CHAPTER IKS—THEMES 1, 6

March 18th, 2010

MUCCC (Multi-Use Community Cultural Center)

Rochester, New York

“I must take responsibility for what you hear tonight,” my eighty-four-year-old father, behavioral toxicology professor Victor Laties, tells an audience composed mostly of my high-school musician friends, along with our seventy-five-year-old former jazz-band director, Ned Corman.

“In 1949,” Dad explains, “I was studying German in college, and I read a nonsense poem called Priimiittitti, in an anthology of writing from transition, the nineteen-twenties European literary journal. Years later, I used to recite Priimiittitti to my children: Nancy, Andy, and Claire. They grew up, and Andy learned there was more to Priimiittitti. He started performing the long version of Priimiittitti as a jazz piece. Tonight, his jazz-band friends Mitch, Don, Steve—happy fiftieth birthday, Steve—with new friends Rebecca, Eric, and James, will perform Priimiittitti for you. So, I hope you can forgive me.”

Broadway-musical preparator Don Rice’s three saxophones and twenty heirloom bells are arrayed next to songwriter/bandleader Steve Rice’s accordion and keyboard. Multi-Use Community Cultural Center is their brother Doug Rice’s place.

Eric Blitz’s percussion paraphernalia are deployed upstage, between Mitch Ahern’s and Pronoblem’s assortments of homemade instruments. Rebecca Migdal, a pirate queen in flowing headdress, and I, two saxes jostling my chest, take center stage.

Steve’s piano rumbles. Eric’s cymbals rustle. Don’s bells ping, his soprano sax burbles. Pronoblem’s PVC-bass murmurs. Rebecca and I announce, “Fümmmmmmmmmms!”—she ascending, me descending. Steve’s piano rises with us, until, together, Rebecca and I land on, “Bö wö tää zää Uuuuuuuu,” me gliding up this time, while she goes silent.

Eric’s cymbals are jangling. Turning to me, Rebecca squawks, “Pögiff!”

Rim-shot from Eric. Mitch’s crutch-synth squeals. I try calm Rebecca with, “Kwiee---eeeeeee.” Don’s tenor sax offers tuneful subtones.

We reconcile, with “Ooooooooooooooooooo.”

After the show, Ned Corman congratulates us: “You ripped it up.”