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Posted At : July 27, 2009 04:02 PM | Posted By : D McKee
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There are times when one takes to the keyboard with great pain in one's heart. This is such an occasion. Scarcely had I opened Facebook this morning than I was greeted with the news that longtime friend and occasional mentor Michael Steinberg had lost his battle with cancer. When I last spoke with his wife, the exceptionally talented violinist Jorja Fleezanis, the Steinberg family was putting a brave front on matters. However, Michael's health failed before they could pull up two decades' worth of roots in Minneapolis and relocate to Bloomington, Ind.
Michael's life was one of extraordinary learning and rarely paralled accomplishment. As Donald Francis Tovey was to earlier generations, Michael was to Baby Boomers: the man who provided a layman-friendly bridge to the sometimes abstruse world of classical music, enriching our appreciation thereof. He fulfilled this role as program annotator for the Boston Symphony Orchestra, San Francisco Symphony and Minnesota Orchestra, serving for a time as artistic director of the latter's summer festival. His writing was leavened with witty pop-culture references and always evinced the passion of the boy who stood in an alley outside a cinema so he could simply hear the soundtrack of Fantasia.
Although a contemplated book on tone poems never came to fruition, Michael left three awe-inspiring (and immensely helpful) volumes of essays: The Symphony, The Concerto and Choral Masterworks. Even in casual conversation, his bon mots fell like autumn leaves, as when he dismissed Luchino Visconti's film of Death in Venice as "a movie about hats" or described Alexander Scriabin's Poem of Ecstasy as "like watching your parents making love," whilst miming peeking pruriently/horror-struck through ones fingers.
But my favorite Michael Steinberg involves his home office in Edina. His desk was rife with framed photos of family and loved ones ... as well as a framed cartoon of a man whose desk is so crammed with pictures that he's reduced to doing all his work in his lap. Michael had, above all else, a healthy sense of humor about himself. His friends will miss him more than words -- perhaps not even his words -- can express.
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