I was to meet Leonard Bernstein in Paris while ELP were mixing the 'Works' Volume One Album. Stuart Young, our manager, and a French promoter invited me to a concert of his, after, to be received by the Maestro himself along with many others. Perhaps this was time for him to reap his retribution?Instead after our introduction the only comment he made, after eyeing my attire, was that he 'liked my leathers', and 'what was I doing in Paris?', particularly later that night.
Somewhat relieved the subject of "America" hadn't come up I told him I'd written a Piano Concerto, whereupon he instructed his aide to give me directions to a "little out of the way Bistro", and he'd be delighted if I could join him there later.
Dismissing any thoughts he may have had, that now perhaps it was his turn to fuck me, I collected the address.
Stuart and I found the place, somewhere on the Left Bank. Long wooden tables on sawdust floor lit only by candles supported by their own hardened lava. The place was empty, so we went ahead and ordered a bottle of red wine. Slowly, the Bistro filled with the devoted, but still no Bernstein. I was considering leaving when suddenly with great flourish and aplomb, The Maestro swanned in wearing a cashmere coat draped across his shoulders and a supercilious air nurtured and stoked by two pretty boy escorts. A limp wristed circular motion of the arm, reminiscent of Queen Elizabeth II's ride back to Buckingham Palace after the Coronation, could have been taken as a gesture that now the assembled had acknowledged his divine greatness - we could proceed to order.
During the course of our wining and dining there was little or no acknowledgment towards me whatsoever, not that I expected it, even though I'd received a personal invite, his attentions were elsewhere (probably under the table).
The meal over with, a lull in conversation, Bernstein suddenly addressed the room in a stage whisper adorned in overtones of heavy sarcasm.
"Mr. Emerson over here has written a Piano Concerto."
"Ooooh!" cry the faithful.
"Tell us Mr. Emerson, how many movements does your Piano Concerto have?"
"Three."
"Oooooh...Three Movements everybody!"
Girlish laughter issued from the pretty boys, dutifully perched either side, like a pair of pre-Raphaelite bookends, their obsequious demeanors vying, each against the other, over who'd get the greater portion of the Maestro's baton that night. I held my composure above the table, along with Stuart, although I was starting to seethe.
"Pray, tell us what form these movements take," he persisted.
"The first is in Sonata form building to a Cadenza. The Second could be considered Baroque in style while the Third reaches for the atonal and progressive, ...but, why don't you come and hear it for yourself, here's the address to the studio."
With that, Stuart and I upped to leave, but I caught an interest in his eye.
"I may see you there tomorrow night." He led the laughter again.
"Fine," I said, "Good night!" Stuart and I headed outside to hail a cab.
The next night at the studio I'd forewarned Greg and Carl as to the possibility of a visit, hoping for their best behavior, even though I was still burning.
"So fucking what?" was Greg's reaction.
Seven o'clock and I see a limo draw up outside and the same cashmere coat, worn cape style, sweep across the courtyard towards the studio entrance.
"He's coming guys!"
The boy delivering the pizza would have received at least a stirring of the gastric juices, but sadly in this case everybody else was too busy with a tape splice. The control room door burst open allowing his magnificence to flood everywhere. Greg with his feet firmly up on the control desk, still smoking a joint, growled "Hi Lenny baby...how they hanging?"
The outcome of this little episode was that "Lenny baby" surprisingly, made no reference at all to Greg's inquiry, or to "America", either of his penning or my attribute, was complimentary on the whole, listening to a "Piano Concerto" and a programmatic piece "Pirates" whilst consulting both scores and watch at the same time. He expressed a concern that sometimes he had a fear of sounding too much like Beethoven - where upon Greg pronounced, "I wouldn't worry about that Lenny, you'll never sound like Beethoven." Bernstein felt like the true caped crusader he'd arrived as, probably relieved that E.L.P. hadn't "fucked" with "Somewhere" in protest to the British Labour Parties exorbitant Income Tax rates.
Even though the B.B.C. were reluctant to play The Nice's single, for probable fear of complicity, it nevertheless chased Arthur Brown's "Fire" into the Top Twenty of the English charts that were filled with many diversities. "What a Wonderful World" sang Louis Armstrong. I suppose it was if you were smoking what he was. "Someone's left the cake out in the rain" complained Richard Harris as Dionne Warwick, not having the recipe, asked instead if anybody knew the way to San Jose. Engelbert Humperdinck was "A Man Without Love." I had been for 5 months, but that was about to change.