Nerd Thursday, or European Theater

Now, my babies, when last I left you I was in Atlanta for that nerd's paradise known as Clarinetfest 2006. So it might come as a bit of a shock to you that I spent a fair amount of time there listening to people - playing the clarinet. Yes, I know, it's decadent, it's sinful, and it should probably be illegal, but there they were right in front of God and everybody playing clarinets in a semi-public place.

I should have known I was in for some fun times when, right there at the first night's ceremonies, a guy named William Blayney played a solo so volatile that at the end of the piece his head exploded and blew right off his body.

Well, OK, that was a bit of exaggeration, but I promise you, only a little bit. His face got all red and puffy, and I swear I saw a small trail of smoke leaving the top of his head as he ended with a flourish and immediately began gasping for breath. The audience erupted in massive applause, and he deserved it. It was some fine playing, but that's not the point. He deserved it for staying alive and in one piece till the end.

But other than Mr Blayney - and Mr Combs, but he's probably better left for a rest tonight - that very first klatch of klarinetters brought me to a stunning realization. All the biggies nowadays in the Licorice World seem to be from, well, from somewhere else.

This all started, for me, anyway, very innocently. A couple of years ago, the hot new name springing up in the world of reedism was a dude named Ricardo Morales. Who, of course, I always called and will continue to call till my dying breath Ricardo Montalban, and I suppose it's a good thing I didn't meet him at the 'fest, because surely I'd have shaken his hand and asked him where Tattoo was, or if his clarinet case was made of rich, Corinthian leather.

Ricardo is probably the closest thing the clarinet has to a superstar, and he played several times throughout the festival. He also has his own brand of Backun barrel. If you don't know, well, it won't interest you to know, but I'll tell you anyway, a barrel is a joint of the horn, and Backun is a company that hand-makes these items, they're beautiful, sound great, and are ridiculously overpriced. I tried out a Morales Backun in the exhibit hall and fell somewhat in love with it, but the affair went sour when I learned the price was $300. Backun also gives us the Morales mouthpiece, which is $500, and the Morales clarinet bell, which is $750. I don't know why they just don't come out with the Morales-endorsed Whole Clarinet for $30,000, the keys to your home, or your first born child.

So, Morales played at the opening ceremonies, and Mr Blayney and his exploding dome, and then so did a fellow named Philippe Cuper. Who I spent the rest of the trip calling Philippe "Two Door" Cuper, and it's a good thing I didn't meet him either because his English was more than a little suspect. But he was of very good humor, and he endeared himself to me on that very first night (and I'd see him play again in later days) when he did an unaccompanied Klezmer number that knocked my socks off. Yes, they went flying into the air like Mr Blayney's head, but thankfully they didn't fall to earth upon someone's reed.

Mr M went to a lecture by Mr Two Door Cuper, and loved it, but it must have been a very hard listen with that broken English.

Thursday morning there was a performance by the Caracas Clarinet Quartet, which I didn't see because it began at 10am and I'm a lazy schlub, but I have to let you know that, according to the Clarinetfest guidebook, "The Caracas Quartet's appearance is supported in part by 'Embajada de la Republica Bolivariana de Venezuela en los Estados Unidas de Norteamerica' and CITGO."

Another guy I gave a pass to - no, not made a pass at, gave a pass to - was a guy The Teenagers (our boys in tow) had rave reviews for, a Sr Joaquin Valdepeñas. I couldn't tell you a thing about him other than he has a great name, and every time the boys talked about something Joaquin Valdepeñas did, I couldn't help but smile and say to myself, "Joaquin Valdepeñas!"

On Friday morning I attended a recital by a fellow Mr M and his clarinet buddy/teacher, David N (hey, piss off, David!) think is one of the better clarinet dudes out there. His name is Sergio Bosi. I went along to see Sergio, only partly for the former statement, but mainly because he was to play "Adagio e Tarantella" by Cavallini (in an alfredo sauce), and that's one of my Three Pieces. See, I have a rotating bullpen of three solo clarinet pieces I work on over and over and over. I play none of them particularly well, nor up to tempo, and could never perform any of them for anyone other than Mr M, but I like them all well enough to keep at it and hope one day to get to the end of just one of them and say, "Well, that didn't suck."

So, Sr Bosi took the stage and I got ready for the A e T, and while I was waiting, this whole European thing started weighing on my mind. Sergio was there with his pianist, a fellow that looked like, and I'm not kidding here, Lurch from the Addams Family might have looked like if he was 20 years old and Latin. Lurchio. They were dressed alike, in black suits with Nehru-type jackets, black turtlenecks, black shoes. And Sergio was - man, he was the Rudolph Valentino of clarinet players. He made facial expressions, he dipped, he turned, he gave side glances to the accompanist, he all but acted out his pieces right there on the stage. All that was missing was the black eyeliner. It would come to pass that nearly all the Spanish/Italian clarinet players would be this way, but it started, for me, with Sergio. And being able to imagine what "Joaquin Valdepeñas!" would have been like.

Later on Friday we took in a performance by the Rubio-Benavides Duo, featuring no less a person than Pedro Rubio himself on clarinet. (Benavides was a lady piano player.) Señor Rubio was a dead ringer for Andy Garcia, and was working the black Nehru jacket/black undershirt thing as well, and raised his eyebrows a lot when he played. Which is fine, I might do that too without realizing it, but Pedro's second piece is what (along with his heritage and Nehru Jacket) gets him a mention in the blog. It featured random piano-banging, Sr Rubio himself going, "Psssssssssst - pssssssssssst" at various points in the number, then blowing hard and moving his fingers all over the place, and every once in a while he'd stop and, as the piano banged away, he'd look skyward and repeat, "Por favor, por favor." I felt like I needed to duck out to the coffee shop a few floors below for espresso, and re-enter the hall with a beret.

After the finger-snapping good time of Sr Rubio, we headed to another session where we saw a Bruno Martinez honking away on the bass clarinet, we saw Two Door again, and we saw this guy over here. His name is Milko Pravdic, and everyone seemed to think he was the cat's pajamas, but I couldn't get past the fact that the guy was the living embodiment of Pee Wee Herman. He was tall and lanky, and wore an ill-fitting suit complete with bowtie. And it certainly didn't help that his instrument of choice was the D clarinet, which is about 1/3 the size of a regular clarinet and looks and sounds like it came right out of the minds of Looney Tunes. Mr Hermanavdic was followed by a legend in the clarinet world, Guy Deplus, pronounced "Gieee DuhPLOO" unless you're me, then it's "Guy DeePLUS," and this was both the saddest and funniest thing I've ever seen.

Mr Deplus is, as I said, a legend, and I'm sure that's why he was up there playing, but Lord Have Mercy, the guy was past his sell-by date. He was about a half-tone off-key, and, well, I can't describe it, but i can describe the pain to my ribs after Mr M's constant elbowing of me there as I giggled.

And Friday night I spent a blissful night at the movies.

Saturday we got to go to the Atlanta Symphony, which was a blast, especially since I got drunk on a huge martini, but there are no pictures because those Symphony Nazis wouldn't let us take any. Which is a shame, because we saw Australian clarinetist Andy Firth (a fun, fun guy, and the fastest fingers in Clarinetdom), and Paulo Sergio Santos, who Mr M liked better than Firth (I didn't), but Sr Santos had the added attraction of an incredibly beautiful young man with him playing the tambourine. I found out the next day this beautiful young man was staying at our hotel, and I almost went up and said hello until I realized that really all I could say was, "Hey, hell of a tambourine player, you are." And so I thought better of it.

But then. Oh, my friends and blogees.

Then there's the story of Alessandro.

Thursday was something of a trying day for me. Still recovering from the trip, and the onslaught of clarinet sounds ringing from my ears, and the confrontation and subsequent beating of Larry Combs. When it was time for the evening concerts and Mr M asked what the plans were, my answer was, "You go and do whatever makes you happy, I'm staying in the hotel room and doing absolutely nothing." Which turned out to be a blatant lie, as I sat and watched approximately 27 episodes of "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit," and also watched an incredibly beautiful lightning storm from the hotel window.

When Mr M got back to the room, he announced that I had "really missed it." And while I was thinking, "No I didn't, I saw all 27 episodes," he went on to tell me he'd just heard one of the most incredible clarinetists of his life. "Oh. And who would that be?" I uninterestedly inquired, and he replied, "Alessandro Carbonare." And so of course I spent most of the rest of the evening making spaghetti carbonara jokes and didn't give it much more thought.

Friday morning, as we were standing outside waiting to get into the Bosi concert, Mr M and I were having conversational back-and-forths, but something caught my eye to the left, and I couldn't stop glancing. Then I couldn't stop staring. It was a guy talking to a few other people, in worn jeans and blue t-shirt, and - well, this man was a looker. This man was a "can't keep your eyes off" little fellow. He looked like a shorter, more muscular Benjamin Bratt, and, well, I don't think I need to say more. I asked Mr M, as I do at these things, "Do you know that guy? Is he anybody?" And Mr M replied that he was indeed Alessandro Carbonare.

And I started feeling just a little bit sorry about those 27 episodes of "Law & Order."

And also, so began my making a total fool of myself chasing Sr Carbonare around Clarinetfest.

It became quite the joke with The Teenagers. They thought it was funny that a woman of my age and ilk would melt like a bobby-soxer at a Frank Sinatra concert over some Italian clarinet player. Mr M did his share of eye-rolling, but I got out my Clarinetfest guidebook and actually read it this time, mapping out every performance Alessandro would be giving from here on. And by damn, when they came, I was there. As close to the front as I could get. With my camera. But friends, Lady Luck was not on my side.

When he played a duet with Larry Combs (!), I had bad lighting and low camera batteries. When he played at the closing day concert, I had bad lighting and bad seating. However, during my time at the 'fest I was always on the lookout for him, and The Teenagers endeared themselves to me completely (they really were such lovely boys) by finding me having a coffee in the lobby area and running up to me saying, "You missed it! You missed it! Alessandro was in the exhibit hall signing autographs for everybody!" And after my, "You're kidding - you're just saying that" spiel, they assured me he in fact was. Then they said, "You did actually miss it. However - you're lucky you know people like us." And they handed me this, an autographed (to Elizabeth!) poster of the man. See, I told you they were fine boys.

Anyway, the closing day concert came, and Alessandro was playing a solo backed by the festival clarinet chorus, then it was off to the airport and back to Italy for him. Without me. So after the concert, Mr M was ready to hotfoot it back to the car and head home, but I just kept hanging around. And he gave in. "Listen, if I were you I'd turn my camera on, have it ready, and just stand outside the door of the hall." Then he went on ahead and left me to it.

And after standing around like a dork - or a streetwalker - or a dorky streetwalker - for about 10 mintues, out of the hall doors came scurrying my future husband and clarinet teacher, Alessandro Carbonare. I walked up to him, said I knew he was in a hurry, but could I just have one quick picture. And he stopped and smiled. While I was snapping, I made some remark about him renewing my enthusiasm for the clarinet, and how much I enjoyed his playing, then - as I was looking at him through the viewfinder, I realized the man had no fucking idea what I was saying. He is Italian, you know. So finally I just said, "Thank you thank you!" and he said, and I quote, "Ciao!" He said, "Ciao!"

And so I had my picture of Alessandro. Sometimes you just have to be a stage-door johnny, you know?

Betland's Olympic Update:
* And that shall be all of Nerd Week until Picture Sunday.