Farewell to Little Pete's

Little Pete's Restaurant. Cash only. A Philadelphia treasure, in October 2014. (Photo: Daron Hagen)

Little Pete's Restaurant. Cash only. A Philadelphia treasure, in October 2014. (Photo: Daron Hagen)

Closure #1: OCTOBER 2014

This is a piece about Closure and the closure of Little Pete's, a belovéd greasy spoon across the street from the Warwick Hotel in Philadelphia. A wrecking ball is set to fly through Little Pete’s. Progress commands that a 300-room hotel must take the place of the parking ramp at 219 South 17th Street in whose corner nestles one of Center City Philadelphia’s treasures. We’re not talking Bookbinder’s (which is now, ignominiously, an Applebee's), chock full of tourists and overpriced, or the smattering of trendy boutique restaurants that surround Rittenhouse Square like hipsters lounging on the margins of a poetry reading. We’re talking about a Genuine 24-Hour Greasy Spoon, Home to Collars Both White and Blue, an Insomniac’s Oasis in the Night, a Caffeine Addict’s Last Resort, a Trusted Purveyor of that mysterious mélange of grill top odds-and-ends, Scrapple. We’re talking about Little Pete’s, for Pete’s sake. I'm afraid that the news is grim.

I’ll forever associate Little Pete’s with my youth, not just as a composer coming into his own, but also as a person whose world was opening up in one Big Bang. My life as it was then, almost impossibly full, was discussed, vivisected, celebrated, dreaded, and mourned at Little Pete’s.

Autumn 1981. This Wisconsin Boy, a tender nineteen years old, had only just moved to Philadelphia. The Grace of Whomever had handed me a lottery ticket in the form of an invitation to study at the legendary, preposterously intimidating Curtis Institute of Music. I was a Brooks Brothers shirt and blue jeans sort of guy. I grooved to Stockhausen more than Rorem, Berio more than Barber, and Bernstein even more than the Beatles. 

Little Pete’s was the setting for countless post-lesson symposia. During my lessons, my mentor Ned Rorem casually dropped priceless aperçu and dry, acerbic criticisms while slashing through my compositions, his pencil waving this way and that like a rapier. Afterwards, a bit shell-shocked by the enormity of Ned’s self-assurance, my best friend, and fellow Rorem pupil Norman Stumpf, and I would head for Little Pete’s, where we would debrief. “Did he tell you that you succeeded in being boring?” I asked Norman, over Pete’s wretched, perennially burnt Joe, one afternoon. “Not this time,” Norman replied. “But he told me that William Flanagan wrote my song better in the late 50s.” “Who was he?” I asked. “That’s what I said,” replied Norman. I already knew what Ned’s answer had been: find out.

I didn’t yet have a telephone in my apartment. I’d use the payphone in Little Pete’s to call home for reports of my mother’s gradual submission to cancer back in Wisconsin, and then drink with a cellist friend until four or five in the morning, attempting to slake the thirst for silence in my head. I cannot recall how many dawns I greeted, my body still young enough to absorb the alcoholic gut punches dealt it during the previous hours, doing my counterpoint exercises at Pete’s lime green counter, “scrambled eggs and“ a few inches away, untouched, the dread of disappointing Ford Lallerstedt in class a few hours later by presenting mediocre work pulling me back from the edge.

I celebrated my first critical triumph as a composer at Little Pete’s; I also received my most gratuitous wing clipping by a music critic there. In 1983, the Philadelphia Inquirer’s august music critic, Daniel Webster gave my string orchestra work, Prayer for Peace, which William Smith had just premièred with the Philadelphia Orchestra, a glowing review in the paper. I’ll never forget my brother Kevin, who had come to town for the performance, spreading the newspaper on the table between us, skimming it before reading it to me, so that, if necessary, he could spare me the worst bits. Seventeen years later—a lifetime, really—my alma matercommissioned a piece to celebrate its 75th anniversary called Much Ado. Made careless by the standing ovation the piece had received the night before, I spread the Inquirer out on a table at Pete’s expecting at least a casual nod from the critic. Instead, my frothy showpiece was dealt a pasting. Composers do read reviews. Well, I used to—until that day, anyway.

I courted my girlfriend for months by walking her each day from Curtis to her train at Suburban Station. The day that she allowed me to carry her violin for her was the equivalent of moving from “vous” to “tu.” Afterwards, a little giddy, downcast, yet hopeful — the way you can be when you are in your early ‘20s and in love and have time and health and just enough money to get by, I bought the Daily News and the New York Times and worked my way through them at Pete’s until I felt the urge to compose percolate up within me like a welcome fever. Then, a man with a mission, I’d head for a practice room at Curtis and spread notes on music paper like jam on bread. God, that felt good. In time, the love affair sputtered. Music did not.

This morning, an old school chum posted the news on Facebook that Pete’s shall soon be no more. The comments following her post were lovely, and they’re still coming in. I shouldn’t be amazed by how much the place meant to all of us. 

No more sentimental reveries over crab cake sandwiches when I return to Philadelphia for the occasional master class, performance, or lecture. One less skein of memory holding me to one of the few places on the planet, and one of the few times, when I was able to summon both the elegia of James Agee and the earnest and callow drive of Thomas Wolfe. “Aw,” a Philadelphia-based friend told me on the phone just now when I called him to confirm the news, “just drive on, old friend. It was inevitable. It had to happen. And it all began the day that they let people throw up buildings taller than William Penn’s hat.”

At "Little Pete's" on 27 February 2017. The restaurant got a reprieve, and is now scheduled to close in May 2017. (Photo by Neil Erickson)

Closure #2: February 2017

Fully three years after I first contributed the article above to the Huffington Post, still accepting "cash only," the diner holds on. The final closing date has been officially announced and accepted by management, and a steady stream of customers has been coming in to say goodbye for months, said the owner when I stopped in this morning.

Enough time has passed that the Warwick Hotel across the street has passed back into private hands and out of the clutches of the chain that had demolished its once elegant lobby and replaced it with a hideous, Euro-trashy, neon-blue fishtank affair.

My wife and I had checked into the Warwick the day before, our two sons in tow. I'd returned to Philly to hear a performance by the Chamber Orchestra of Philadelphia—Michael Ludwig had given a lovely account of the violin concerto I'd written for him a few years earlier. After Michael's vivid, glowing performance of my concerto with Dirk Brossé and the orchestra, I'd dined with my belovéd writing mentor (whom I'd first met as a student at Curtis in 1982) Emily Wallace and her husband Gregory and discussed my memoirs; I'd enjoyed a quick brunch with my good buddy, rising composer and Curtis faculty member David Ludwig, at Pete's the next morning.  I'd even taken a moment to stretch my legs out before me in a favorite chair in the Common Room at Curtis for a few moments before walking to Little Pete's, spreading the Inquirer out on the green formica countertop, and reading a respectful review of my concerto by the same critic who had panned me all those years back. 

June 2017. The original Little Pete's is literally no more. (Photo: Daron Hagen)

June 2017. The original Little Pete's is literally no more. (Photo: Daron Hagen)

A few nights before, I'd sung my "Elegy for Ray Charles" at World Cafe Live in University City, a few blocks away, putting over my good friend Stephen Dunn's lovely words breathily into a hot mic and accompanying myself publicly in this town for the first time since the last time I touched the keys as the lounge pianist in the Barclay Hotel lobby in fall 1982. Then, I was about to make my Curtis debut, conducting my music with the Curtis Orchestra next door, Mother dying of cancer, my life just beginning. The other night, my wife and young sons sat at a nearby table. First, she took the stage and rocked the joint with a spiritual, and then rocked it again by singing the trumpet part(!) of Charles Ives' Unanswered Question in an arrangement by local composer Andrew Lipke. When Gilda and I laid down my new arrangement together of John Henry, I knew that I'd finally licked my ghosts in this town. 

I was awakened this morning by the sound of my son's voice: he was singing the trumpet solo of the Ives as he relieved himself in the bathroom. I knew at once that it would be a good day. After checking out of the Warwick, we celebrated by visiting Little Pete's a final time. The four of us squeezed into the booth in which I first sat tha September 1981—the night I first hit the east coast— and ordered breakfast. The waitress who had presented me with a free piece of blueberry pie and said, "Welcome to Philly, honey," has long since passed away, and the boy I once was has become a man who can no longer eat most of what is on the menu. I couldn't resist introducing my eldest to the mysteries of Scrapple.

I love him anyway.

This essay originally appeared in its original form the Huffington Post on 31 October 2014. Click here to read it there.

The Milwaukee Symphony and Me

This essay originally appeared in the Huffington Post on 22 December 2013. Click here to read it there.

The Milwaukee Symphony's logo.

The Milwaukee Symphony's logo.

The Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra, according to its recent [December 2013] press release, is “in danger of running out of money and faces possible extinction if additional pledges cannot be secured to fund the MSO’s much more modest, prudent budget and business plan for the future.” In fact, nearing the end of 2013, the institution now has only weeks to raise nearly four million dollars if it is to stave off bankruptcy.

In November 1968, I was seven years old. The Youth Concert program our music class had been bussed downtown to attend included the Largo of Antonin Dvořák’s Ninth Symphony. Nixon had just won the election and my favorite toy was a plastic Apollo 7 model. But it wasn’t snowing; it was warm, and raining pitchforks.

Small and awestruck in the plush red velvet seat, I was mesmerized by Kenneth Schermerhorn — a protégé of Leonard Bernstein’s, and a strikingly handsome, athletic, charismatic figure on the podium — the newly appointed music director of the Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra. Stephen Colburn played the ravishing English horn solo in the Largo of the Dvořák.

I felt a lump in my throat, a profound sense of longing, the feeling of floating in midair. That was the moment, at the age of seven, that I knew that, no matter what, music would be at the center of my existence.

At that moment, the MSO inspired me to become a composer. Forty-five years later, I’m still at it.

My brother Kevin Hagen, who passed away recently after a 40-year career in orchestra management, won his first orchestra job as operations manager of the MSO back in the 70s. He met his wife Judith Koch, a violinist in the orchestra, across a management / labor negotiating table one afternoon. A few months later, they were married. Judy played in the Milwaukee Symphony for over forty years before retiring.

On 13 July 1979, the summer after graduating from Brookfield Central High School, I proudly accepted my first professional fee as an orchestrator — a Burt Bacharach tune for the MSO—courtesy of John-David Anello, the founding conductor of the Milwaukee Pops, and my first conducting teacher. I still have the pay stub.

The same summer Anello also gave me my first music-copying gig — extracting the solo piano part for the Yellow River Concerto for a “Music Under the Stars” program. Because of that job, when, as a composition student at Curtis, I won a job as a staff music copyist (back when it was still done by hand) at the Free Library of Philadelphia.

In January 1984, I wanted dearly to meet Lukas Foss, then Music Director of the MSO. I had asked my brother Kevin to arrange for me to drive Lukas from his hotel to rehearsal.

“The melting major to minor chord at the very end,” he enthused, hands massaging the air between his chest and the dashboard, “is original here. Some say that this is where Mahler got the idea for the same effect in his sixth.” We were riffing on Beethoven’s third, the great Eroica, the score of which sat on his lap.

“At the end of the second movement, I’m going to try something interesting: as the theme disintegrates — the part marked sotto voce — I’m going to remove players one by one from the tune.”

“Like Beethoven’s hearing leaving him. Cool. How do the players feel about the idea?”

“Oh, they are not too happy. They are a little upset about the scherzo, too.”

“How come?”

“I’m making a little Rossini-style accelerando through the theme so that it sounds like nervous laughter.”

“Beethoven’s nervous breakdown?”

“Night fears following the loss of his hearing....”

“Chattering teeth in a death skull...?”

“Worse. The effects of lead poisoning.”

“Wow,” I said, turning the wrong direction on to a one-way street. Horns honked, cars swerved.
“What’s that?” asked Lukas, abruptly conscious of his surroundings.

“We’re driving the wrong way down a one way street,” I answered, as mildly as I could.

“Oh,” he replied, completely disinterested. “Then, when the finale begins, the variations are a triumph of the...”

I pulled over. We were now five minutes late to the rehearsal and I was hopelessly lost, even though I had grown up in Milwaukee.

“... A triumph,” I attempted to complete his thought, “of the rational, conscious mind, expressed through the exercise of craft that composing variations requires, over the irrational fears of the subconscious?”

“That’s interesting you should say that,” he smiled. “I’ve always thought that fugue, so rational, was, in the end — take the Grosse Fuge — his avenue for exploring madness.”

We made it eventually to the rehearsal, and we remained good friends for the rest of Lukas’ life.
My first conducting teacher, Catherine Comet, served briefly as the MSO’s associate conductor, but I have the MSO to thank for the finest champion of my music I have ever known. Although we had met briefly as students together at Juilliard, I first worked with JoAnn Falletta when the MSO commissioned Lyric Variations, the second movement of my second symphony. She led the orchestra in its premiere in August 1988. She has been a steadfast advocate of my music ever since the MSO brought us together. Recently she recorded my opera Shining Brow with the Buffalo Philharmonic for Naxos; Michael Ludwig and JoAnn will record my violin concerto with that orchestra in a few months. I have the MSO to thank for one of the richest musical associations with which I’ve been blessed.

The MSO taught me an unforgettable lesson about how to treat conductors. One thing a conductor can rely on, to paraphrase Oscar Levant, is that the players will inevitably grow to despise him. I learned this for myself in Milwaukee on 15 April 1990. With the MSO, I alienated Czech conductor Zdenek Macal forever when, in response to his request for a few words, I mounted the podium and, in five minutes, rattled off all of my notes to the orchestra. The players shuffled their feet, applauding me, but really, they were just enjoying the discomfiture of their sovereign.

Still fresh from conservatory, my ability to thrive at the professional level as an orchestral composer was not yet a given. Therefore, for better and for worse, Common Ground (the piece the MSO was rehearsing) became something of a calling card for me because it was chosen as a finalist for the Kennedy Center’s Friedheim Prize in 1990. Commissioned by the Barlow Endowment, it was conceived as the finale of my Symphony No. 2. It combined themes from the previous movements (Fresh Ayre and Lyric Variations) in a sort of Post Cold War Mahlerian stew.

After I left for the east coast, MSO performances became the only place I ever saw my father. “You’re fat,” observed Father to me in front of his friends in the lobby of Uiehlein Hall after one premiere. My head, as the old Irish story goes, was sticking up higher than those around mine were; Father gave it a whack. “Please Dad,” I said, low. “This is my place of business.” “You call this business?” he scoffed. “Enjoy the concert,” was the only thing I could think of to say in return.

On 10 September 2003, Kenneth Schermerhorn and I lunched together before a concert on which he conducted my Much Ado overture with his Nashville Symphony. (He had long since moved on from Milwaukee.) Did he remember the fan letter from the dazzled child unable find a word grand enough to describe how moved he had been by the experience? He laughed and said no. I told him what I had written: “Dear Maestro, your performance last week was just superfluous!”

He exploded in grainy, rueful laughter.

“How like coming home it feels to finally work together,” he mused.

“And how ironic, under the circumstances,” I replied, ‘that the Largo was adapted into a song by Harry Burleigh called Going Home.”

“Indeed,” he agreed, smiling.

We swapped stories for another hour, laughing until we cried.

“I am neither a young nor a healthy man,” he sighed, wiping his eyes, “but I am glad that we are finally sitting together now at this table.”

Alas, although we chatted on the phone now and then, I never saw Kenneth again. But together we had closed our circle, and that was enough.

In retrospect, I’m not surprised that — sitting in Uiehlein Hall at the age of seven trying to decide which of the many instruments on stage I would most like to play — I decided to become a composer first and a performer second. It was because Father had unintentionally taught me that although Power can compel, it does not last; Mother had by example taught me that Authority could inspire, and therefore last forever. These issues are central to a composer’s life. 

Like love, Authority must be earned. Every time a new piece of music is read for the first time the composer starts with all of the Power and no Authority. If the music inspires and moves the performers, then the composer’s Authority grows.

If it does not, well, as Virgil Thomson once told me, “Don’t worry about withdrawing pieces, baby; they have a way of withdrawing themselves.”

Really, my brother Kevin’s relationship with the orchestra was more intimate than mine. As one of his first tasks as a new operations manager, he was told to arrange for the sound of canon fire during the finale of Tchaikovsky’s “1812” Overture, as is the tradition with the piece. Kevin rang up the National Guard and requested artillery. After a few beats, the astonished corporal on the other end of the line replied, “Um, yes, sir. Will that be with, or without, nuclear warheads?”

Near the end of Kevin’s tenure with the MSO, the orchestra was on tour somewhere in Europe and, the orchestra having tuned up, everyone, including the audience, was waiting for Lukas Foss to take the stage and ascend the podium. No Lukas. Kevin was used to packing extra socks, batons, and even pants for his forgetful friend. Backstage, there were three doors: one led to Lukas’ dressing room; one led out to an alley behind the theater; the third led below-stage. Looking for his socks, Lukas had chosen the wrong door. Kevin was unfazed. In short order, he found Lukas in the basement, happily looking up at the numbered traps of the stage above. “Isn’t this fascinating?” Lukas mused. “Yes,” Kevin calmly replied, handing Lukas his socks and guiding him upstairs. “You know it is time to conduct now, don’t you?” “I wasn’t worried, Kevin. I knew you would take care of me.”

Now.

Who will take care of the Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra?

Afterward

During winter 2014 Milwaukee's art lovers came together to save their orchestra in an extraordinary outpouring of generosity. The orchestra's musicians also pitched in with significant labor concessions. The orchestra was saved.

In the changing of the guard over the years, though, what the orchestra seems to have lost is a sense of instititional memory, that thing loosely defined as a collective set of traditions, shared experiences, and sense of community that transcends the individual.

Why do I write that? Any performing organization's activities shift to match the interests of its current music director, but, when a wealthy donor in 2014 offered to underwrite a commission for me to compose a major new work for the orchestra with which I had such intimate lifelong associations, the new young artistic administrator (despite having read the Huffington Post article above, which was used as a fundraising tool) turned the money down, explaining to me that "the orchestra has moved on to new interests when it comes to contemporary music."

While I took this with cordial annoyance and moved promptly on to another project, it did raise a flag for me. On its surface, I was being told that there was a new chef in the kitchen, and that he simply didn't dig my spice. But, on a deeper level, I found his response troubling. Collective memory requires the ongoing transmission of an organization's memories between members (and generations) of the group. There is, whether each new generation as it takes the reins of power finds it convenient or not, both an artistic and a human component to the long continuum that constitutes music history. When that chain is broken, reinventing the wheel becomes acceptable, and Edmund Burke's admonition that "people will not look look forward to posterity, who never look backward to their ancestors" comes into full force.

John-David Anello, Kenneth Schermerhorn, Lukas Foss, my brother, are all dead. Stephen Colburn and my sister in law have retired. Even the artistic administrator in question has moved on to another, larger orchestra. But I am still composing. One's hometown orchestra has traditionally supported its native composerds. I still remember the orchestra of my youth; but I admit with affectionate rue that it has forgotten me.