I noticed a familiar figure in the audience. Short, stout and white-haired, with a back pack. He was about to take his seat. I poked Chuck. "There's Richard Goode in the audience again," I said. I hesitated a moment, then added, "Or Bob."

Chuck and I were attending the final day of Great Pianists of the Twentieth Century on Film, a documentary series of legendary pianists shown during February at the Walter Reade Theater. We had both been unexpectedly moved at seeing these pianists from another era. Among them were names I'd heard of. Sviatoslav Richter, Emil Gilels, Alfred Cortot. And also names I hadn't. Horszowski, Backhaus, others. Listening to them play, then hearing them speak about what music meant to them, served to reinforce my own expectations of everything that music can and should be.

Noticeably absent from the way these pianists played was the large sense of ego which all too frequently obscures the music these days. Contemporary pianists have a lot to learn about respect and restraint from these performances, I thought.

Evidently some of them thought so, too. I began to notice some lesser known pianists in the audience. Soon I noticed that others, much better known, were showing up. Evgeny Kissin, childlike, with his signature crop of curls, was unmistakable. I hoped he would learn from these pianists to modulate his showy technique. Kenneth Cooper was there. And so was Richard Goode. But based on previous experience, I wasn't absolutely sure about Richard Goode.

I used to see Richard Goode in the audience all the time at concerts. I was quite impressed. I know of musicians who make a point of avoiding concerts. But not Richard Goode. He seemed to be everywhere. I attributed this to his support of other performers and also to a widespread interest in music. Maybe even an imperative to keep informed. I thought it reflected well of him.

I first remember seeing him in the audience at a concert by Peter Serkin in Carnegie Hall. Serkin had just performed a Beethoven piano sonata. At intermission, I passed Richard Goode in the aisle. Impulsively, I complimented him on his own performance of Beethoven, which had occurred in the same place only a week before. He seemed happy to be recognized. He smiled and thanked me. Goode's sound is very different from Serkin's. Goode's sound is strong and rich. Too strong and rich. Serkin's sound is curt and clipped. Too curt and clipped. I asked him what he thought of Serkin's performance

"Fascinating," he replied. I told Chuck. We both laughed at the numerous possibilities an answer like "fascinating" permits.

Shortly after this, I saw Richard Goode in the audience again. It was at Alice Tully Hall. As we left, he was directly before me. He opened the door and held it as a large group of elderly women passed through. To my surprise, not one single person in the entire group recognized him. He was still holding the door open as I went through.

"So you got caught as doorman," I joked. And to show that unlike all those elderly women, I, at least, knew who he was, I added appreciatively, "As a matter of fact, just the other night, your name came up in conversation."

He gazed at me in astonishment. "You know my name!" he exclaimed.

I looked back at him in equal astonishment. I knew immediately that something was wrong. "I'm not sure I do," I said. "What is it?"

"Bob," he replied.

I still see Richard Goode around a lot. I see him all over the place. He still seems to attend a lot more concerts than other musicians do.

But I can never be absolutely sure who it is any more. Maybe it's Richard Goode.

On the other hand, maybe it's Bob.

March, 1999
BB