Birthday Boy: Genius

On a good day, when I knew him, this is how he looked.

The Broadway Melodica of 2017

Just to show that it's not griping 24/7 hereabouts, something that's been making me exceedingly happy over the last day or so.

Birthday Boy...

...from all evidence in this snap, in his birthday suit.

Happy birthday, Maestro, you sexy thing, you... Like Auntie Mame, he was the pied piper, and how I lucky I was, for a little while, to follow his tune.

Hey, Old Friends.. (and One New, Too)

I had a nice long stroll around Our Nation's Capital yesterday, and I grabbed the opportunity to drop into the National Portrait Gallery and pay my respects to some old familiar faces.

Even a Lifetime

Some days - like this one, O Best Beloveds - are such that what you need at the end of them is a moment or two of truth and beauty.  Like this.

Two Gentlemen of Manhattan

39 years ago this very day, photographer Gjon Mili caught this intense moment at a rehearsal in New York City.  The work being considered by these two august gentlemen* is the ballet Dybbuk.  Then in preparation for its Lincoln Center premiere, the piece featured the choreography of Jerome Robbins set to the music of Leonard Bernstein.  As a piece of art, let's be tactful and just say it turned out to be not quite West Side Story.  But what is?

Note the discreet and studious presence of one of Mr. Robbins's Nice Young Men.  Unlike some, I'm guessing he was not hired because he could type.  The dance world's funny that way.  As was Robbins, from most accounts for that matter.  Add him, by the bye, to the very short list of Great Names I've encountered (in his case, thankfully, only second hand) about whom I've never heard a nice word.  His collaborator was something of a handful, of course, but generally, and justifiably, I think, considered a far pleasanter gent.  It's some measure of Robbins's force of character that Bernstein looks almost - not quite - cowed.

There are some shows, in all media, that you know you'd far rather be at rehearsals than the final product, and this is one.  Unless, I'm guessing, you were working for Jerome Robbins.  In that case, I suppose you'd far rather be at the St. Marks Baths (well, it was 1974)...

* It took all the strength I have not to to title this post "When Ladies Meet."

Practice, Practice, Practice

Fifty-two years ago tonight, dear Mr. Eisenstadt snapped this perfectly charming shot of what Life described as "Mrs. Gustav Mahler, widow of composer, raptly listening to his 'Resurrection Symphony,' conducted by Leonard Bernstein, at Carnegie Hall."

Well, possibly, but I think we might be justified in thinking that the lady known to her friends and not inconsiderable number of enemies as Alma Maria Schindler Mahler Gropius Werfel (yes, she got around) finds the Maestro's obsession with her late (first) husband just about as tiresome as she found the composer himself by the time he conveniently shuffled off this mortal coil back in '11.

Yes, I do believe we're safe in saying that this is a picture of a widow (twice over, actually; Gropius she divorced) napping, possibly even snoring lightly, happy in the knowledge that not a soul will dare to say a word about it (not to mention perfectly content in her sables, false fringe, and continuing notoriety-by-association). She's probably dreaming of what Bernstein's excellent cook will whip up for the after-party; she looks like someone who enjoyed a toast point and a glass or two, no?

Mirror, Mirror

Just another night backstage at Carnegie Hall; it would appear that the Maestro likes what he sees, and why shouldn't he? Not all that remarkable, really, except that it was fifty years ago tonight, and Life was there.

Birthday Country: Uruguay!

It was 184 years ago that plucky little Uruguay decided it had had enough of being Brazilian and headed out on its own. It was only ten years ago that this gentleman, one Santiago Salaberry, was Mr. Uruguay, and I think he makes a very suitable envoy of his homeland to the Café on this august occasion, don't you?

Sharing the day are both King Ludwigs of Bavaria (the second of whom is the mad and fabulous one), tap empress Ruby Keeler, actor Michael Rennie (who was ill, you might recall, the day the earth stood still), let's-make-a-dealer Monty Hall, appalling television creation Rachael Ray, appealing Scotsman Sean Connery, and, last but in absolutely no way least, the irreplaceable force of nature that was Leonard Bernstein.

The Maestro, I have a feeling, likely knew and was amused at the thought that he and Ludwig II had so much in common; ditto Ruby Keeler. Frankly, I'm relieved, in a way, that he was spared knowing anything at all about Rachael Ray.

Reality TV, 1956 Edition: When Giants Roamed the Earth

The next time you find yourself, dazed and appalled, sitting in front of this week's edition of America's Extreme Next Top Dancing Fat Wedding Survivor, cast your mind back a few decades and weep.

Seen here are the 1956 season regulars on television's Omnibus: Leonard Bernstein (a year before West Side Story); Agnes de Mille (a year after the Oklahoma film); host Alistair Cooke (a decade-plus before Masterpiece Theatre, but 20 years into his BBC "Letters from America"); Bert Lahr (The year of Waiting for Godot), McCarthy foe Joseph "Have You No Decency?" Welch (just because the rest of the lineup didn't have enough gravitas?); and boyish actor Christopher Plummer (for height, apparently).

Let's think. Today, we could bring together, um... dashing musical sensation Davd Hasselhoff, distinguished choreographer Paula Abdul, thoughtful host Ty Pennington, polymath comic Howie Mandel, crusading lawyer Star Jones, and versatile stage heartthrob Clay Aiken.

Same diff, no?

Birthday Artistes

Here's another fairly amazing Birthday Trifecta. The only common thread I can see is a certain talent to amuse, although I suppose it's possible, however unlikely, that they all slept with Al Jolson.

Ladies first, and Ruby Keeler certainly did; she even went the extra mile and married him.


It almost ruined her, even as it made her a national name, and in later interviews she preferred not mentioning him. Sometimes I think it's too bad she's most remembered for her dated tapping and appealingly awkward emoting ("Gee, Mr. Kent - That'd be swell!") on film. She was a stage star, first and last, and tapped her way through her last triumph, in 1971's No, No, Nanette revival.

Next up: Elvis. Costello, that is. To those of us who came of age in 1980 or so, the Real Elvis.

I suppose he shares some of Ruby's geeky charm, but from angry young Attractions frontman to Mr. Diana Krall, he's kept moving on. Madonna gets the all credit for continually reinventing herself, but Costello does it without the hoopla, and in ways that are actually artistically invigorating, meaning he's always This Year's Model.

His collaboration with the divine Anne Sofie von Otter, For the Stars, redeems the whole idea of pop-classical crossover. Buy it now.

And last, the Great American Artist.

No snark possible; Leonard Bernstein was the real deal, and even, as here, in his seventies, a not inconsiderable Attraction himself.

"Polymath" hardly starts to describe a man who was a teacher, composer, conductor, author, activist, philanthropist, and lifelong enfant terrible. Nor does something reductive like "man of contradictions" adequately sum someone so egocentric and all-embracing, so joyous and so dark, so profoundly (and in the best way) moral and so hedonistic.

And no, I don't really think he slept with Al Jolson. Although, God knows, it would have been an interesting night...