Even when Luc was busy and could not talk he always made me welcome and allowed me to wander around the inner sanctum of the back room on my own. When things were quieter, he seemed glad of the company and would tell me about the pianos that had just arrived. Our talks made real for me one of his fundamental beliefs, that each and every piano had completely individual characteristics, even if of the same manufacturer and age1. Joseph Roisman, the distinguished first violinist of the Budapest String Quartet, seemed to be content to give up his beloved Lorenzo Storioni when he agreed to sell it to me after the Quartet retired. But when I finally met with him, he had second thoughts. "Steinhardt," he said to me plaintively, "I'll sell the violin to you some day, but for now I'm enjoying playing chamber music with my friends every Friday night." And that is exactly what he did until his death a year or two later. Lifschey and Roisman dealt with retirement in different ways, but their stories made me wonder about not only what I'll do with my violin if and when I retire, but also about the very nature of a musician's day-to-day, year-to-year relationship with his instrument. I began playing violin when I was six years old2, now I'm seventy-six. It has been an integral part of my life for the last seven decades. Does that make the violin my very close friend? Well, yes. Sometimes. The violin obviously can't speak with words, but when I ask something of it, the instrument can respond with an astonishing range of substance and emotion. There are other moments, however, when the violin stubbornly refuses to do my bidding—when it only reluctantly plays in tune, or makes the sound I want, or delivers the music's essence for which I strive. Then I have to cajole, bargain or adjust3 to its every whim. Some friend; more like an adversary, you might say. Or is the violin my partner? A woman once went backstage to congratulate the great violinist Jascha Heifetz after a concert. "What a wonderful sound your violin has, Mr. Heifetz!" she exclaimed. Heifetz leaned over his violin that lay in its open case, listened intently for a moment, and said, "Funny, I don't hear a thing." My violin also lies mute in its case without me—but, on the other hand, I stand mute on the concert stage without it.
It was never Kenney Holmes's intention to become a wedding singer. The grandson of West Indian immigrants, Holmes was raised in Gordon Heights, on Long Island, in what he calls "a small black community founded by like-minded thinkers," families of immigrants and Southern blacks who, as Holmes says, "didn't come here to fool around" and who handed down to their children their own keen sense of ambition. "We grew up in that kind of atmosphere," he says, "of positive thinking, of getting educated, whether or not you had a degree." Holmes was well-suited for the role of event bandleader. His production skills helped him control his band's sound, and his familiarity with country, big-band and classical music made him popular with audiences who wanted, as he says, "a tango or a Viennese waltz," as well as Wilson Pickett. Like any American boy in the 1950s and '60s, he was fascinated with popular music: He listened to the area's one radio station, which "mostly played Sinatra"; sometimes in the evenings, with a coat hanger stuck into the top of his portable radio, he could pick up a faint signal from WWRL, a rhythm and blues station in New York City. When he was a teenager, his brother brought home a guitar. "I was 16, it was a Sunday night," he says. "I sat down and played 'I Can't Get No Satisfaction.' I was addicted." While he was not a virtuoso, he was, he discovered, good at making money at it. He learned three songs—"Satisfaction" by the Rolling Stones, "And I Love Her" by the Beatles, and "Shotgun" by Junior Walker and the All Stars—and formed a band. "We went out and sold it," he says. "We could play those three songs all night. We got pretty popular out on the island, playing battle of the bands, fire halls, high school proms, for $10 a night." Still, a career as a musician was not what he, or his family, had had in mind. Over the next few years, he says: "I did everything I could not to be a guitar player. I went to college not to be a guitar player." Thinking he would be a psychiatrist, he took pre-med classes but didn't complete a degree. Along the way, he continued playing nightclubs and parties.