Hey Friends:
I just wanted to let you know that I am a genius. It’s a heavy
responsibility that few among us have to bear. But you wouldn’t
know that, would you?, You probably think it’s just wonderful to be
a genius. But you don’t know the burden that destiny has placed
upon me.
How do I know I’m a genius?
Well, Peter Gzowski said so, that’s how. And Peter Gzowski
is smarter than you — blaaaaatttttt. (Insert raspberry sound).
Actually, he sort of accused me of it, and I demurred
semi-convincingly while softly guffawing and twirling my dimples.
But why do people keep saying that about me? Are they
trying to centre me out? Make me feel uncomfortable?
I think it’s because deep inside they know that I am cute as a
kitten and very sparky. I always say that you learn more about
people from what they say about other people, so let me tell you
about people who accuse others of being a genius. Having been
accused many times, in fact as recently as Saturday, I’ve had time
to reflect on the phenomenon.
In a way it’s a compliment, no doubt about it. But there’s also
a bit of puffedupness that rides along. It’s enough to say
of Bob Dylan, for instance, that he’s influential, prolific,
successful, admired, etc. But when you say, “Dylan is a genius”,
what are you doing but commenting on your own outstanding
and under-recognized perspicacity?
Okay, so all that aside, I was invited to meet the late great Peter
Gzowski on Morningside one morning years ago. Morningside
was the flagship current affairs show that ran nationally on the
Canadian Broadcasting Corporation radio network. And Gzowski
was the beloved star, the voice and heart of the Corporation.
He had the reputation of being a great interviewer. It was only a few
months after being interviewed by him that I realized just how good
he really was.
I had been involved in a series of weekly concerts, featuring
orchestral instruments arranged by me. I worked frantically,
with the help of Darcy McFadyen, my scribe and whipping
boy. We sat up many nights all night, me singing out oboe parts
and bassoon parts and him writing them down.
One time Darcy said we need a new woodwind song. And I
said, “Oh, okay, how about…” and started without hesitation to
sing something that became a song or should I say “a piece”.
It was a period of forced hyper creativity, in other words.
In fact, after the first rehearsal, of a string section, the musicians,
all unpaid students of course — were fussing over the charts.
Apparently, I had done some things incorrectly, never having
learned to read or write music. And of course, any errors
in Beethoven’s charts (he was another genius, I’m told) had
been identified and dealt with centuries before.
What do I know from a chart? I did my best to put the jots and
tittles and squiggles and blots in the right places. Problem
was that these dudes were spoiled. I had to get Darcy to
beg them to come and play with us in the first place.
(In fact I got Darcy to call every prospective musician and repeat
the same script, one I picked up from Robbie Robertson by way
of Ronnie Hawkins in ‘The Last Waltz’. Yup, it didn’t matter if it
was a boy or girl, he had to say, “The money’s shit, but you’ll get
more pussy than Frank Sinatra”.
And, in fact, Darcy looked to me to be his mentor at the time,
so he took my suggestions seriously.
I’ll never forget the moment he called Heidi the Milkmaid. Heidi was
a busty and enthusiastic oboe player who could milk a melody for all
it was worth. As he connected to her from my kitchen phone, when it
was time to deliver the line, he looked up for my approval and
insistence. I gave him the head nod and he delivered.
I had told him that this script had a magical, counter intuitive,
archetypal and hypnotic effect on people. Even if their conscious
minds were confused or repulsed, THEY WILL COMPLY!!!!
And so he told Heidi that she’d get more pussy than Frank
Sinatra, and I suppose she shook her head once or twice and said,
“Okay, I’ll play in your concert”.)
Digressions, gotta love ‘em. So we created six concerts.
The first was string night. The idea was to create a set
of original music on strings for presentation. And then to
have the string section play with the Angels of Montenegro
(my group) for a second set.
The following week would be the same format for a brass
section, the third week woodwinds, etc. etc. until the grand
finale on the final Friday when we’d have 32 musicians on stage.
I was doing my best to get some publicity for the concert
series and Morningside expressed interest but said, can
you come on the show after the concert series is all over?
Oh, okay I said.
Our interview started pleasantly enough. He had heard
a couple of songs, which we discussed and then we
listened to snippets from the concert series.
After hearing a string bit…a little Mozarty air I wrote, and
a big band-ish tune and a gospel tune and a woodwind
air, he made “The Accusation” of my geniosity.
And, as I said, I demurred semi-convincingly. “Aw shucks
I WISH I really was a genius” or some such.
My pal Chris Warren — TRULY a genius — said he was
listening on his Walkman at the time, outside the side door
of the hospital where he was then terminally trapped in a steno
pool. And he said he felt really jealous at the accusation.
I’m jealous beyond words at some of his songs and his
Nashville guitar, but it was sweet of him to say so.
So, the interview ended, and I discovered how influential
Morningside was among the coffee house set, artists,
loafers, pinkos and alternative lifestyle people. They
came up to me for at least two years and congratulated
me on my Triumph.
It seemed to them that being on Morningside was not
just a media appearance, it was a sign of having arrived.
But I secretly suspect that it was the Accusation that
moved them to consider my status as having changed.
In the months that followed I was interviewed by other
journalists, and notwithstanding the conceit I was
nourishing that I was in the process of becoming a
Significant Artist, they really sucked.
And I sucked.
And so I turned on Morningside one morning to listen
to Mr. Gzowski interview a Saskatchewan Worm
Farmer or maybe it was a Nose Hair Tweezer Inventor.
He brought the same warm humanity, authentic curiosity
and fascination and peerless broadcasting instincts…
…and I was humbled.
To hear the interview click below.
Tags: Beethoven, Bob Dylan, Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, CBC, Chris Warren, darcy mcfadyen, Frank Sinatra, genius, Heidi Postl, Morningside, oboe, Peter Gzowski, Robbie Robertson, The Last Waltz
