Kirmizi_ada

February is ripening on the vine. Big as a mini-van, vicious as a hippo, any day now it’s going to break from the branch and smash its grey juices down onto an unsuspecting March. I’ve taken to wearing flip-flops and summery color-schemes around the apartment, waiting for the trees to bud like a drunk teenager waiting for the next night bus. Somehow my month here in Berlin has had a lot in common with that of Jet Blue Airlines and that hick-up girl Jennifer Mee—except that I haven’t yet made it onto Meet the Press to dish on my own private February. And so I blog.

Two thirds of the way through this winter, my current apartment already has the dubiousness of an irregular third-person past-tense verb, like “fled” or “sought.” I look around it and think: who came up with this silly room, this etymological folly! How could any of my forebears stand to utter it, year after year? I’ve discovered that, though I love to keep a counter gleaming, to roast a parsnip well, to prepare a pot of tea, I lack the will to pursue these things for my own benefit alone. So there’s a Wohngemeinschaft (shared flat) down in Neukölln, with some fantastic people. The building is falling down, and the place looks like a barn, but it’s full of love and chatter and the smell of other people’s cooking. I want to be living there soon.

Anticipation in German is “Vorfreude”, which means something along the lines of pre-joy. I like this much better than ante-capere, which is much more like pre-take. Like Joan Didion teetering around a sidewalk sale in her oversized sunglasses, I’m in the market for some pre-joy, some future tense.

So, friends, please give me a good talking to the next time I romanticize “having my own place.” I'm thanking you in advance.

Keith Jarrett’s Cologne Concert from January 24, 1975 (Parti 1) was not one of the most blessed examples of piano improvisation ever made. But twenty-six minutes is a long time, and there were some masterful elements. How did it begin again? A rocking back and forth while the audience was finding their seats, and even the curtain-boy was still toying solemnly with his rack of pulleys. You couldn’t tell much about the piece’s trajectory from its initial section—4/4 meter, a chord progression that was more consoling than expansive, and a lyrical muster that made up for its uncertainty with a palette of sad, heroic gestures. But now that the player has convinced himself that this is indeed finally a piece of music in its own right (what else would it be?), he lets those sentimental arcs fall away. Remembering the daunting range of the instrument, he surrenders to the faltering luxury of the upper octaves. He surprises himself, mixing adolescent hesitation with an almost vicious search for tones to build a motif around. And now the player starts in with his own voice, which is not pleasant at all, and perhaps can’t even be considered part of the piece. He begins to stomp and hum and sigh and curse. (Like any desirous listener, I picture before me the score of the piece thus far, wondering how anyone could ever notate this sprawling, tangential mess. Of course, some sections come easy to the memory—the ones with dashing arpeggios and syncopations handed-down from wise-worn jazz codgers.) At some moments, it seems that he has not pursued a gesture to his fullest satisfaction, and tries again and again, like a boy offering water to passing marathoners.

The player is clearly most relaxed and confident in his range when the meter divides out the length of the approaching bars on his behalf. When the meter falls away, there is almost an apoplexy, a frenetic characterlessness. At points it sounds like the player has actually left, and the tuner has maybe rolled in on his dolly to clean, untwist, and right the still-spinning strings. Sometimes it doesn’t seem that this is the same player at all, or that he has begun something of a private practice section, hoping that where he is and what he is doing there will peel away. This all makes you glad, even grateful, to suddenly just hear an inventory of tones, the whole keyboard being recalled to you in a mnemonic spiral. How many keys are there, how big! How many times can each one be touched without losing something of its original character? What was that mode again, the one not too far back that made me so happy?

It would be disingenuous if, near the end, one would appear surprised to hear earlier motifs, returning in a kind of pile-up of calls, maneuvers, and responses. But soon again it is quiet, and no one knows what is going on. Now the player is running almost— his hands like a pair of spindly torches—through every hole and height he has visited in the past twenty-six minutes—births and deaths, cries and withdrawals, cliches and divine strokes. When it all thuds back down into a major triad, with an extra sixth on top for a bit of Sondheim-like ablution, a few people in the audience excuse themselves, some get ready for the next piece. All I can do is jump up and down, up and down, trying to remember it exactly how it was.