A Very Long Blog about Chicago

CHICAGO. What a delightful city. Simply love it. The drive---not so much. I-65 gets very boring very quickly, but if you keep your mind and ears well occupied for the drive, before you know it you are paying tolls and coming in to the Windy City.

Speaking of--I was terrified driving in to Chicago, and find myself an improved human being for being able to navigate in to the city, and also out very well, despite a trucker making my exit difficult for me. I have driven in Chicago! Hear me roar!

The whole Chicago experience can not be just summed up in my assessment of Mahler 6. And even that won't be a good assessment, because I lack the ability to look at Mahler objectively, and instead I end up talking about his works as though I were personally involved in them, and before you know it, tears are streaming down my face, I see nothing but pain and anguish in my life yet I always stop to smell the roses and listen to cow bells. Get what I mean?

Anyhoo...parked my poor little Honda who has been driven far too much lately in to the East Monroe parking garage, and walked about Millennium Park, a rather delightful place. I got to Chicago far later than I had hoped--when I woke up around 7am (allowing me to leave by 8:30) I heard the lovely sound of rain, and thought I could just sit in bed for a bit and listen to it. Ha. Yeah right. I fell right back asleep, and didn't wake up til 10am. So, I was running slightly later than expected. Thank goodness Chicago is an hour behind. And I am glad for my NUVO predecessor's predecessor, Marc Geelhoed, for telling me NOT to park near O'Hare and take the train in. It was well worth it indeed, to shell out $16 bucks for parking in the city, because it saved me much needed time, and it was nice to just park and do what I wanted to do, and leave Chicago immediately after the concert. Thanks Marc.

I decided to head up the Magnificent Mile, something I rather enjoyed. The weather was nice, with the sun shining and the wind blowing only slightly, and since I had layered well, I was comfy and cozy. I darted in and out of stores, and darted in, and stayed in, at least for 10 minutes or so, 4th Presbyterian Church, across from the Hancock building. It was really beautiful, and I was fortunate to come across an organist playing some music, and I sat and listened a while. Whilst enjoying the music, I thought about many things that had brought me here to Chicago--my desire to see as much Mahler as I possibly could, and the generosity of a Chicago Symphony staff member. How awesome is it that my little tour has become a reality for me? I feel blessed indeed. Some people might think, while scratching their butts, "uuuh, what's so darn cool about this Mahler feller? Is he, like, some famous geetarist or somethin'?" To me, though, this is pure delight, listening to his music LIVE. There's not much else I'd rather be doing. (other than playing in those orchestra's bass sections).

So, after thinking on such things, I then move across the street to the Hancock building, and of course, I go up to the observation lounge. Very cool indeed. On the way up, my elevator buddy was a nice man from Birmingham, England (I am from Reading, so we had a nice little English connection). I mention this because he is the first of many nice people involved in my day in Chicago, and I find the nice people I ran in to almost as compelling as the performance. We talk about this and that as we walk around the observatory together, and I was kind of taken aback by just his outright kindness and friendliness. And the fact that we walked around like we were chums who had come on this trip together all fascinated me. Of course we took each other's pictures with our cameras, and after lots of them, we wished each other well as he headed out to meet mates and I decided to head south to get some grub and go to the symphony.

On the way down I am looking for a pizza place I went to last time I was in town, and supposedly it's Oprah's favorite place. I don't find it (but I did after the concert, dammit) and I get directions to another pizza place near the Prudential building and I head up north again. Nice person no. 2 comes in to my life at this point.

I see this kid, literally--no older than 18. He's wearing a shirt and sign that say "Free hug". I look at it as I walk by him, and I read his sign aloud and chuckle. I looked at him and smiled and he gave me the look that said "I'm serious---do you want a hug?" At that moment I wanted a hug so bad I would have given up my symphony ticket for one. I can't explain it, as I get hugs on a semi regular basis, and couldn't see why I wanted one on this Tuesday early evening. I walk past him and look back, and he's still waiting on me, to see if I'll take the free hug. I turn back around to keep walking, but then decide to look back again, and he's walking towards me. I walk towards him and get my free hug, which was without a doubt one of the highlights of the day for me. Doing a google search on "free hug Chicago" wields a lot of info, and I think it's a cute little movement. Off I go afterwards, grinning ear to ear, to go get pizza. How cliche is it though, that I was totally touched by this? Pathetic, perhaps, but I don't think I'll ever forget that, ever. He said "Thank you" afterwards in such a convincing way that I couldn't help but be moved.

So dinner was good, but too much for me---I went home with two little boxes of pizza, which a Chicago traffic person and homeless person end up with. (hope they don't mind the tropical pizza with canadian bacon and pineapple.)

Off to symphony hall now! I arrive, and head to the gift shop, and begin to get convinced that I really do need musical score dinner mats, along with napkins to match, and oh--don't forget the coffee mugs! I tell myself "that's ridiculous, you don't need that" and proceed to walk away to a different area, where I then hear in the back of my mind "You really DO need a George Crumb tshirt!" I shake that thought off as well, and somehow stop myself from getting enough musical stationary to last me a lifetime, and then decide to GET OUT OF THERE. Way too tempting to buy lots of dorky musical stuff---which if I had the money and didn't care about what others thought (to some extent), my apartment would be littered with that crap.

I head upstairs to a ballroom for the preconcert lecture, and begin to get the jitters because it finally, totally, and completely dawns on me: I'm in Chicago, and soon I'll be hearing Mahler 6. So I'm listening to the lecturer, a conductor of a regional orchestra near Chicago, and he's talking about Mahler and things he said/did as a kid (did you know at age 5 our beloved Gustav said he wanted to be a martyr, when someone asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. And people wonder why I love this man as much as I do?) He goes lightly in depth about Mahler's music, and what what bit means, and the struggles Mahler had with different things in his life that come out in this music, and he occasionally plays snippets on the piano, or the real deal on tape. Each time he plays the tape, I CRY. Seriously. I don't know what got in to me. But for each musical example of whatever it is---cow bells, the Alma theme, the fate theme, whatever---tears well up in my eyes and fall down uncontrollably. No amount of blinking or looking up high stopped those fat, obese indications of how emotional/hormonal/moved/sensitive I was feeling. (take your pick, btw. All would be appropriate.) I was so thrilled I would be hearing these bits in their entirety later on that it just got to me. Pathetic, perhaps. I dunno though---I will just chalk it up to being an emotional woman who is happy to be that way, most especially when Mahler is involved. So afterwards, I'm drying my eyes, and doing my best to think about what will make my nose look less red. (I am so ugly when I cry!) Eventually I meander up to the Lower Balcony, where I find my seat---which is incredible, by the way. I feel like I can reach out and touch the orchestra.

The first piece, Wagner's Siegfried Idyll, was beautiful. What else can I say? John Sharp's tone and vibrato is warm and sincere, Mathieu Dufour's playing makes me say something I hardly ever say---"I like the flute". The 13 member ensemble played this gift (literally, it was a gift from Ricky Wagner to his woman Cosima) as though it were sealed up in beautiful wrapping, and unwrapping only showed how much more beautiful the gift was. It was pristine. I could go on and on, but this blog is long enough---and about to get even longer, beware.

Intermission time. I decide I want coffee dammit! Or else! So off I go to the floor below to partake of some warm caffeine, and I'm putting my purse on a chair to get my wallet out of my purse, which incidentally is large enough to carry a 3 month old baby. (I've tried, trust me. Little Asher at church was the guinea pig. Or baby, rather.) A gentleman comes up to me, and he is holding a glass of beer, and asks me "So are you going for some alcoholic beverages?" or something to that effect, I forget exactly what he asked me, which is strange. I normally pride myself on remembering conversations verbatim. He asked it much more eloquently than I am writing it, though. At this point I'm rather amazed that a stranger would talk to me (although one did earlier today, strangely enough as well). I do not look like someone a person would approach, really. Think about it: I am alone. I walk around with purpose, even if I feel lost and confused, so it's not like I look like I'm searching for someone, or that I even want to speak to someone. I also am not a super sharp dresser, wearing my ballet flats, a cheap Target skirt that I am desperately fond of, and an expensive $50 shirt that takes too long to explain how it looks. Plus I am not gorgeous at all---I'm not ugly, but my looks don't cause people to want to speak to me out of the blue. So why is this dude talking to me? I wonder if he is intoxicated, or simply nice. I still don't know the answer to that, but that's ok. I respond to his question with a smile, saying I have a long drive back home afterwards, so I need some coffee. He does the whole "where are you from?" routine, and we chat about Indianapolis briefly. It's strange talking about Indianapolis. It's not a total hickville, yet it's not Chicago. At the same time though, I don't want to try to convince people that it's some mecca that it's not---or even that it's doing its best to grow culturally and whatnot, without sounding pathetic or something, ya know? Anyway, we get on the subject of Mahler, and my little tour, which he, like everyone else it seems, is interested in my project. He teaches about social theory at a university in Chicago (didn't ask which one. He is also in school himself, must be getting a Ph.D) I mention to him that I think Mahler is like a hormonal woman (which has everything to do with why I love him so much) and he goes on to say that yes, many people think that, and tells that I should read the commentary of Adorno, which I will most certainly be looking for soon. Then the bell tolls, and tells us to get our butt's back in our seats. So we say our goodbye's, and introduce each other. I'm Chantal, I'm Peter. (I think that was his name. I hope that was, I think it was. I'm pretty sure it was.) He was a very nice fellow, one of a few on this little trip filled with interesting individuals who also possess a great deal of kindness. I looked for Peter afterwards to see how he liked the concert, but could not find him. I also had told him that I thought I would cry all throughout the piece (and he didn't run off! perhaps he really WAS intoxicated; if I were a guy and a woman said that to me, I'd scarper), and I DIDN'T cry throughout the piece. Just the 3rd movement and bits of the fourth, and I wanted to tell him that really badly, as though it were important. Funny, eh? Well, I didn't catch my new friend again, which is a bummer. Peter if you are reading this, you should drop me an email if you feel so inclined. mahlerowesmetenbucks at gmail dot com. I want to hear more about social theory. Most interesting. Plus I want to know if you talked to me because you are nice, or were lonely, or because I looked pathetically in need of a conversation, or the beer made you do it.

Anyway, where was I? MAHLER. The man who wanted to be a martyr when he grew up, that's right. OK.

How do I explain my impressions of this symphony? This work caused me to: cry, of course. Grab my head with my hands. Put my face in my hands. Grab my hair. Smile. Hurt, deeply. Look on in horror. Actually FEEL horror. Feel very disturbed, and worried. Think I was going to die shortly afterwards.

Not a normal concert, to be sure.

The first movement was a tad on the slow side for me, but I quickly forgot about what I thought the tempo should, or should not be. In taking things a hair slower, Maestro Haitink was able to pull everything he and the orchestra possibly could out of every note, every bow stroke, every breath of air. There's not point in going in to talking about the first and second movements. And the third movement? Would it surprise anyone to know that I was a wreck for that movement?

The fourth is what really REALLY got me though. It was then, and only then that I really realized there were NINE HORNS. SIX TRUMPETS. FOUR OBOES. Four oboes! Insane! Wonderfully insane! One of whom, I realized, I was in youth orchestra with in high school---Scott Hostetler. A percussion section the size of the the H&M store on Michigan Avenue. (well, not REALLY, but you know what I mean.) The sheer size finally blew me away, most especially when I heard the horn section, for they were powerful, and a force to be reckoned with. Same goes with percussion as well. I wouldn't mind asking any of those guys (just the guys, mind you. Not the girls) out on a date. And I don't believe in women asking men out on dates. But for them, I do.

The very first pizzicato of the movement sent chills up my spine, and when the brass and percussion came in, it was official for me: I was scared. I had no idea what to expect, yet I know every bar of that movement practically. It was a strange feeling to have, indeed. It carried on through the night, even up to the first hammer blow.

I have always wondered about the hammer blow. What exactly causes that sound, I have always asked? I didn't really ever think a percussion section would just find some thing to hit. I always figured it was the world's largest, most intense bass drum hit with a larger than normal mallet, and that was it. How wrong I was.

All through the concert, I kept wondering what this wooden cabinet thingy was, sitting to the left of Cynthia Yeh Strauss, CSO principal percussionist. There was also something on top of it, but I had no idea what it was, because I couldn't see that it had a handle. It was a mallet of ridiculous size. It was like a caricature, and I didn't realize what it was until Yeh Strauss picked it up. But I'm getting ahead of myself....

So the time is nearing for the first hammer blow. I keep thinking "I know that it's her who does it, but why isn't she near the bass drum?" But then she turns to walk to this cabinet thing, and behind it are obviously stairs. She starts walking up them. The grace and POWER that this tiny little woman walks with up these stairs is incredible. I feel like she is walking up to a throne and people would be soon bowing down to her, and worshiping her for being the all powerful goddess that she looked like. But then I wonder, "Is she going to JUMP on this platform thing?" She then picks up this ridiculous mallet, and raises it far above her head. I at this point have goosebumps, and are scared enough to almost start crying again. I realize what is about to happen, as though I had just figured a maze out, and I had deciphered what would await me when I came out. Thing is though, I knew about the first death blow. I've heard many a recording of this symphony. Yet I still didn't know what to expect, really. My eyes then get wide, my mouth opens, and I hold my head with my hands, as though I am watching a horrific car crash happen right in front of me. Then that crash happens, and I can't take my hand off of my mouth for what seems like at least 5 minutes. And then that death blow happens again later, I have the same reaction. It wasn't like some "Cool! Hit stuff hard! Yeah! Rock on!" reaction. I wasn't excited to hear it, I wasn't sitting at the edge of my chair giddy to hear it like I am to hear the 4th movement of Beethoven 9 or something. Instead I looked and listened on as though this were all some awful tragedy that I wished I had never known about. I found myself profoundly disturbed and shedding tears again, and I know the lady to my right was looking at me when I was crying, because I had to sniff (during a loud part though) or else the snot would have flown freely on to my lips. Later she said to me after the concert, "Pretty good, eh?" To which I replied, "overwhelming".

I left in a bit of a daze, thinking "Did I really hear what I just heard? I did. I really did. Wow." And so I walked around the area near Symphony Hall sniffing my nose and still trying to take in the death blows, all while wondering where I could get coffee because I was so exhausted mentally and emotionally and knew that my 3 or so hour drive would be hard on me, PLUS worrying if I would be ok walking to my car alone. (turned out to be just fine.)

I then get in my car, and head out of Chicago. Driving around the tiny bit I did reminded me of downtown Indy, only times 100. I found Congress, and took that out to the 90, and was on my way home.) I don't remember what I thought about on my way home. I don't have any memory of the drive home other than remember how tired I was at certain points, and that I desperately wanted to sleep because I was so exhausted. I probably didn't think much actually, as I had used all of my brain for the Mahler, I'm sure.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, all 5 of you, was my trip to Chicago. Best concert I've ever been to, period. (well, except the portion of the Indy Violin Competition Romantic finals when Augustin played, that is near equal). Today, all I can think about is yesterday, and I long for the day that I get to go back to Chicago, hopefully to meet more nice people who are willing to chat with me and hug me, and then afterwards hear a concert that tears me to shreds.

Sigh.....