THE NIGHT OF BROKEN GLASS

Yes, I admit it. I had the temerity to walk up to the world-renowned Philip Glass, certainly the most famous composer of today, and hand him a green felt marker and ask him to sign my copy of the Arban's book. I thought it was pretty funny, but I leave it to you all to judge if my joke was in bad taste. (As you shall see, I was punished for my arrogance—refer to Proverbs 16:18.)

Actually, it was an uncomfortable moment in a dreadful evening. Glass was performing at a benefit in a church, and as I am given to apostasy and blaspheming, I understandably try and avoid churches (as they might take me to the basement and give me a beating). This church, however, was in keeping with the New Age philosophy of Mr. Glass and the somewhat Zen quality of his music. It was the Church of Today, which struck me as being an theological improvement, as most religions seem to express a preference for ages past—Islam (particularly the Wahabim) yearns to return to the Bronze Age; the Catholics miss the Medieval period when the Holy Father in Rome was the most powerful man in the world; and the Protestants would be a lot more comfortable if the 1960s had never happened. But why stop with the Church of Today? Isn't religion supposed to be about the future? Prayer and sacrifices are offered to God so that He will cure the cancer of old Uncle Ethelbert or spare the town from being destroyed by an earthquake or cyclone or another of His acts. The ultimate goal, of course, is to ensure a comfortable eternity, so why not the Church of Tomorrow? Or the Church of Next Week? As we entered, I noticed that the Church of Today had both a gift shop and coffee shop. "Didn't Jesus chase the money changers out of the temple?" I asked my friend. "Yeah, but He's dead now."

Among the people milling around near the room where the performance was to occur, I heard a familiar voice. Wow! There he was! Philip Glass was speaking with someone, so I politely stood off to the side. I was a little too polite as Mr. Glass, who is apparently as light on his feet as a sixteenth note, suddenly darted off. I caught up with him in the lounge area where he was taking his seat among a group of stunningly-beautiful, expensively-dressed shiksas. I knew that he certainly didn't want any distraction from me, but I nevertheless brazenly importuned him for an autograph.

When I handed him the Arban's book to sign, he looked at it askance and said, "What's this?" Uh-oh. Fortunately, I've always been a silver-tongued devil and so my Welsh blarney kicked in. "Why, it's one of my most treasured musical possessions, Mr. Glass, and I'd like you to sign it!" He scribbled his name on it with a double underline, and I thanked him and bid a hasty retreat. I don't think he realized that I had him sign a book of lip exercises.

The program itself started with a beautiful woman expertly playing an piece of impressionism on the piano. Judging by the piece's difficulty I'd guess it was Debussy, but it was drowned out by all the conversations around me, as no one was paying any attention to the performance. Then came an angry black poet who was in turn replaced by the beneficiary of the evening's proceeds, a folk singer with a '70s shag hairstyle. He and his partner hadn't thought of tuning-up before taking the stage, and so there was much fumbling and changing of guitars. The singer would talk for about five minutes, then strum some chords as if he was about to start a song, but then lapse into more desultory banter. It all induced bruxism. When a song actually did start, it was dreadful and laden with every pop-folk cliché in the catalogue. I asked my buddy, "Well, what d'ya think?" and he answered, "Well, it's better than listening to him talk."

I mention all this as background of what sort of humor I was in. I wanted to actually see Philip Glass perform, but was having to endure a new-age Purgatory for the privilege. I had made up my mind that if the idiot folk singer kept it up, I'd make a run for it (or else charge the stage and attempt to strangle him), but fortunately, Philip Glass was soon introduced, and he sat down at the piano. We were a mere four rows behind him, and I could see his every move. As I watched his hands it became immediately apparent that Mr. Glass is not a keyboard virtuoso, but that was fine with me as the music had a simple, poignant beauty to it. At the end of a long episode he made a graceful crossover to play a single low note with his right hand. Shortly afterward it struck me—he was playing only on the white keys. I whispered this to my buddy who confirmed my observation.

The piece ended and he got a standing ovation which lasted until Mr. Glass told everyone to sit down, at which he began another sad piece. We noticed that again he was playing only the white keys, and after about a two minutes his right hand made a crossover to play a single bass note. The piece lasted about as long as the first and ended in the same manner.

The third piece was at about the same tempo as the first two, the mood was the same, and once again he played only the white keys. At about the same point in the music he made a crossover with his right hand to softly strike a single bass note. My buddy and I exchanged looks as this piece also received a standing ovation. "Am I missing something, or did he just play the same piece three times?" I asked during the applause.

Philip Glass sat down at the piano once again and announced that he'd play one more piece. "SURE HOPE IT'S NOT IN A-MINOR AGAIN!" I blurted out loud enough for those around me to hear. Instantly dozens of eyes turned to glare pure hatred at me. I, a nobody, had the temerity to say something snotty within the earshot of this great man, and it looked as if I might be taken to the basement for a beating after all.

I don't know if Philip Glass heard my remark or not, but he did play something more lively (albeit in the key of C) for his last piece. That was quite enjoyable and different from the others, so this time I applauded heartily at its conclusion. When Mr. Glass left the piano and walked out, I expected the assembly to adjourn, but to my dismay the folk singer returned to the stage with the lady preacher. After about ten minutes of their inane prattle I'd had enough. I announced to my buddy, "I'm outa here!" and I climbed over the other people in my row to reach the aisle.

It was just my luck that as I began striding up the aisle, they called for Philip Glass to return and play another tune! I couldn't very well climb back over the people to reach my seat again, and this place was driving me to distraction anyway, so I didn't care. I had made my mind up and was determined to leave, so I stormed out through the exit.

Unfortunately, it was at that precise moment that Philip Glass was coming back in through the same door, and I ran smack into him. No, I didn't knock him over or anything, but it was yet another awkward moment in a dreadful evening. I apologized profusely, then ran out the door. This was terrible! What if I had injured Philip Glass's hands when I collided with him?

Well, he'd just have to fake it, and they'd never know the difference anyway.