20 May, 1996 1:32:47 AM Suffering from an extreme lack of anything to say. I'm still living a life here in New York City. Was just outside, walking back here from the deli across the street, and I know I had a far more engaging introduction planned, but as soon as I sat down right here to start typing something it all slipped away. Started going to church again. Been going to the church on Park Avenue and 80-something Street. That's where Jackie Kennedy's memorial service was held, and it's where I saw a memorably mediocre piano recital a couple of years ago. Mediocre performances, and even terrible performances are what inspire me to practice harder and learn more music. I know other musicians who claim they draw all their inspiration from "The Masters," but I don't believe that for a second. It's bad performances by second-rate musicians that inspire otherwise aimless instrumentalists to greatness; not particularly greatness, perhaps, but conquest. And the same goes for composers. There is more to be learned from bad music and a few bad performances than from all the Great Performances of the Standard Repertory. Such a statement is nothing new, but somehow I always draw gasps and ridicule from fellow musicians when I say something like this. I played at a private party on Wednesday night. It's the first time I've played publically in quite some time. It was at the Metropolitan Club, 1 East 60th Street. When I worked at 9 West 57th Street, I walked past the Metropolitan Club on my way home from work. It's in a grand, old building with iron gates that reach to the sky. I always wondered what someone had to do before they could be admitted into a place like that. Everyone I ever saw going in or out of there was grey-hair-moustachioed and bursting with good wealth. One time, I saw a man leaving the Metropolitan Club wearing a tuxedo; he had a greenish kerchief sticking out of his breast pocket. I swear, I had to look twice, because I thought it was a wad of cash he'd jammed into his pocket for that well-dressed flourish. I don't really know the terminology for being well-dressed. In fact, it was only this week when I realized the fallacy of my whole approach to formal dress. I realized that wearing tails and tuxes and $22 socks (not to mention the bargain $80 cufflinks) is probably not supposed to be painfully uncomfortable. Horowitz described his recital attire as a "uniform." That still cracks me up, even though I first read that comment at least 10 years ago. He would talk about the whole matter of "marching" onto the stage like he was an automobile mechanic assigned to fix routine engine trouble. At any rate, the party went well. I really enjoy those things, even more than solo recitals, because somehow when I'm playing background piano music I'm certain that I'm making contact with somebody in the crowd. That somebody changes, and the point of contact travels throughout the group of people. This is, for me, the opposite of how it feels to perform in traditional concert venues, where the soloist is such a voice in the wilderness.