Adrianne Geffel

by David Hajdu

  If you ask me, “Milo, what happened to her?” I will tell you, she changed. The last time I saw her, she played at The Kitchen, down the street from where we are. She played the most beautiful music I ever heard a person play. I can tell you, for the first time I enjoyed Adrianne’s music. That was the last time I ever saw her.

  Bobby Akbar-Aleem (soprano saxophonist):

  I was blessed to witness her on multiple occasions in one loft or another. Her music was deeply felt by all. I created with her in various lofts and such settings of mental openness to the art. She inspired me to find the feeling within myself and give voice to it in the music.

  [Akbar-Aleem is asked to describe their approach to collaboration.]

  We created in the same time and space, if you choose to categorize that as collaboration. I drew inspiration from the truth in her music, and I attempted to bring my own truth to the experience.

  [Akbar-Aleem is asked to describe how Geffel responded to his contributions as a collaborator.]

  We were united on the plane of emotion. We did not concern ourselves with the technicalities of musical structures or notes. We did not listen to one another in the historical sense. I had awareness that the sound of my instrument appeared to disturb her. This was her truth. My truth was mine.

  Ann Athema:

  The K. Lewitt show was over, and I went back to not doing art, but Geffel was playing music every night. I went to a fair number of the loft concerts, and they were even more disorienting than they sounded on the recordings people started making. You’ve heard those records. Geffel was erupting. I was beyond excited for her, but I was seriously concerned about her, too.

  She stayed in my place on Ludlow Street sometimes when the concert was over, instead of going all the way up to her room uptown. She crashed on my couch. We hung out and went for coffee and biscotti at Dimicci’s. Sometimes, my boyfriend Jeffy came with us, if he stayed over at my place—we all got along, because he worked on the signal grid for the MTA [Metropolitan Transit Authority] and didn’t try to act like he knew more about art and music than Geffel and I did. At the MTA, he was used to not understanding what was happening. The best memory I have from those days is one day on a Sunday afternoon, we were walking around on the Lower East Side, deciding on where to go for coffee and talking, just the two of us. Geffel said, “You know, Koshka, there’s something weird about these concerts I’m giving.”

  I said, “I know, Geffel—it’s called your music. I’ve heard it.”

  She gave me a scrunched-up-face dirty look, and she said, “That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean, it’s weird for me to do.” She said, “I’m a nervous wreck when I’m doing it, and that only seems to make it more successful. I feel awful, and so I make awful-sounding music. But it feels weirdly good to do that. I’m not sure how to explain it.”

  A while later, we’re still walking around—now we’re on Norfolk Street or Stanton Street—and as we’re walking, we see a homeless man in front of us, pacing around in a circle on the sidewalk. We slow down when we get close to him, and Geffel reaches in her handbag for her wallet, to give him some money. He stares at us and starts screaming, “Fuck cunt! Fuck! Fuck cunt! Fuck! Fuck!”

  Geffel tosses a dollar on the sidewalk, and I yank her across the street. We keep walking, but a lot faster now. We get to the street corner. We’re waiting for the light to change, and some guy barges into me from behind me to get ahead of us to cross the street. He practically knocks me over, but he doesn’t say “Excuse me” or anything—he just plants himself right in front of us and rushes ahead when the light changes. Geffel gives me a jab with her elbow and says, “Go ahead—try it,” and I scream at the top of my lungs, “Fuck cunt! Fuck! Fuck cunt!”

  I look over at Geffel, and she’s watching me and giving me that smile of hers. She says, “I told you. It’s weird, isn’t it?”

  Jeffrey Knudsen (former boyfriend of Ann Athema):

  I was going with Ann Athema. We started to get serious, and we moved in together after a few months. I met her—when I met her, she was still going by her real name, which was Valerie Koshka. I called her Val—or Vallie and sometimes, [when it was] just the two of us, Vallie Girl, because she was anything but. She was very close to Adry Geffel—closer than I was, but I knew her. I liked her. I never really appreciated her music, until the late stuff. But I liked her, better than I liked her music.

  Biran Zervakis:

  And now for the tale of our reunion in SoHo. I was tingling with joy when I spotted an article about Adry in the SoHo Weekly News, posted on the bulletin board in the lounge at Juilliard. There was a four-column headline—“A Geyser on Grand Street”—and a nice but much, much too small photo of Adry playing a very grand grand piano. I said to myself, Of course my Adry is being written up in the premier journal of avant-garde art in New York! I knew the most astute enthusiasts of contemporary music would appreciate Adry and her music the way I did.

  Since we hadn’t seen each other in several weeks, I assumed she left town and moved back home with her parents after her hospitalization. I wanted desperately to see her, mainly to see her beatific face again, and secondarily to present her with her share of the funds I had arranged to procure on her behalf from Sony. With the aid of a team of my parents’ attorneys, I had filed a notice of intent to litigate over Sony’s unauthorized use of Adry’s concept of a personal sound system using cassettes and headphones. Not to bother her with the legalistic mechanics, I instructed the attorneys to reach a settlement. We agreed to accept a buy-out of fifty thousand dollars, paid to the order of a limited-liability partnership I had set up for the purpose. I couldn’t wait to see Adry, break this excellent news to her, and bestow her with a payment of forty-one thousand dollars for her share of the buyout, after my commission of fifteen percent and expenses.

  I saw in the SoHo News that Adry would be giving a loft concert on Grand Street that Saturday night, and I went to see her with a sixty-dollar bouquet of long-stemmed red roses in one hand and a check for forty thousand nine hundred forty dollars in the other hand. As soon as Adry saw me, she gave me that look of secret code between us, acting surprised and turning away. She scooted over to the piano and began the concert, which was absolutely exhilarating, naturally. Adry was on fire, as always, positively bursting with music. Once or twice, I caught her eye while she played, and the music would suddenly erupt. I was terribly touched to see I was inspiring her so.

  At the end of the concert, people came up to the piano to talk to her. I broke through the crowd and said, “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen—I have an announcement to make. It’s a surprise for Adrianne. My name is Biran Zervakis. B-I-R-A-N, ‘Zervakis’ as it sounds. I am Adrianne’s dear friend and classmate at the Juilliard School of Music. I am pleased to announce that the Sony Corporation of America has officially recognized Adrianne’s creative innovations in sound technology.” I turned to Adry and laid her check in front of her on the piano, upside down.

  I said, “Won’t you join me in congratulating Adry with a hearty round of applause?” Everyone started clapping, and I turned to look at Adry as I clapped along. Adry snuck a peek at the check, and quickly slapped it back down on its face.

  She rose up and said, “Thank you very much, everybody, for coming to hear me tonight,” and she added quietly, just for me, “I’ll talk to you later.” She picked the check up from the piano, and left.

  I knew she wanted to talk later, but I had trouble finding her after that.

  Ruth Sirotta LeMat:

  The next time I saw Adrianne, I wasn’t expecting her. Having visited her at the Neurological Institute of New York and consulted with Dr. Vanderlinde on her musical ability, I was fully aware of her diagnosis and health status. I had learned from my late husband Pierson that she had taken a medical leave from the Juilliard School. I read a New York Times article about the new music in the SoHo lofts, and I was tickled to see Adrianne’s name appearing somewhat prominently in that. There were two or three
full paragraphs dedicated to Adrianne. It was laudatory in the imperious manner of the Times’ arts coverage then and now. The point of the article was to recognize the emergence of a variety of young iconoclasts who were averting the strictures of the traditional institutions of presentation to make unorthodox music in the art galleries and lofts of SoHo. The fact that the New York Times was acknowledging this phenomenon was important—it meant that this was already old news among musicians.

  As an instructor at NYU, I had heard about the musical developments in SoHo—the lofts were literally across the road from the school, on the other side of Houston Street. Several of my composition students had attended some of the loft concerts and experimented with ways to take part in that. It was difficult to do successfully. Adrianne made it appear easier than it was, even for her.

  It was a Friday morning at nine or ten o’clock. I was home—few classes were scheduled on Fridays, to help the undergraduates get a head start on their weekend debauchery—and Pierson was out, at a committee meeting at Juilliard. The doorbell rang, and it was Adrianne. We gave each other a warm hug, and I said, “You’re a clever one, Adrianne. How did you know I had pound cake?”

  We went straight to the dinette and dove in. I told her how happy I was to see her name in the New York Times and said I’d love to attend one of her loft concerts. Adrianne said, “I’ve played through all the Hundred Variations. I’m working on another thousand now.” We laughed and munched on the cake.

  She said, “Mrs. LeMat, I’d like to ask you something. I don’t want to go back to Juilliard.”

  I said, “That’s not a question, Adrianne—that’s a statement. It’s rare to find someone your age who’s so sure of what she wants. I’m impressed. Now, what is it you want to ask me?”

  She said, “Oh . . . I forget.” She smiled at me, and we had some more cake.

  I said, “I trust you’re making a little money from playing in the lofts. Just please don’t forget, the mind and the body require sustenance that art alone cannot provide. Will your parents be helping you?”

  Adrianne said, “That isn’t necessary.” She explained that she had come into a small windfall recently that she was going to split with a friend from home. That would be enough to get her started, especially if she lived in Greenwich Village, where living expenses were low.

  Biran Zervakis:

  Adry reached out to me directly, to clear up her confusion over the payout from Sony. My dear Adry, in her understandable excitement over the deal I made for her, hadn’t realized the check I gave her at the concert was merely a “show check,” for her to frame! It wasn’t intended to be actually cashed! When she deposited it and realized that, she got my number from someone at Juilliard, we had a little chat on the phone and made a plan to talk further over coffee in the lounge at the law firm that handled the deal for me. You could say this was our first date, but I’ve never liked to put labels on anything between Adry and me.

  I can’t discuss everything involved in that conversation while you’re recording us, because the subject of Barb Lucher did come up, and my counsel has advised me against making any public statements about her, owing to some matters currently pending. I personally wouldn’t mind answering anything you ask me about Lucher or anything else negative. But you know what lawyers are like!

  I can give you the general outline of things. Adry had the idea in her pretty head that Lucher should receive half of her share of the Sony payout. Evidently, she thought she could write Lucher a check on the sum of funds represented for symbolic purposes on that show check. I explained to Adry that I would take care of paying Lucher directly—she didn’t have to give that another thought—and I laid out for her how I could help her by managing her share of the Sony payment, cutting any checks she needed, so she would be able to concentrate on her music and not get bogged down with finances. Adry thought about that for a second and said, “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  I assured her, “Nobody knows more than you about the sounds you like and don’t like!” I couldn’t help but chuckle at my own joke, while she thought about what I said. Then I broke the big news: Through one of my father’s operations, I learned about a floor-through loft space on East 3rd Street in Greenwich Village. It was fully furnished and available for immediate occupancy. The rent, for Adry, would be four hundred twenty-five dollars per month—a bit steep, I recognized, but utilities were included, and she wouldn’t have to pay a deposit, because I had the inside track on the deal. I had thoughtfully already taken care of signing the lease on her behalf. I thought it best to explain all those details to her another time. I told her she could move in on the first of the month—she didn’t have to do a thing but pack her toothbrush.

  Adry said, “I’m not sure I like the sound of that, either.”

  I laughed again and said, “Ah . . . but you’ll love the sight of it!” I gave her the address and a set of the keys, and I said, “Just check it out tomorrow. If you like it, it’s yours!” Only I knew it was hers already! The lease was technically mine, naturally, but it would be hers, because it was mine and, in my heart, I was hers.

  CHAPTER 6

  Chords and Baffling

  (1979–1981)

  Ann Athema:

  I imagine most of this is in the court records, if the case ever made it that far. Maybe they settled, and that Biran made good on the rent he never paid, or it’s still in legal limbo. The way this started was Geffel withdrew from Juilliard, and so she lost her student housing. I offered to put her up for as long as she wanted at my place. But it was just a studio, and with Jeffy staying over half the time, it really wasn’t a viable share. And that Biran came along with a magnificent full floor of a space—it was four times the size of my apartment, fourteen-foot ceilings, gigantic windows, and a baby grand piano in the corner. I have to assume that Biran had the piano brought in, just for Geffel. I don’t think the place came with major appliances and a grand. It was a fabulous deal. Who wouldn’t take it? You’d be silly not to—or wise to Biran’s shenanigans, which Geffel kind of was, but wasn’t totally.

  She asked me what I thought she should do. I told her, “Listen, Geffel—it’s a great space. Can I have it if you don’t want it? Besides, it’s just an apartment. There are a million more of them available in Manhattan. Grab it, and if it doesn’t work out for any reason, you can get another place anywhere in the city the next day.”

  The way things eventually went down with Geffel and that Biran, I felt bad later for encouraging her to take the place. But, in my defense, it really was a beautiful space, and that seemed to outweigh the psychological ugliness of its sponsor. Geffel was tentative about taking it, wisely, but decided, also wisely, to seize the opportunity. It was bright and roomy—a big loft-style open space, with a separate area good for an office, and an excellent view of East 3rd Street, which was entertaining to watch in those days—a new drug deal to see every minute! The album cover [for Adrianne Geffel’s eponymous debut release] gives you an idea of the layout. You know it?

  [Athema is answered in the affirmative.]

  The whole area in the photo above where you see Geffel at the piano, where her name was printed—that was all windows. And across the top, where it says, “Biran Zervakis Presents,” there was an exquisite, detailed old pressed-tin ceiling—rusty, brownish-silvery unpainted tin. I loved to look up at it when I went to visit Geffel. It made me think of my own artwork at the time. It had never been painted, just like my canvases.

  Harvé Mendelman (Executive Vice President, Infini Records):

  Didn’t know Adry Geffel’s music in great depth before her manager, Biran Zervakis, came to see me. Impressive individual. Very first time he came to the office, before he and I became good friends, he handled himself with class. Brought a bouquet of flowers for my secretary, Karen. That’s class. Almost doesn’t matter very much what the flowers cost—it’s the gesture. It’s a way of saying Good afternoon, how do you do? Take note of me, if you will. I am an indiv
idual who appreciates goods things, and I am here to bring good things to you and your business, beginning with these flowers.

  Adry Geffel was an excellent fit in the roster of Infini Records artists that I would start to develop as an artist-and-repertoire executive after I signed her. You familiar with the history of the label? I understand you talked to my secretary now, Bethany, to schedule this interview. She told me you didn’t say very much about what you think of our product. And you didn’t even bring her flowers!

  I’m just teasing with you. [Mendelman attempts to laugh.] It’s by no means a prerequisite to come here with flowers! That’s what makes it so meaningful when it’s actually done.

  In ’78, ’79, we were beginning to establish ourselves as a leading force in the field of contemporary music. You can read the whole history of the company in the in-depth advertorial all about us that I commissioned for Billboard magazine. I’ll make sure you have a copy of it before you actually write about me.

  [Mendelman calls through the door of his office to his assistant.] Bethany—Xerox a copy of the Billboard advertorial for the oral-history people, please. Thank you.

  I believe it’s important to say “Thank you,” even to the people who work for you. It’s a small thing, but to them, it means something, and it’s cheaper than flowers! [Mendelman again attempts a laugh.]

  When my good friend Biran Zervakis came to see me for the first time—we weren’t friends at that stage . . . this is how it all began—and he told me about Adry Geffel, Infini was still just a hungry young label with a keen ear for fresh sounds. As a matter of fact, that’s how I put it in Billboard. Only a few years before that, prior to my ascension in the ranks of the A&R Department, the company had been a relatively marginal but profitable label in the budget niche of the classical field. Specialized in the presentation of historical masterworks in the public domain, recorded by the many fine state-sponsored orchestras behind the Iron Curtain and made available to us through various channels. I was overseeing manufacturing and distribution, though I had attended a college with a strong music program and had the benefit of that association.