Thursday Night

Serendipitously, on Thursday early evening, I bumped into Dori and Renato on the street, proving yet again that no city, regardless of size, is a big one. The night prior they excitedly attempted to sell me on attending the Budapest Jazz Club for Bossa Nova night. I explained then, on Wednesday night, that I would let them know if I decided to join up. So, this happenstance on the streets of Budapest, provided my answer. I certainly believe that the universe conspires to give us what we need (not necessarily what we want) and who am I to start questioning my own beliefs. I really was not prepared for the evening out - credit cards, money, and a better outfit - remained at my hotel. I had not yet eaten, except a banana earlier that morning, so I needed to eat prior to arriving at the club. Thus, our journey to find both a bank (Renato needed money too, and he was also going to accept my US money in exchange for Hungaian cash from the ATM) and a kabob shop (yes, I am officially addicted to these). We found the cash, but the kabob shop in this part of Budapest eluded us. Renato, the consumate Brazilian gentleman, would not give up until he found me something to eat, so at the very last corner, before our turn onto the Jazz Club street, we found a place selling empenadas. I hope the humor here is evident - here I am looking for kabobs in Budapest with a guy from Brazil and we end up finding empendadas (which to my understanding are from Latin America). I grabbed a mystery-meat filled pastry and we bolted to the club, with five mintues before showtime.

Inside the club, we found Dori who had pressed ahead to buy tickets and secure appropriate seats. He picked a table just off the stage, near the grand foyer that also served as their bar area. This place is worth seeing, if only to walk up the grand spiral staircase, made of white carrara marble with black veins (the real stuff). The entire staircase, from steps to walls to rails, carved from this beautiful stone, offered a memorable transition from first floor to second. I have to admit, I went up and down a few times, fantasizing about how amazing it would be to have this masterpiece in my home, somewhere, anywhere! Although the history of this place escapes me, my imagination filled the holes. Straight out of some historical movie, the venue obviously once served as a wealthy family's abode. Now, years after two world wars and the stain of communism here, the transformation into a jazz club seemed almost poetic. Beauty and art are one and the same afterall.

The band, a misfit group of Hungarian men, walked on stage. Dori and Renato, filled with anticipation, informed me that Bossa Nova music, a Brazilian invention, combined American Jazz with Somba. Eager, like children, they sang some of the songs we were about to hear. I liked sitting here, with them, in this place, in this moment. All seemed content within myself. In front of me sat two glasses of Hungarian white wine and two handsome Brazilians. The three of us sat inside what probably served as the dance hall for the family who once occupied this space so many years ago. The windows, about eight large openings the size of standard French doors, allowed a gentle breeze to pour in, offering just a pinch of coolness in this otherwise warm space. The sudden start to the music shocked me back to the stage. The small Hungarian singer, complete with his guitar and wire-rim glasses that slid down his nose as he performed, started singing in Portuguese and Dori and Renata quickly joined, this time quietly. After the second song, I was beginning to realize the band, however earnest, lacked a little soul. The Brazilian term Dori and Renato used escapes me, but I had the exact same impression. After three songs, the band repeated a pattern that even I noticed - the song started, the brass player would stand and perform a solo, as he sat, the guitarist would stand and begin his solo, as he sat, the group would take a minute to conclude the song. The rest of the audidence, perhaps unfamiliar with Bossa Nova performed in a place like Brazil, seemed unphased by the repeititiveness and dullness of their artistry. Instead, they focused on the mechanics of the music, something the band executed nicely. I found myself searching for an analogy and one popped into my mind just as I wanted to explain my opinion to Dori and Renato. I told them I felt like I was watching a five-member team of math teachers playing music technically perfect (as if explaining a mathematical equation) but exuding absolutely no charisma. They found my analogy comical, but precise. I had no idea that music, minus the drama, passion, and flair of performance would be dead. I relearned that without passion, all things fall flat. And, I was reminded that sometimes performance outweighs technical mastery.

We departed at the break so that we would not offend the band. The experience was magical, however, because it communicated so much without words. These moments when I travel, I am reminded that all of life is indeed art if we perceive it as such. Sitting in a place listening to music, foreign languages, and watching another culture go about their lives, is art to me. It communicates and speaks via an alternative language. True art then seems to be an appreciation and loving of all things and our ability to communicate newness by repositioning and manipulating form, structure, and/or perception in ways which generates a response in the observer. The newness the artist communicates expresses his or her appreciation of God's gift to us (creation and creativeness). Art is constructing a semblance of order out of the randomness of it all happening at once. Art edits the chaos of our senses by focusing us on a specific combination of things. Art combines powerful things in unusual ways which focuses us into an appreciation (good or bad) of the structure. Stopping our attention, to be still in the moment of newness, offers us a revisit to that state of our child-like awe, our marvel at the potential of the universe. Art forces us to quiet our minds to take in, and appreciate, the variety of the unlimited nature of this creation.

We ended the night with two kabobs.