life lessons from a 90-year old

What are you doing today that reflects
the trying of living life in a way
that brings other results than the status quo?

Hope your Sunday is full of intentional actions!

This month, my dad turns 90. And he’ll do so by playing concerts at such stalwart summer music festivals as Ravinia, Marlboro and Tanglewood. My dad is a badass. I can say this because I’ve known him my whole life. These days, living to 90, remaining vital and engaged isn’t all that unusual. I may be biased, but I’m proud that my old man continues not only to live, but to create, question and commune with his muse with the energy and drive that he does. I’ve no doubt that drive and his longevity are fundamentally linked, and from that I take a few lessons — some profound, some simple and others both. Here are just a few: 

The piano is a rhythm instrument.

This blew my mind when Leon first laid it on me though now, in retrospect, it seems so obvious. Dad made his reputation on the rhythmic power of his playing — it was a modern, unsentimental approach that made many of classical music’s most beloved warhorses seem completely new. With me, Leon rarely delivers lessons from on high. But this one he did dispense rather directly, over a sushi dinner on West 55th Street. In music there are essentially three elements: Melody, Harmony and Rhythm. Of these three, only one really counts: Rhythm. Check.

Things take time.

A few years ago, Leon came to town to play chamber music. Sadly, due to a gig of my own, I wasn’t able to attend. The next day, as is the custom in our family, I called to ask how it went. To my surprise, he wasn’t happy. On the subject of his concerts, he’s rarely jubilant — but then again he’s also rarely blue. He offered that the problem was that there was one piece by Brahms on the program that he just didn’t know very well. In disbelief, I replied that he’d been playing Brahms for more than 80 years! How could that be? His answer left me speechless: “Not this piece. I’ve only been playing this piece for 5 years.” Let that sink in. 

Hang out with young people.

Leon loves to teach. In the end, his legacy will be as much a result of his pedagogy as it will be anything else. I’m certain that sustained contact with younger musicians keeps him curious, searching and alive.

Fewer notes, more meaning.

As my dad has gotten older (and, importantly, regained the use of his right hand) he’s turned, perhaps understandably, to less technically challenging material: Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 12, Bach’s “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” and “Sheep Will Safely Graze,” and even Debussy’s “Clair de lune.” None of these are the kinds of works that artists bucking for greatness place high on their lists of competition-worthy showpieces. But Leon — about whom a writer noted that, lately, he “plays fewer notes but they mean more”— turns deceptively simple pieces into deeply probing, almost transcendental exercises free of ornament, flash or ego, but glowing with humanity, poetry, promise and an almost holy sense of humility. The lesson here is as simple as it self-evident: It’s not how many notes you play, but how you play them.

Don’t get in the way of the music.

If Leon’s contribution to music can be distilled down to one thing, it’s this: Serve the music, honor the composer’s intent. When he plays, there is none of the romantic, self-dramatizing gesturing that typifies many soloists in the classical universe. He plays with an absolute economy of motion, as if to say, “Don’t look at me, listen to the music.” What the soloist “feels” is of no use to a listener. I’ve no doubt that if he could place a screen between himself and the audience, he would seriously consider it. When translating between two parties, make every effort to keep your own ego out of the transaction. 

Share the credit and the glory.

Leon has never been particularly inclined towards the limelight; it seems contrary to his credo of giving credit to others, eschewing personal glory in favor taking on the mantle of vessel, translator and link in a long chain of pedagogical succession. Indeed, when he’s not busy extolling his beloved teacher, Artur Schnabel, or opining about the great composers, he’s usually talking about other musicians he admires. He spends most of his bows pointing out other members of the orchestra, his fellow chamber players or just getting off stage as quickly as he can. I might have wished for him to play the diva just a little bit more, but even more than that, I admire his joy in sharing and the sacred office of making music with others.

Be kind.

With the exception of certain political figures, I’ve rarely heard my father speak unkindly of anyone, even off the record. Yes, he can be sarcastic, ironic and even pointed, but he leads with decency, humor and compassion. I’ve no doubt that he harbors as many dark thoughts about as many deserving characters as does the next person. But as it is with his music-making, he prefers to keep the editorializing to a minimum. Perhaps he believes that, of its own accord, the truth will out.

Clams on the half shell.

I’m a nightclub singer. And one of the many reasons why I’m suited to this line of work is that no one expects of me the Olympic-level technical virtuosity that is, quite simply, a prerequisite for world-class classical musicians. My father was a freakishly gifted child prodigy and has always been revered for his astonishing technique and otherworldly touch. Even so, he makes mistakes. Whenever I finish one of my gigs, which will inevitably have been shot through with wrong notes, botched lyrics and poor choices, I say to myself what I’ve often heard my father say after his: It’s not a Fleisher performance if there aren’t a few clams.

Keep your sense of humor.

On a related note, we all have troubles. My father’s career in particular is an almost Greek tale of storied highs and devastating lows. Throughout it all, he has maintained a reliably hardy sense of humor. I do not believe that he — or those of us who share his life — could have survived without it. As we all fumble through our days, striving and often failing to fulfill our potential and make the world a better place, laughter — as much as any skill set rare or common — is the key to making it to bedtime with our spirits intact. I may not have inherited my dad’s uncommon musical genius, but I did get his capacity to laugh. And for that, I am truly, truly thankful.

In closing, let me be clear: Leon ain’t perfect. Far from it. He’d be the first to insist so. But who is? These lessons, some more purely musical than others, all have their analogues in the everyday world, of course. I’m a jazz singer, so worrying about how to make a piano dance with a cello isn’t exactly in my wheelhouse. But the impulse to blend, to share and, most of all, to listen of course, is. Through his playing, his music and what might even be called his “philosophy,” my old man shows me how … to try.

via {wqxr}