here's a performance review:
not a narcissistic note she sang. not one remotely self important. she sang with a generosity rivaling that of the woman jesus saw in the temple, dropping the last of her coins into the alms box.
the review, mine and, may i admit, really stilted and egotistical. but the performer, definitely not.
she was, i'm certain, an unlicensed busker doing her thing on the sly inside the grand concourse station of the d train line. and, for the second time this week, i saw her earlier today.
this time, unlike the last time when i was unable to identify her song, she was crooning a henry mancini/leslie briccuse ballad, "two for the road," to an almost empty station.
"if you're feeling fancy free, come wonder through the world with me. and any place we chance to be, will be our rendezvous."
you think you've had enough of my literary pretensions? here's one more annoying tick. i believe that, instinctively at best, i know a thing or two about great performances.
and she was, to me, giving one. this unkempt woman, lugging along a grocery cart filled with the unclassified detritus of what she can call her life so far.
"two for the road we'll travel down the years, collecting precious memories. selecting souvenirs, and living life the way we please."
this is what it is with great performances. to me. a great performance is intimate but never relinquishing its theatricality. at the very least, it is heartrending. it must be. for a great performance is nothing but a full scale assault on my hardened, almost moribund, core.
the bag lady's tone production was decent; her timbre, quite remarkable for someone her age. but it's her facility to contain all the required pathos of her piece into the given space of her performance, the train station, in her case, and conveying it without sentimentality. without dishonesty. and she did it with this palpable generosity that only an honest woman can give.
"as long as love still wears a smile, i know that we'll be two for the road, and that's a long, long while."
reading about this year's tony nominations on the train, i felt guilty for the singing lady i left at the train station. a worthy performance requires a show of gratitude. and i was a thankless wretch. and i thought, foolishly again, that writing a glowing review in my journal would atone for my earlier lack of thankfulness.
and thus, this piece. only that now i feel mightily dissembling. that unlike the singing bag lady, everything i said or wrote was made with the utmost vulgarity, the most conscious narcissism. without love and hardly a smile.