend laughed. "I really like the idea of being part of something bigger. I'm glad I chose this instrument. It's hard, but if you put in the work, it's worth it."

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A great trumpet is 'a thing of beauty, an extension of you'

Esteban Batallan (photo by Todd Rosenberg for the Chicago Symphony Orchestra)

     It begins with a low, barely audible rumble. The double basses, contrabassoon and pipe organ of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra groan out a sustained double C. Then Esteban Batallán, principal trumpet of the CSO, raises his 1955 Vincent Bach "Mount Vernon" C Trumpet, serial number 13959, to his lips and plays three of the most famous notes in classical music: middle C, then a fifth higher, G, then the next higher C, completing the octave. The "nature motif" of Richard Strauss' "Also Sprach Zarathustra, Op. 30" which Stanley Kubrick's 1968 film "2001: A Space Odyssey" branded into the public mind.
     The rest of the orchestra joins in, the timpani pounding underneath, and away they go. When Strauss's "tone poem" ends, about 24 minutes later, and the full house at Orchestra Hall erupts into applause, it is Batallán whom guest conductor Jakub Hrůša points to before anyone else, for the honor of taking the first bow.
     When he is not playing, Batallán occasionally shakes his trumpet — getting out the spit — "I like my trumpet very very clean," he says, later — and gazes down at it, quizzically, touching parts of it. A trumpet has four slides — small adjustable sections of tubing. "For the audience, it's imperceptible," said Batallán. "For me, I'm really sensitive with intonation, so I keep myself fine tuning all the time."
     Batallán has had a trumpet in his hands so long — since age 6 — that his pinkies curl involuntarily when he tries to hold his fingers straight. This particular instrument was played for a quarter-century before he was born, by Adolph "Bud" Herseth, the CSO's principal trumpeter for 53 years.
     "It's a very famous trumpet," says Mark Dulin, artist representative for Conn-Selmer, the country's largest manufacturer of brass instruments. "It has a really great sound. But that trumpet is from 1955. It's worn out. The valves have been redone five times."
     The violin played later that evening is nearly 300 years old. Trumpets can't last nearly that long, because of the stress of valves being pressed, rust caused by saliva coursing through the tubing, even a musician's sweat, which will peel the finish off a horn. Batallán's trumpet was in a batch of 11 crafted by Vincent Bach, the master trumpet maker, at his prime in 1955.
     "These trumpets have been studied for a long time," said John Hagstrom, CSO second trumpet. "Just like Stradivarius violins, they're reverse-engineered, trying to find out: what makes them so great?"
In search of sound
     "Everyone has tried in some shape or form to replicate these instruments," said Michael Sachs, principal trumpet of the Cleveland Orchestra. "While some have come close, nobody has been able to replicate that sound."
     Other trumpet companies, such as Yamaha, have tried. Now Conn-Selmer is giving it a go, consulting Batallán, Hagstrom, Sachs and others. They see the marketing opportunity here.
     "These are great instruments but there are just a few of them," said Hagstrom. "Everybody would like them, but they don't exist. There would be a great business advantage if you could build them again. They are striving to do that."

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Jim Gwinn buffs a trombone at the Vincent Bach factory in Elkhart, Indiana.