Finding a brass band with wings while en route to the Library of Congress Packard Campus

Hey! There's a brass band in my gate area!

Getting my shoes shined this past weekend led to an unexpectedly moving experience—partly musical, and entirely human.

It was Saturday, 7:30 a.m. at National Airport in Washington, D.C. I had just flown in, on my way to do silent film accompaniment at the Library of Congress that day.

My dress shoes were looking pretty shabby. Why hadn't I shined them? Because the C Concourse at National Airport boasts one of one of the best shoe-shine operations around, and I was saving myself if they were open.

They were! And no line. So I walked in, climbed up on the raised chair, and the age-old ritual commenced.

While sitting there, the usual airline terminal white noise washed up against my ears: the murmur of passengers, the shrill boarding calls, the pre-recorded security announcements. Background noise you don't even notice.

But then I heard something that caught my attention because it didn't fit in at all. It sounded like the rat-a-tat-tat of a snare drum!

And not from a speaker, either. From an actual snare drum that wasn't too far away, from the sound of it.

Rented a tent! Rented a tent! Rented a rented a tent!

This was followed by the brassy tones of a trombone warming up, and then a clarinet, and other instruments that brought me back to my own band days.

It felt like we were getting ready for Circus Night with the American Legion Post 48 Band in the parking lot of Simoneau Plaza in Nashua, N.H. Where was my tuba?

Being still in mid-shine, I couldn't see what was going on. But it sure sounded to me like an ensemble tuning up prior to, say, a football game or parade.

In an airport concourse?

And it all somehow seemed fitting, as I've recently been rereading the Charles Ives biography by Jan Swafford, and other stuff on Ives. He's a composer close to my heart since I did a research paper on him in 10th grade.

Ives had the same small town New England background I did—one full of marching bands and church hymns and music lessons. (He didn't have Warners Bros. cartoons, though.)

Later, Ives wrote: "In 'thinking up' music I usually have some kind of a brass band with wings on it."

That's the sound I was hearing out in the corridor, coming from somewhere: the racket of a band warming up. Why? How come?

As soon as my shoes were shiny, I went to find out.

Across the corridor, packed into most of the space for Gate 36, was a full concert band, music stands and all. And it looked they were about to play!

And so they did: a medley of World War II songs in big band style. Tunes included 'White Cliffs of Dover' and 'Thanks for the Memories.'

I still didn't get what was going on. What would prompt a band to crowd itself into an airport gate on a rainy Saturday morning? How did the bass tuba clear security?

But the sheer unlikeliness of it all appealed to me, so I figured I'd stick around to hear some music.

What was going on, of course, was that they were there to welcome the impending arrival of an "Honor Flight" of U.S. veterans due in soon from Fort Myers, Fla.

The Honor Flight program brings veterans to the nation's capital at no charge to visit the monuments to their service. I'd heard of it, but never seen it in action.

That was about to change. Soon an honor guard of active duty military personnel assembled in the gate area, flags included. Joining them were several dozen civilians holding WELCOME and THANK YOU signs, and even a passel of cheerleaders carrying pom poms.

And the band? Turns out it was the Main Street Community Band from Fairfax, Va., under the capable leadership of Geoffrey K. Steffens. Even in a challenging acoustical environment, they sounded great.

The warm-up session was cut short by the need to get passengers on a flight to Minneapolis out of Gate 36. But that set the stage for the arrival of the Honor Flight, an American Airlines jet carrying 150 vets not only from World War II, but also Korea and Vietnam.

With the gate clear, the band resumed playing. P.A. announcements that the Honor Flight had landed further swelled the crowd. I found myself getting caught up in the moment. It was really quite moving to see all this being done to welcome vets to the nation's capital.

It's always a joy to see things done well, and this was a class act all the way!

The flight then pulled up. And the vets themselves didn't disappoint.

Emerging from the jetway, many in wheelchairs, each was greeted by a crush of well-wishers as the band kept playing patriotic marches and all of us applauded continuously. You couldn't ask for a warmer welcome—a hero's welcome, really.

Some of the vets laughed. Some posed for pictures. And a few just began flat-out sobbing. All the time that had passed, all the people that never made it, either back then or who were lost along the way—all of it carried forward to this moment of getting off a plane and being honored for what you and so many others did, in some cases so long ago.

What a panorama of emotions on parade—and all on a Saturday before 9 a.m.!

I couldn't help but think of how my father (himself a World War II vet) was famous for choking up at the sound of a Sousa march. There's a little of that in me, I think.

It all made for great theater, not just because of the veterans but because of everyone who was part of the scene. For a little while, a bunch of passing strangers, plus the Main Street Community Band of Fairfax, Va., all came together to bring about one of those shared experiences that are a big part of what life is all about.

A brass band with wings, indeed!

And to me, the sheer randomness of it was exactly what life has always felt like. One minute you're getting your shoes shined. The next, you're applauding members of the Greatest Generation as a band in an airport gate area plays the Guadalcanal March.

And to think I'd have missed it if I'd worn sneakers.

After a half-hour, veterans were still emerging from the plane. I lingered as long as I could, but then had to get on my way to Culpeper, Va. and the Packard Campus, home to the National Audio Visual Conservation Center of the Library of Congress.

The public entrance to the Packard Center.

It was a rainy day: a good one to spend the afternoon in a darkened theater. I was there to do music for two programs honoring Dennis R. Atkinson, donor of more than 350 films to the LOC since 1969.

Asked what title of his he most wanted to see, Atkinson had replied with one word: "Mawas," the first film he turned over to the LOC. So a private screening of it was arranged at noon for Dennis and his family.

There was absolutely no information available on this film from any source I checked, so I was curious what it could be.

I arrived about 11:30 a.m. to find the order of the reels being sorted out by running them on screen: scenes of jungle explorers stalking a leopard, or possibly vice versa.

Turns out 'Mawas' was something of a stock footage festival. Someone had shot about ten minutes of guys sitting around a campfire somewhere out in the American West, swapping tales of far-off jungle lands. And the rest of the film was footage taken from other sources.

I swear some of the footage was from 'Chang' (1927), a much more well known "jungle" picture that earned an Academy Award for "Unique and Artistic Production" at the first-ever Oscars, and which fueled the demand for lesser efforts such as 'Mawas.'

Still, the print looked great, and it was fun to create music as the "drama" unfolded. Once I recognized the flashback structure and episodic nature of the film, it wasn't hard gauge the music to help make it work.

I actually got kinda lost in the film, and worked up some big stuff as it built to something of a climax. So it was a little weird for the film to end, the lights to come up—and to have just four people in the theater.

Many more turned out for the "public" program at 2 p.m.: three obscure comedy shorts and 'Twisted Triggers' (1926), a melodramatic Western.

Having had the chance to warm up and get comfortable at the keyboard with 'Mawas,' I found myself more than ready for the rapid-fire comedy shorts, which were quite good.

Notable was 'Ko Koo Kids,' which turned out to be a satire on the Ku Klux Klan, with members of a KKK-like group attempting to lynch the local schoolmaster for alleged hanky-panky with a young girl.

Lots of alarming stuff in this one, but I had the presence of mind to swing into 'Ride of the Valkyries' when the townsfolk began donning white robes and hoods and jumping on horses.

Speaking of horses: I really got into 'Twisted Triggers,' the featured attraction. Released by "Action Pictures," it lived up to its name, packed with one thrilling scene after another.

This posses a challenge for the accompanist, in the sense that usually any movie has at least a few slower-paced scenes, which help you pace yourself and provide contrast to the action sequences.

Not 'Twisted Triggers!' Any time things slowed down for what seemed to be a quiet scene, someone jumped on a horse and rode off to take care of some life-or-death situation.

A rare scene without a horse in 'Twisted Triggers.'

So I did my best to keep up, always holding back at least a little so I'd still have somewhere to go. It was only when the good guy and the bad guy wound up off their horses to fight one-on-one in a river that I felt we were at the true climax, which was my green light to go all out.

This time there were people when the lights came up, and response was generous.

While in mid-film, I'm often not sure how what I do comes across. But at the Atkinson screenings, I did feel I gave it my all, and that's a good feeling to have when the lights come up.

Afterwards, Mr. Atkinson seemed delighted by the whole afternoon. It was a treat to talk with him and thank him for his donations over such a long span.

Thanks to everyone at the Library of Congress for bringing me down to help with this one, especially Rob Stone, George Willeman, and Mike Mashon. Looking forward to being down there next month for 'Mostly Lost.'

Accompanying 'The Square Deal Man' at ... wait, where is this place again?

Show yer cards, stranger!

Had a great time out in Niles, Calif. this weekend doing music for 'The Square Deal Man' (1917), a typically grim William S. Hart western.

The show was Saturday, May 7 at the venerable Niles Essanay Silent Film Museum.

That afternoon, I stopped by the museum to find myself pressed into service manning the front counter while a tour was given to a visiting group.

I was there long enough to give a phone caller bad info about using public transportation to reach the Museum. But he called back later, and all was sorted out.

I usually confine my damage to the keyboard, thank you very much.

As is often the case at Niles, the evening program opened with a pair of short comedies.

First up was 'Two-Gun Gussie' (1918), an early Lloyd "glasses character" one-reeler notable for its beginning.

The film opens with a close-up of hands on a piano keyboard in the midst of playing something devilishly complicated.

We discover it's Harold, a concert pianist. In full Paderewski mode, he wows the ladies by flinging himself at the keyboard, pausing for drama, and displaying a technique worthy of Chico Marx.

Harold tickles the ivories in 'Two-Gun Gussie.'

For this, I basically improvised a dissonant farrago on the opening theme of Beethoven's 5th Symphony, doing my best to match Lloyd's flamboyant gestures.

But I have to wonder how musicians handled this when the film was brand new, almost a century ago now. Probably the same way: not so much music but some kind of concert-hall sonic chaos to help the humor come across.

More challenging was 'Curses' (1925) a two-reel Al St. John parody of dramatic serials that even then were seen as full of clichés and conventions.

In scoring a film, I usually steer clear of what the general public might think of as "silent film music"—you know, that over-dramatic jangly piano sound.

But in this case, the goofy satire cried out for exactly that. So off I went, channeling all the Dudley Do-right music I recall absorbing as a child.

The best thing about this frantic parody (directed by no less than Roscoe 'Fatty' Arbuckle under the pseudonym William Goodrich) is how it's broken into several chapters, just like a real serial.

Although instead of waiting until next week, we just have to wait a few seconds for the film to resume. It's very well done and lends a meta-air to the film that comes across as knowing and snarky even today.

I'm familiar with this film in a DVD version produced by Paul Gierucki, which comes with intertitles that really punch up the comedy, I think.

However, Niles showed an older 16mm print with intertitles that lacked the same impact, I felt.

I don't believe either set of intertitles was original to 'Curses.'

But it's a good example of how a sensitive restoration can make a difference in how a film plays. 'Curses' was enjoyed by all last Saturday night, but I felt the Gierucki titles would have made it click even more.

The Hart film, which I'd never seen, turned out to be just as over-the-top as the Al St. John comedy. But in Hart's case, he really meant it.

So I played it straight, building the score out of a pair melodic lines I brought with me: a "masculine" modal-sounding signature for Hart, and a "feminine" motif for more tender moments.

(There I go gender-stereotyping again.)

A third unplanned melody, for the Mexican antagonist, added some Latin flavor to the scoring. So it all came together nicely.

Although Hart films come across as a bit austere, I think people slowly became absorbed as the story unfolded.

By the end, I think the audience was with 'The Square Deal Man,' and deservedly so. Although it's no 'Hell's Hinges,' it's one I'd certainly program and run again.

Hart, by the way, is one of those performers I've yet to fully discover and appreciate.

I've never done 'Tumbleweeds' (1925), his final film, which is supposed to be good. And although many titles are lost, enough survive so that there's plenty to explore.

But you know Hart's one of the biggies because he and his middle initial show up in lyrics to 'Movies Were Movies,' the opening number of Jerry Herman's musical 'Mack and Mabel.'

And Swanson and Keaton and Dressler and William S. Hart!
No one pretended that what we were doing was art!

Let me tell you, I can relate to that.

By the way, kudos to my brother-in-law, who managed to get not one but two of his Facebook colleagues to attend the screening and check out the Niles Essanay Silent Film Museum.

Employer-matched contributions can't be far behind, right?

Looking forward to possibly being out there again in the fall: the first week of November seems to be my time.

Depending on who gets elected, I may be in the process of fleeing. We'll have to see.

Off to the Niles Essanay Silent Film Museum, then it's back for 10 screenings in 11 days

Vintage viewing: the 1913 Edison theater where films are screened at the Essenay Silent Film Museum.

I'm heading West, young man (or whoever is reading this) to accompany a program this weekend at the venerable Niles Essanay Silent Film Museum out in the San Francisco Bay area.

The Niles Museum is special in part because they're one of the few venues anywhere that runs silent film shows every week on a year-round basis.

This gives them the chance to screen a wide variety of at-time obscure titles seldom shown elsewhere.

A good example is the program I'm accompanying on Saturday, May 7: the main attraction is 'The Square Deal Man,' a 1917 western starring William S. Hart as a professional gambler with the amazing name of Jack O. Diamonds.

Geez, I wonder if he's ever been in a card game before?

Deal me in!

A pair of comedies round out the bill: 'Two-Gun Gussie,' an early Lloyd "glasses character" one-reeler from 1918, and 'Curses!' an Al St. John two-reeler from 1925 directed by Roscoe 'Fatty' Arbuckle in exile.

Like I said: running silent films every week, you can't rely on 'Metropolis' or 'The General.' Niles gives all the other films a chance to be experienced as originally intended: on the big screen, with live music, and in a theater with an audience.

I want to thank Dorothy Fields and all the other great folks at Niles for giving me the chance to do music there.

I enjoy it so much, I almost feel guilty for programming 'Old San Francisco' (1927) earlier this year, a film which climaxes with a recreation of the 1906 earthquake that destroyed San Francisco.

As an accompanist, what I like about Niles is that when I'm there, I get a sense I'm part of an ongoing tradition.

For one thing, the town is where the Essanay company produced a lot of film in the 1910s, Also, the nickelodeon-style Edison theater itself (separate from the studio) was opened in 1913.

And because silent film is run so regularly (as opposed to it being a special or "unusual" event), the place to me feels different from any other space in which I've accompanied silent film.

I don't know. It might be the continuity of weekly programming causes some kind of silent film karma to build up over time.

But sitting before the sturdy upright house piano, I find it amazingly easy to forget myself and slip into "silent film accompaniment" mode.

Who knows? It might be the floor wax they use. But there's something special about the place, and I feel privileged to be able to return for another spell on the bench.

By the way, the only week the Niles theater suspends its silent schedule is the weekend of the big San Francisco Silent Film Festival, which this year is June 2-5.

So any board members or others connected with this prestigious event: come check out the show in Niles this weekend. It's just a short ride across the Bay.

Hey, an accompanist can dream, can't he?

And there's this guy from the backwoods of New Hampshire who would love a chance to be considered for accompanist slots that open up for any future festivals.

Hint! Hint!

Hey, I'm accompanying William S. Hart this weekend. You're expecting subtlety?

After I head back East, a glance at the calendar finds I'm accompanying pretty much a show every day from Thursday, May 12 through Saturday, May 21.

Wow. I'm not sure how this happened, but I'm booked for nine separate performances during those 11 days, including two on Sunday, May 15.

They're spread across four states: Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, and Massachusetts.

And the run culminates with a quick trip to the Packard Center of the Library of Congress in Culpeper, Va., where I'm doing music for an afternoon program on Saturday, May 21.

So there goes May!

But seriously—I'm delighted at the prospect of settling into a series of shows, as I find I gain fluency and confidence as the run wears on.

Or at least I think so, anyway.

And yes, you do get punchy. Sometimes, in the midst of a heavy accompaniment cycle, I find the reflex is hard to turn off.

I find myself coming up with music as I go through daily life. Walking to the car in the parking lot: pesante octaves in the bass. Getting in the car: F major triad with a B natural to add a glint of light.

But then again, it might be the floor wax.

Harold Lloyd in Wilton (N.H.) on Sunday, May 1; plus, all about my recent car break-in in Boston

Mildred Davis and Harold Lloyd in 'A Sailor Made Man' (1921), which I'm accompanying at the Wilton (N.H.) Town Hall Theatre on Sunday, May 1.

It's been an interesting week, with much of it spent dealing with the aftermath of a car break-in while I was down in Boston last Saturday.

But now performances beckon. First up: I'm doing music for a Harold Lloyd program on Sunday, May 1 at 4:30 p.m. at the Wilton (N.H.) Town Hall Theatre. Hope to see you there!

After that, I welcome British silent film expert Amran Vance to the Manchester (N.H.) City Library on Tuesday, May 3. I'm accompanying a double bill that evening of 'The Cheat' (1915), an early Cecil B. Demille melodrama, and 'Shattered Dreams' (1918), a bizarre anti-Bolshevist propaganda film.

And then I head out to San Francisco, where I'm guest accompanist at the Niles Essanay Silent Film Museum on Saturday, May 7. On the program: 'The Square Deal Man' (1917), a Western starring William S. Hart as professional gambler Jack O'Diamonds. Not expecting much subtlety in this one, pardner.

But before all of this, here's an update on what happened in Boston on Saturday, April 23. Looking back, I kinda wish William S. Hart had been on hand for it.

Where's William S. Hart when you need him?

That day I drove to Boston for some non-silent-film business in the Kenmore Square area. It was such a beautiful early spring day, so I decided in advance that I would go for a run along the Charles River.

One reason for this: I'm pursuing a long-term project to run a minimum of 10K (or 6.2 miles) in all 50 states. I've been getting at least one each month since last December. So to keep the streak alive, I decided to tackle nearby Massachusetts this month, as I didn't expect to be going out-of-state otherwise.

And one more option: that night was the final concert of the 2015-16 season of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. So if I didn't feel like the run, another option was heading over to Symphony Hall and snagging a rush ticket to this gala affair. Maybe. We'll see.

So I ran my errand in Kenmore Square, then I returned to my car, which was parked on Bay State Road, a busy street right off Commonwealth Avenue. It was too nice not to go for a run. So I fed the meter through to 6 p.m.

And off I went, noting the dashboard clock time of 4:05 p.m., and taking only my keys and the moisture-wicking shirt on my back. (Yes, shorts and shoes too.) A knapsack in which I had my wallet, cellphone, and other things was stowed down under the front passenger seat. I also put my black satchel (a.k.a. my "man purse") in the same place.

I should mention that my Subaru Forester was crammed with all my musical gear: a full-size digital workstation and keyboard, a crate filled with cabling, two speakers, and other equipment. A big performance was coming up the next night, so I'd already loaded what I needed.

I made my way to the Mass. Ave. bridge and then down onto the Esplanade, a narrow park that runs along the south bank of the Charles, which at this point functions like a spectacular urban lake separating Boston and Cambridge.

And it was one of those days that everything about Boston looked and felt just perfect: bright sun, blue sky, sailboats crowding the Charles, the paths filled with people holding hands, pushing strollers, walking dogs, walking with walkers: the whole circle of life!

What the Esplanade looks like in spring. Photo by Ingfbruno.

The classy brick townhhouses of Back Bay rose just beyond the trees, which were just beginning to flower and bud. Further beyond rose the city's glass towers, lending a multi-layered feel to the dense urban landscape.

"You know," I thought, plodding downriver towards the Museum of Science. "You can go all around the globe and see the world's great cities. But on a day like this, Boston stands up to any of them!"

I actually laughed out loud. I felt giddy. How fortunate to be here on this beautiful day! I felt young, although I was easily at least twice the age of everyone around me.

This state of mild ecstasy kept me going for 8 miles—turning around at the Museum of Science, then all the way up to Harvard and doubling back.

Returning to where I started, I hauled myself over the Mass. Ave. bridge, eager to reach the oasis of my car. For one thing, I had stowed an egg bagel with olive and pimento spread in the glove compartment, and felt I really needed it. Plus some water. Plus my feet hurt.

I reached Bay State Road maybe about 5:30 p.m.—I'd know for sure when I checked the dashboard clock for my official "end" time. Ahead of me stretched the curving row of parked cars, al hugging the street. Striding forward, I pressed 'Unlock' on my key fob, expecting to hear the beep of my car's response.

Where I parked the car. Click to enlarge.

Nothing. Funny—but it's a busy city street. So I walk a but further, try again. Still no beep.

Hmm, I think—I must have parked further up than I thought. Sometimes a long run will do that to you.

Only when I reached the end of the block did I first get a sinking sense that my car might not actually be where I left it. And that it might not be there at all.

Almost by reflex, I rejected this absurd notion. I crossed the street, thinking I must have somehow gotten turned around and that the car was on the other side.

But it wasn't there either. From here, I scanned the area across the street where I now definitely remembered parking. The car just wasn't there.

It was gone!

And everything in it—my wallet, my phone, my credit cards, my camera, my driver's license, and so much else. And all the music equipment, with a performance scheduled for the very next day.

And me standing there, sweating and in running clothes, with just a set of keys, like some ape who just blundered into civilization.

I don't know who may read this. But whoever you are, I hope you don't ever have to experience the short but memorable sense of helpless panic that washed over me at that point. I really almost fainted right there on the street.

But again reflex took over: even as I marched back across Bay State Road, I somehow switched to "get 'er done" mode, perhaps as a defense mechanism to keep my mind off the huge questions of what had happened, where my stuff was, and if I'd ever see it again.

Okay, no car. Two young guys were standing on the sidewalk, chatting not far from where I thought my car was.

I apologized for butting in, but did they see anything unusual on this street in the past hour or so? Was there any action, like...well, I don't know, but my car is gone.

After what seemed to me like a very loooooong moment (but which probably wasn't), one said the magic word: YES.

Yes, a police cruiser was here for awhile, and they towed a car from right over there, he said, pointing to pieces of glass scattered along the curb.

Glass? I didn't have time to imagine how that came to be, as the other guy knew which police precinct covered the area and was already calling.

Within a minute I was on his phone with a Boston police dispatcher who confirmed that, yes, my car had indeed been towed.

Why? I fed the meter, I thought, still not able to put it all together.

Someone had smashed the passenger side front window, I was told. Also, a witness had left a note saying the guy had taken two bags from the car and fled the scene on a bicycle.

She even took this picture, which I got later on but will paste in now:

The thief from behind, right after the break-in. (Not the guy on the left walking towards the camera.

And my music equipment? The dispatcher said he'd check, then came back on the line to say he didn't know, but the car was driveable, though missing a window.

So I'd have to come down to the station to retrieve the car.

While on hold, I found myself thinking that I was fortunate to have connected with exactly the right police precinct so quickly.

With no ID, and no money, and ready to keel over after a long run, I might have quickly descended into lunacy at all the uncertainty.

The guy with the phone then let me call my wife back home in New Hampshire, who said she'd just gotten off the phone regarding a fraud alert on one of our credit cards.

About an hour earlier, she said, someone had charged about $610 at the Macy's store in downtown Boston, and then tried to pay for a $47 cab fare, which was declined and triggered the alert.

Could I explain what was going on?

I sure could. Somewhat.

There were other credit cards, but in my name only and all paperwork was at my office. So we'd just have to wait to find out if they'd been used.

For me, the first task was to get to the police station, which turned out to be in South Boston, rather far away: 650 Harrington Ave., a street I'd never heard of.

The phone guy showed me on a map: about 2 miles. There was some talk of buying me an MBTA pass, but I said I'd just walk it.

I got the directions fixed in my head, thanked them, and then marched off towards Mass. Ave.—me and my sweaty running clothes and keys.

A lot remained uncertain, but adrenaline was kicking in. There was a good chance my music stuff hadn't been taken, which was great. A guy on a bike can't easily carry a 70-lb. synthesizer.

On the other hand, I began to realize what was lost if my bags were indeed stolen. Besides the valuables, he got a journal with a year's worth of personal writing, a checkbook with five blank checks in it, the textbook of a college class I teach, some student papers, a day book in which I plan my life six months out, and a lot of other stuff.

On foot, it took seemingly forever to reach the Boston Police Department District 4 station. By the time I arrived, the sun was going down and a chill was in the air.

The officer who responded to the scene happened to be there (another lucky break), and she told me my musical stuff was still in the car.

Well, thank God!

In fact, that's why they had it towed. Sporting a broken window, they didn't want to leave it unattended and risk further larceny.

The bad news, however, was that the car wasn't at the police station. It was actually at a tow lot way out in Brighton, Mass.

So I'd need to get out there. Didn't I have a ride? No, I said—I had nothing.

But then another minor miracle—the officer asked me to go outside and meet her out back, and I'd get to the tow lot.

My escort to the tow lot.

So I did, and there she was, pulling up in a cruiser. I had to get in the back, which turned out to have plastic seats with a small amount of liquid sloshing around in them!

"It's just rain water," she said, seeing me hesitate. "The windows were left open when it rained."

So I lowered myself into an unnatural position, trying to keep my running shorts from coming into contact with the "water."

It didn't work. Every time the cruiser slowed for a stop, the water (which was cold) soaked into my shorts. Oh well, I thought. This too shall pass.

By now it was past 7:30 p.m. We were heading up Huntington Avenue when I realized we would go right by Symphony Hall—and there it was, on the left!

The view from a police cruiser.

Crowds of well-dressed people were arriving for the evening's gala concert, the finale of the 2015-16 season.

And I was present as well—passing Symphony Hall in the back of a police cruiser, exhausted and cold, and sitting in a puddle of cold water.

Nice! I thought back to high school, when I pondered being a creator of music. If you had told me then that at age 52 I would pass Symphony Hall in a police cruiser with a wet butt, I would have laughed. Ha ha!

And so I laughed now. The officer asked what was funny. "Nothing," I replied.

The tow yard was quite a ways out in Brighton on Soldiers Field Road. It was on a dismal street with the amazing name of "Goodenough Road." It was dark by the time we got there, but I was never so relieved as to see my vehicle, sporting a smashed window but otherwise looking okay.

Then more bad news: A woman barricaded in a trailer said it would cost $129 to get the car released. Cash only. No checks or credit cards.

So I was stuck. She did me call home to New Hampshire, and I told my wife she'd have to come down after all.

I looked over the car. The front seat was covered with shards of broken glass, which made sense because he smashed in the window.

Also, there was a handwritten note from Jenny, a BU student who witnessed what happened.

I began picking up what I could, depositing it carefully into a nearby dumpster but still getting one nasty glass splinter. Ouch!

And then I waited. With it getting cold, I started the car and turned on the heat. With cool air coming in through the open window, it kind of felt like camping out.

The wait was made bearable by two things: the discovery that the bagel was still in my glove compartment, and also the Boston Symphony concert being broadcast live on WCRB-FM.

So I settled in, listening to the BSO while sitting in a tow yard in a seat with glass still on it. But I didn't care.

My wife arrived about 9:30 p.m., bailed me out, and then we hit the road to New Hampshire. On Route 3, the roar of cold air blasting competed with the BSO playing Ravel's 'La Valse.'

That night, I went right to my office and stopped all the other cards. Fortunately, none had been used.

The next day I spoke with Jenny, and she sent me the photo. What surprised her, she said, was that people were walking right past, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening!

I thanked her for her willingness to get involved.

In the days that followed, I worked my way through the hassle of replacing my credit cards, getting a new driver's license, and so on.

I even put up notices online in the unlikely event the thief might be interested in the idiot he robbed, or if someone found my stuff in a ditch somewhere. So far, no takers.

I also talked with Boston police detectives, who told me "it's like a field day" for car break-ins around Kenmore Square.

But because of the photo, they've taken an interest in the case and are working with Macy's to try to get a better image.

We'll see. But it's unlikely that I'll ever see any of my stuff again.

I was actually hoping to go down the next day and cruise the area, looking to see if he'd dumped the bags somewhere, but wasn't able to.

Altogether, I'm out about $1,000, plus the time and hassle of dealing with this. As for insurance: the car window doesn't exceed the deductible on my auto policy, and the value of the stolen items doesn't exceed the deductible on my homeowner's policy. Oh well.

But on balance, I find myself still so thankful that the car itself wasn't stolen, and that everything in it (besides the bags) was untouched.

I'm also glad there are people like the gal who witnessed the break-in and called police. Thank you! And two guys willing to let a sweaty stranger use their phone—thank you.

Thanks also to the outpouring of support from so many people.

And I have to say, dealing with the Boston Police really exceeded my expectations.

When I first realized my car was actually gone, I had no idea what it would be like to deal with the police department of a big city. I was steeling myself for—well, something less than Sheriff Andy Taylor of the Mayberry P.D.

But everyone—from the guy who first answered the phone at District 4 to the detectives still working the case—has been great to deal with.

On balance, I would have preferred to skip the whole experience. But all these people I encountered made it a lot easier to take than it might have been.

A quick message to whoever it was who broke into my car in Boston today

This is a message to whomever smashed the passenger side window of my car this afternoon while it was parked near Kenmore Square in Boston, stealing a bag with my wallet, phone, and some other things in it. Because you know my name, you might be curious enough to check www.jeffrapsis.com.

Here I am, a real person!

If you're here: In the bag you took was a journal that contained more than a year's worth of writing. If you read this and somehow still have the journal, I would really like to have it just sent to my home address, which you know, but I'll put it here anyway: 49 County Road, Bedford, NH 03110. As you know, there was enough in the wallet to cover the postage.

Speaking of the wallet: the one irreplaceable thing in it was an old photo of a dog from my childhood. If you somehow still have the wallet, it would be great if you could send that along, too. Worth a shot asking. She was a great dog and would mean nothing to you.

Thank you for leaving the bagel in my car, which I found after paying $129 to have it released from the lot out in Brighton where the police had it towed after you smashed in the window. A nice lady witnessed the whole affair, by the way. Looks like you hit right after I left. Broad daylight! Well, that's life in the big city, I suppose.

P.S. If you're wondering, the Austrian currency you took is no longer legal tender. It's only exchangeable (for Euros) at the Österreichische Nationalbank in Vienna.

Chico at the piano: 'I can't think of the finish!' Groucho: 'Funny, I can't think of anything but!

To paraphrase the Talking Heads song 'Once in a Lifetime':

And you may find yourself being asked to be Chico Marx.

And you may ask yourself: How did I get here?

The answer: not by letting the days go by, but doing silent film accompaniment at a Centennial Gala this Sunday at the Regent Theatre in Arlington, Mass.

I didn't expect to play Chico Marx as part of this—in fact, I found out only last night I'd be doing so.

Of course I said yes. A silent film accompanist has to be ready for anything, after all.

Plus, a chance to channel Chico is a great honor, as the piano-playing Marx was one of my big early influences.

Seriously! Watching the brothers on TV as a child, and seeing Chico cavort at the keyboard, made me first want to pound the horseteeth, as they say.

Plus, I liked how he alone seemed to be able to confound Groucho with a mixture of deliberate misunderstanding, illogic, and ethnic stereotype.

Chico and Groucho match wits in 'Horsefeathers' (1932).

Hey, role models weren't exactly easy to come by for me!

So playing Chico Marx is an unexpected bonus to this event, which is part vaudeville and part silent film screening.

As part of the live show, I'm accompanying performer (and Groucho impersonator) Jerry Bisantz in 'Samovar the Lawyer,' a patter song from the 'Day in Hollywood, Night in the Ukraine' stage musical.

By the way: we ran through the music last night (which was when I found out I was playing Chico) and Jerry really does a great job with it!

But the main reason I'm on hand for the Centennial Gala is to accompany a screening of Mary Pickford in 'Rags,' a 1916 melodrama.

Mary Pickford and friend in 'Rags' (1916).

'Rags' was the very first film shown at the Regent—the main attraction on opening night, actually.

So in planning the Centennial Gala, Leland Stein and his colleagues at the Regent decided to include 'Rags' as a way of celebrating a century of showbiz and entertainment.

Fortunately, the film exists—not the case with most silent films. What's more, it was recently restored by the Mary Pickford Foundation, which supplied the film to the Regent.

So attendees of Sunday's event will get to see a pretty nice-looking edition of this rarelyscreened film, which I've never played for before.

The Gala, which is on Sunday, April 24 at 7 p.m. is packed with a lot of other entertainment, including jugglers, comedians, and more.

But don't take my word for it. Just check out the poster:

I understand seats are still available. So if you want to see 'Rags' in a theater with live music and an audience, please come join us!

You'll also get to see me as Chico Marx, and other performance including burlesque artist "Busty" Keaton.

The Regent is location on 7 Medford St. in Arlington, Mass. For more information, check them out online at www.regenttheatre.com.

At-sa fine, boss!

'Metropolis' at Aeronaut Brewing Co. show SOLD OUT on Sunday, April 17

Not sure whether to celebrate this or offer regrets, but our screening of 'Metropolis' (1927) at the Aeronaut Brewing Co. on Sunday, April 17 is sold out.

I wanted to post that here so that anyone planning to travel to Somerville, Mass. for this show is aware.

Of course I don't like the idea of turning anyone away, but the Aeronaut has a strict limit to its occupancy permit and as of now, they're full up.

If you're a fan who really planned on coming down to take in this screening, please call me at (603) 236-9237 and we'll see what we can do.

Also, because of the overwhelming response to this event, the folks at the Aeronaut are considering an encore screening at some point. I'll post info here as soon as we know.

Sorry to disappoint anyone, but there will be other chances to catch this amazing movie. Thanks for understanding!

Celebrate Tax Day with gangster movie 'Underworld' at Red River on Friday, 4/15

Clive Brook and Evelyn Brent on a poster for 'Underworld.'

When programming a silent film series, I sometimes look for occasions to celebrate.

If a screening is around July 14 (Bastille Day), then that's a good reason to run 'Orphans of the Storm' (1922), D.W. Griffith's French Revolution epic.

So in putting together this year's schedule for Red River Theatres in Concord, N.H., I saw one of the dates was April 15.

April 15? Well, there's a day that's well-known to all U.S. residents, as it's the deadline for federal income tax filings.

What silent film would be appropriate for that? There's none about IRS agents that I can think of.

So I settled for a picture that would be something of a catharsis: a movie in which people battle government agents.

It's 'Underworld' (1927), a Josef von Sternberg drama set in the world of 1920s urban gangsters.

They're always one step ahead of the law, of course. What's more, the movie has extended shoot-outs with federal agents.

So what better way to blow off some steam after ponying up to the federal government to pay your share for all it does?

Clive Brook and Evelyn Brent in 'Underworld.'

Plus, it's one of those pictures I put in the category of "mature" silent film: the really polished productions that were hitting theaters in the last three or four years before talkies took over.

Well worth a look see. So pull the trigger and come join us this evening at Red River Theatres for 'Underworld.' You're sure to get a bang out of it.

More details? Check out the press release I've included below.

* * *

A color-enhanced still for 'Underworld.'

THURSDAY, APRIL 7, 2016 / FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Contact Jeff Rapsis • (603) 236-9237 • jeffrapsis@gmail.com

'Underworld' to screen with live music at Concord's Red River Theatres on Friday, April 15

Oscar-winning silent crime drama directed by Josef von Sternberg was forerunner of Hollywood 'gangster' movies

CONCORD, N.H.—'Underworld' (1927), a silent drama that spurred a boom in 'gangster' movies, will be screened with live music on Friday, April 15 at 7 p.m. at Red River Theatres, 11 South Main St., Concord, N.H.

The film will be accompanied live by silent film musician Jeff Rapsis. Admission is $10 per person.

'Underworld,' directed by Josef von Sternberg and starring George Bancroft, is notable for being the first major motion picture to portray a criminal in a sympathetic light instead of as a villain. Its popularity touched off a Prohibition-era boom in Hollywood gangster pictures that reached its peak following the stock market crash of 1929.

"We figured a fitting way to mark the date our taxes are due was to screen a picture full of people battling federal agents," Rapsis said.

The story of 'Underworld' follows gangster Bull Weed (George Bancroft), who becomes entangled in a love triangle involving a reformed drunkard, “Rolls Royce” (Clive Brook) whom he takes on as his right-hand man, and Bull’s girlfriend “Feathers” (Evelyn Brent). Bull Weed's imprisonment leads to a dramatic climax.

Bancroft's performance in 'Underworld' set the stage for memorable characterizations of gangster protagonists by Jimmy Cagney ('Public Enemy,' 1931), Paul Muni ('Scarface,' 1932), and Edward G. Robinson ('Little Caesar,' 1930), which all follow directly on from the model created by 'Underworld.'

The film's script, by Chicago newspaperman Ben Hecht, earned an Oscar for Best Screenwriting at the first-ever Academy Awards. The film is also noted for director von Sternberg's innovative use of black-and-white photography, which presaged many film noir techniques in following decades.

Director Von Sternberg was obsessed by light, and developed methods of “painting” his compositions with the arrangements of lamps, scrims, and reflectors on the set. Today he is remembered most for having used that skill in a series of films he made with Marlene Dietrich, starting with 'The Blue Angel' (1930) and continuing in six more star vehicles made in Hollywood, including 'Morocco' (1930) and 'Shanghai Express' (1932).

'Underworld' will be accompanied by live music by Jeff Rapsis, a New Hampshire-based silent film accompanist who performs at venues across the region and beyond.

Using a digital synthesizer to reproduce the texture of the full orchestra, Rapsis will improvise the score on the spot during the screening.

"Films such as 'Underworld' were created to be shown on the big screen and in a theater as a shared experience," Rapsis said. "With an audience and live music, they still come to life in the way their makers intended them to.

"So Red River's silent film screenings are a great chance for people to experience films that caused people to first fall in love with the movies," he said.

'Underworld' is the latest in an monthly series of great silent films with live music at Red River. Upcoming programs include:

• Friday, May 13: 'The Golem' (1920), a pioneering German fantasy in which a rabbi brings a statue to life protect the Jews of 16th century Prague from persecution.

• Friday, June 10: 'The General' (1927), Buster Keaton's classic comic adventure epic of an Southern engineer and his locomotive during the U.S. Civil War.

• Friday, July 15: 'Bardelys the Magnificent' (1926) starring John Gilbert in a big MGM historical swashbuckling adventure thought lost for decades until a print was found recently in France.

Red River Theatres, an independent cinema, is a non-profit 501(c)(3) organization dedicated to screening a diverse program of first-run independent films, cult favorites, classics, local and regional film projects, and foreign films.

The member-supported theater’s mission is to present film and the discussion of film as a way to entertain, broaden horizons and deepen appreciation of life for New Hampshire audiences of all ages.

'Underworld' (1927) will be shown at Red River Theatres, 11 South Main St., Concord, N.H. on Friday, April 15 at 7 p.m. in the Jaclyn Simchik Screening Room at Red River Theatres, 11 South Main St., Concord, N.H. Admission is $10 per person; for more info, call (603) 224-4600 or visit www.redrivertheatres.org. For more information about the music, visit www.jeffrapsis.com.

Epic adventure on Thursday, April 14: 'The Thief of Bagdad' in Plymouth, N.H.

An original poster for 'The Thief of Bagdad.

It's almost like getting two films in one!

That's the thought I have about 'The Thief of Bagdad,' the great adventure film that probably marked the high point in the career of Douglas Fairbanks Sr.

It was an age when filmmakers were exploring the limits of what this new medium, the motion picture, could do. And Fairbanks wanted to keep up.

So he created this adaptation of the 'One Thousand and One Nights' legends of Arabia. And he really hit it out of the park, if you ask me.

More than most silent films, this one puts me in the mind of a child going to see this film when it was first released. What a wonder it must have been!

And today, if you allow your inner child to come forth, 'The Thief of Bagdad' still is.

So what about those two films in one?

Well, the film's first half plays like a fantastical romance. Set in a mythical Bagdad of yore (created in Art Deco style by William Cameron Menzies), the first half contains more than enough story and visual splendor to satisfy a movie-goer of the time, or of any time, really.

But then!

In the second half, Fairbanks busts out of the boundaries of Bagdad and takes the film into flights of pure visual fantasy.

We get underwater sequences, battles with monsters, animated trees—not to mention the famous flying carpet.

There had been nothing like it in cinema, and really hasn't been anything quite like it since, I think.

See it for yourself on the big screen on Thursday, April 14, when we screen 'The Thief of Bagdad' at the Flying Monkey Moviehouse and Performance Center in Plymouth, N.H.

More details in the press release below. Hope you can join us!

* * *

Douglas Fairbanks Sr. playing the title role in 'The Thief of Bagdad.'

THURSDAY, APRIL 7, 2016 / FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Contact Jeff Rapsis • (603) 236-9237 • jeffrapsis@gmail.com

Flying Monkey to screen 'The Thief of Bagdad' (1924) with live music on Thursday, April 14

Epic silent film fantasy classic starring Douglas Fairbanks set new standards for Hollywood magic

PLYMOUTH, N.H. — Silent film with live music returns to the Flying Monkey Moviehouse and Performance Center with a screening of one of early Hollywood's most exciting fantasy adventure movies.

Douglas Fairbanks Sr. stars in 'The Thief of Bagdad' (1924), to be shown on Thursday, April 14 at 6:30 p.m. at the Flying Monkey, 39 South Main St. in Plymouth.

Live music will be provided by silent film accompanist Jeff Rapsis. Admission is $10 per person.

The screening continues the Flying Monkey's monthly series of silent film screenings, which aims to revive big-screen showings of great silent features—the films that first caused audiences to fall in love with the movies.

"If you've never seen a silent film in a theater with live music and an audience, the Fairbanks pictures are a great way to experience the medium at its best," Rapsis said. "When you put all the elements together, silent film has an ability to stir up emotions in a way that no other medium can."

The athletic Fairbanks was the Harrison Ford of his time—a pioneering action hero among the first to entertain movie audiences with thrilling on-screen adventures. Among his best work is 'The Thief of Bagdad' (1924), a timeless adventure boasting a great story, spectacular sets, and magical special effects.

In 'The Thief of Bagdad,' a bare-chested Fairbanks plays a crafty rogue who easily steals everything his heart desires—everything, that is, except the love of a beautiful princess, daughter of the powerful Caliph of Bagdad.

To win her hand, he must not only change his ways, but also convince her of his worthiness over many other highly placed suitors.

In making the film, Fairbanks spared no expense for what some critics still regard as the most lavish fantasy movie ever made, a show-stopping adaptation of the traditional "A Thousand and One Nights" story in which a flying carpet is just one of many eye-popping sights that astounded movies audiences at the time.

Fairbanks, swaggering through massive marketplace sets and cavernous throne rooms as an incorrigible pickpocket, scales towering walls (with the help of a magic rope) and leads merry chases through crowded bazaars in his pursuit of loot—until he falls in love with the princess and vows to win her heart.

The jaunty opening is a preamble to the film's spectacular second half, in which the repentant thief embarks on an odyssey through caverns of fire, underwater palaces, and even outer space. Special effects range from a smoke-belching dragon to a magical flying horse, and still glow with a timeless sense of wonder from the early days of movies.

Soaring over a stylized Bagdad skyline.

William Cameron Menzies's sets were among the largest ever created for a motion picture. Especially noteworthy is his design for a mythical Bagdad, a unique combination of Art Deco and Islamic elements—a dream city inspired by illustrations from story books.

Fairbanks, one of the most popular stars of the 1920s, was the inspiration for the character of George Valentin in the recent Oscar-winning Best Picture 'The Artist' (2011). Fairbanks was known for films that used the then-new medium of motion pictures to transport audiences to historical time periods for grand adventures and athletic stunts. He's often referred to as "Douglas Fairbanks Sr." to avoid confusion with his son, the actor Douglas Fairbanks Jr.

Live music for 'The Thief of Bagdad' will be provided by silent film accompanist Jeff Rapsis, who uses a digital synthesizer to create a traditional full orchestra "movie score" sound.

More than 90 nears after its premiere, 'The Thief of Bagdad' continues to be held in high regard. In 1996, the film was selected for preservation in the U.S. National Film Registry by the Library of Congress as being "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant."

Fairbanks himself considered 'The Thief of Bagdad' to be his personal favorite of all of his films.

'The Thief of Bagdad' is appropriate for family audiences, although very small children may find some sequences frightening. The film runs 2 hours and 34 minutes.

Upcoming programs in the Flying Monkey's silent film series include:

• Thursday, May 12, 2016, 6:30 p.m.: "Paths to Paradise" (1925) and "Hands Up!" (1926). A double feature of films starring Raymond Griffith, a talented comic who at one time rivaled Chaplin and Keaton in the silent comedy pantheon.

• Thursday, June 9, 2016, 6:30 p.m.: "The Winning of Barbara Worth" (1926). Epic Western drama starring Ronald Colman and Gary Cooper about the settling and irrigation of California's Imperial Valley, once a wasteland but now an agricultural paradise.

All movies in Flying Monkey's silent film series are rarely screened in a way that allows them to be seen at their best. To revive them, organizers aim to show the films as they were intended—in top quality restored prints, on a large screen, with live music, and with an audience.

'The Thief of Bagdad' (1924) starring Douglas Fairbanks will be screened with live music on Thursday, April 14 at 6:30 p.m. at the Flying Monkey Moviehouse and Performance Center, 39 South Main St. in Plymouth, N.H. Admission is $10 per person. For more information, call the theater at (603) 536-2551 or visit www.flyingmonkeynh.com; for more information on the music, visit www.jeffrapsis.com.

On different versions of silent films: It may have no arms, but it's still a masterpiece

I've recently accompanied two film prints of widely known silent movies that had significant differences from what I expected.

In one case, it was a 35mm print of 'Intolerance' (1916) that was missing dozens of key scenes, often substituted for with frame grabs.

In another case, it was a 16mm print of 'The Passion of Joan of Arc' (1928) that was missing key information in titles, and so didn't make much sense to the audience.

In both examples, I've seen other versions of the films that each had the missing footage or titles. But these prints just didn't have them.

When this happens, I tell people that silent film often has to be considered in the same we the "Venus De Milo" is looked at in sculpture.

Yes, it has no arms. But it's still recognized as a masterpiece.

And the lack of arms is part of the sculpture's greatness, I think, as it shows so visibly the perilous journey of anything from antiquity that has come down to us today.

It also invites us to collaborate, in a way. We can't help but imagine what to us would be the most perfect arms, their position, their placement, and so on.

Like a lot of art, it prompts us to come up with our own visions to complete it. And each person's vision is bound to be unique and different and perhaps more perfect (to you) than any sculptor could have made them.

Franz Schubert, composer of the 'Unfinished' Symphony.

Same thing in music with Schubert's 'Unfinished' Symphony. Okay, it's missing the last two movements of the typical format of a symphony of its time.

But it stands on its own as a satisfying and complete piece of music. And part of its special beauty is that it leaves us wondering what might have been.

And so it is with a lot of silent film, I say.

Many films, including well-known classics like the two mentioned above, exist in different versions, different formats, and sometimes with significant pieces missing: lost arms, so to speak.

This can seem surprising to people because we live in an age where a movie is always expected to be complete, a whole thing, either in a theater or DVD or online or whatever.

No matter how you watched 'Frozen,' it's the same film.

No so with early cinema, where archaeology is a useful frame of mind to have. Often, to assemble a reasonably complete version of even a well-known title requires pulling material from archives all over the world.

And then there's the whole conundrum of European versions vs. American versions; home cut-downs vs. full theatrical releases; prints butchered by local censors and projection booth mishaps.

Even at the time of original release, there was often no one definitive version of a film. After releasing 'Intolerance,' director D.W. Griffith would visit projection booths where the film was running and try to edit the prints on the spot!

Raymond Griffith in 'Paths to Paradise' (1925).

One of the best examples of a film that's missing a big chunk, but still worth watching, is Raymond Griffith's 'Paths to Paradise' (1925), which I'm accompanying next month at the Flying Monkey Moviehouse in Plymouth, N.H. and also the Somerville Theatre in Boston.

In the version that's come down to us, the film ends with a crackerjack cross-country chase worthy of Buster Keaton. In my experience, it never fails to get an audience going.

So afterwards, people are stunned to learn that the film is actually missing its entire last reel!

From what I understand, after a pause for the audience to catch its collective breath, Griffith takes his chase one big step further for the film's real climax.

Does it work? We can't say because no one has ever found a copy of the last reel.

It may still be out there. A century after silent film flourished, reels of original nitrate film turn up in the most unlikely of places.

So keep looking.

And while you're at it, if you happen to spot a pair of marble arms, let me know.