MUSIC AND STARS AT BRUCE LEVINGSTON’S FIFTH ANIVERSARY GALA
FOR THE PREMIER COMMISSION
On our way out the door to the pianist Bruce Levingston’s concert at the Lincoln Center, the desk clerk at the Chelsea, having little faith in my powers of concentration, warned me not to fall asleep.
But there was no danger of that, as the program of music turned out to be quite invigorating. Bruce started the evening off with a familiar Chopin nocturne. He played it well, and I thoroughly enjoyed his interpretation. The next piece, “Wichita Vortex Sutra,” by Allen Ginsberg, set to music by 
Philip Glass from his Hydrogen Jukebox, turned out to be the high point of the first half of the program. Ethan Hawke came out in a semi-sparkly suit with peach shirt and delivered a stirring rendition of the piece, which is about the poet standing in the middle of Kansas, meditating on the end of war. Ethan used a soft reading voice, but he was able to make it boom when, halfway through, he spoke like God on High, calling down the prophets of old into the vortex of Kansas to stand with him in proclaiming an end to war. (Unfortunately, this works about as well now as it did back in 1966 when Ginsberg wrote the poem.) (Photo of Bruce Levingston & Ethan Hawke by Lisa Ackerman)
After the break Bruce came back out and played a first-rate Chopin Etude, which I thought was his best piece of the night. His mood varied between careful concentration and rapturous abandon as he gave his all at the piano, executing what was obviously a very difficult, albeit supremely rewarding, piece.
Next, Philip Glass came out and played Two Etudes, one of the highlights of the night. It was 
an exhilarating performance, and he won me over to his method right there. An authoritative longhair sitting behind me remarked that he had made a couple of mistakes, and I could see what the guy was talking about, but Glass’s exuberance obviated any minor technical concerns. (Photo of Philip Glass and Bruce by Lisa Ackerman)
The last number was perhaps the most compelling: “Knee Play No. 5” from Glass’s Einstein on the Beach, which featured Michael Cunningham’s hypnotic reading of the weird, repetitive text: “These were the
days, my friends, yes these were the days my friends...” (Cunningham is the author of The Hours and A Home at the End of the World, both fine novels.) Whether by design, or simply because he had a more powerful voice, Michael drowned out Ethan Hawke, who read the other part. That was my only quibble with the piece: try
as I might, I couldn’t hear what Ethan was saying at all. Nevertheless, it was a splendid performance of Glass’s masterful work, all the more remarkable when you learn that Glass had written a new arrangement of the piece right before the show and it had never been rehearsed in this form before. (Photos by Lisa Ackerman)
It was dreadfully crowded at the Gala reception afterward, too crowded, and there was a bottleneck going into the room. Nobody could get through to the Veuve Clicquot—and I only wanted water, anyway—and people were swishing their long coats around and knocking wine glasses off of 
the tables onto the floor. But the people I overheard all seemed to have appreciated the concert: “It was like a drug,” I heard a man remark. “I closed my eyes and I could feel it surge through me. I don’t need drugs with music so powerful as this.” Drugs or no drugs, we had to get out of the close press in the room, so we fought our way back out to the hall, which by this time was also thronged with music aficionados. (Photo of Philip Glass, Bruce, & Ethan Hawke by Lisa Ackerman)
To our chagrin, our camera malfunctioned, so we couldn’t get any pictures of the stars. Ethan Hawke was there talking to some old friends from the Chelsea. Ready to give him a break, since he read the Ginsberg poem so well, I asked him if I could take his picture, and he snarled at me in reply. I tried to take it anyway, and the camera flashed, but it didn’t turn out. Damn. That would have been a good one. I was more concerned with Michael Cunningham anyway, since he’s a writer—though as far as I know he has no connection with the Chelsea. (His book about Provincetown, Land’s End, is an extraordinary tour of another place we love, however.) I overheard him and his friend talking about blogs, so maybe with any luck he’ll read this one and tell us whether he’s ever been to the Chelsea before. And Michael Stipe from REM walked right past me, so close it was almost a jostle. I could 
have whipped my camera out and flashed it right in his face, but by that point I wasn’t even trying anymore. Ah well. (I’ll bet he’s been to the Chelsea.) (At least Patrick McMullan got the shot.) That’s what I get for using one of those disposable cameras; we’ll have to spring for some better equipment if we’re going to make it in the dog-eat-dog world of the paparazzi.
Unable to handle the crowd any longer, we slipped out the emergency door to the street, even though a stern security matron scowled at us disapprovingly. Thanks, Bruce, for a thoroughly enjoyable evening of music. And thanks to Lisa for all of these wonderful pictures.
(Bruce Levingston’s new CD, Portraits, with music by Glass, Ravel, Messiaen, and Satie, is available at www.orangemountainmusic.com, www.premierecommission.org, and www.amazon.com .) More reviews: New York Times.
Ed Hamilton
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