I watched "Maestro". I'll wait a while before I comment on the film.
We spoke once.
How many of you can recall how rich and immediate a human voice could be on the phone? Real phones connected by wires and switches of copper presided over by women. The Operators.
It was a dark early winter evening. I connected a call somewhere in Manhattan. Three rings and a woman answered with a curt "Yes?" I sensed a secretary annoyed at having to work late.
"I have a person-to-person call for Leonard Bernstein," I pronounced it exactly like the caller had.
The woman said, "Who's calling?"
That was none of her business because she wasn't Leonard Bernstein and this expensive service would not start earning for Ma Bell until the man himself was on the phone, but I had to be businesslike about it without being snotty.
"Is Mr. Bernstein available?"
She got the message and clunked the handset down.
I knew who he was to a point. In 1969 I had little musical interests beyond Led Zeppelin, Santana, or the Stones. I had never heard his voice.
"You got me out of the bath. This better be good." Wet or not, he lit a cigarette. His voice was thick and sexy.
I went pro. "Mr. Bernstein?"
"Yes, my dear, put them on but I'd rather talk to you."
How full of snappy comebacks do you think I was at twenty? Zip.
As trained, I evaporated. Closed the switch, wrote down the time to the second, slotted the punch card, and took the next call. Smiling.
