by Steve Lopez
“October 27, Disney Hall.”
“Do you want to go?” I ask.
Dumb question.
Adam Crane of the L.A. Phil has a suggestion: Why not try to arrange for Mr. Ayers and Mr. Ma to meet after the concert?
Would Ma go for it? I ask.
Crane says that for such a superstar, Ma is extremely accessible. He sends an e-mail along to Ma’s manager and suggests I do the same. In my message, I explain that although Mr. Ma might not remember, he and Mr. Ayers overlapped one year at Juilliard. I tell her that Mr. Ayers reveres his ex-classmate and is walking around downtown Los Angeles with Ma’s name on his T-shirt. I send along a few of the columns, too, and I promptly get a response from Ma’s manager.
Yes. Mr. Ma will gladly receive Mr. Ayers in his dressing room after the concert.
I’m as thrilled as Mr. Ayers will be, but worried about sharing the news with him. What if it doesn’t work out for some reason? I don’t want to get his hopes up only to see him get flattened.
On the day of the concert I visit Lamp to remind Mr. Ayers to get cleaned up and wear his finest, and I can’t help myself. I tell him that I’m trying to arrange a meeting with Mr. Ma, but there are no guarantees. Mr. Ayers is okay with that. I also tell him I’ll be picking him up a bit on the early side so we can make a stop on our way to Disney Hall. I have something very important to show him.
Mr. Ayers is wearing a Rite Aid polo shirt with a red and blue necktie. He has written “Steve Lopez” and “Mr. Ma” on the breast of the shirt, and over that he wears a black jacket of synthetic leather. His hair is parted in the middle and neatly combed, and he is carrying a briefcase full of sheet music as if on his way to work. Our first stop, I tell him, will be at Lamp Village.
“I’m going to show you the studio.”
The idea is still fuzzy in his head, and it’s time to clear things up. I don’t know if it’s another case of his being wary of committing to something he might not be able to hold on to, or if he has confused the music studio with his studio apartment.
“I don’t need a studio,” he says.
“Mr. Ayers, I’ve made arrangements for your piano to be delivered. They can’t fit it in your apartment, so they’re going to ship it to the music studio. The room isn’t done yet, but I want to show you how it’s coming along and what it’s going to look like.”
The short drive takes us past the Midnight Mission, where people by the dozens queue up for a cot or a patch of pavement for the night. Mr. Ayers would have to walk through this Calcutta each time he goes from his apartment to the studio, and I know he’ll have plenty to say about it. I just hope the studio will be incentive enough to keep him coming through the gauntlet.
At the Village we stride down a long, shiny-clean hallway adorned with paintings by the residents. Near the end of the hall, three people sit in the glow of a big-screen TV. The studio is just past that, through a set of double doors.
“You see? They can get the piano through right here, but they’d never get it into your apartment.”
Mr. Ayers peeks through the window of the locked door, taking in the dimensions. It’s on the small side, maybe twelve feet square, but definitely serviceable. Casey Horan is having it soundproofed so Mr. Ayers can play to his heart’s content without distracting anyone who doesn’t care to be serenaded eight hours at a stretch.
“This is just temporary,” I tell him. “They’re remodeling the whole building, and a bigger studio will be part of the deal. But Casey didn’t want you to have to wait any longer, so she’s having this built to hold you over.”
Mr. Ayers likes hearing that. Back in his apartment, neighbors sometimes complain about him playing at all hours, and now he’ll have a private place. He stands there with his briefcase full of music, considering the possibilities.
“This is my studio?”
“There might be other musicians who use it from time to time, but you’re going to be the artist in residence. Wouldn’t it be nice to get up in the morning and have this to come to instead of arguing with the smokers in the courtyard? This is going to be a no-smoking studio. We should put your name on the door right here along with the No Smoking sign. Mr. Nathaniel Anthony Ayers, Artist in Residence.”
He takes a step back, still sizing it up. I see in his eyes and his body language that he’s chipping away at his instinct to resist anything new.
“This is really going to be something,” he says.
He takes a step back, still sizing it up. I see in his eyes and his body language that he’s chipping away at his instinct to resist anything new. Yes, he bickers with Lamp Community staff and other clients at times, but in better moments he offers respectful greetings and warm smiles, very much aware of a shared experience. This is his family now; his home. Mr. Ayers knows that, just as he knows this studio represents a second chance.
To Mr. Ayers, this is a chance to see what has come of the amazing talent he first witnessed thirty-five years ago, when they played briefly in the same orchestra.
“The youngster was off in his own universe,” he says on our drive up the hill.
I ask Mr. Ayers if he ever spoke to Ma on campus or hung out with him. He says he can’t recall for sure, but probably not. Ma trained under renowned cellist Leonard Rose, a full-time endeavor that left even less time for socializing than Mr. Ayers had. “The violinists and cellists are the quarterbacks,” he says, “and this guy was on fire. I couldn’t touch him, he was so hot. I was just back there with the bass section, happy to be in the orchestra at all.”
We park and walk to the corner of First and Grand. The street is alive with men in jackets and women in gowns, an older crowd on its way to catch a star in the architectural gem that has become a cultural beacon. Mr. Crane is out of town on business, so Ben Hong, who knows Yo-Yo Ma fairly well, is there to greet us in the lobby and escort us to our seats. The same seats we always have in the orchestra section, just left of center.
“Are we still on to meet him after the concert?” I whisper to Hong.
He smiles.
“It’s all set.”
Mr. Ayers wonders if the whispering is about his meeting with Ma.
“It looks pretty good,” I tell him.
Mr. Ayers chats with Hong about the all-Beethoven program and Ma’s accompanist, pianist Emanuel Ax, another Juilliard grad. Hong tells him the two musicians know each other so well and have performed together so often, they don’t need to rehearse. They’ll play Twelve Variations on “Ein Mädchen oder Weibchen,” Six Variations on an Original Theme in F Major, Sonata in G minor for Piano and Cello, Seven Variations on “Bei Männern, welche Liebe fühlen” and Sonata in D major for Piano and Cello. Mr. Ayers says he would have preferred to see Ma backed by full orchestra on a Beethoven concerto, but it’s a small concern, and it’s gone the moment the musicians appear onstage.
“There he is,” Mr. Ayers says, as if he were the PA announcer. “Mr. Yo-Yo Ma.”
Having just two musicians onstage makes for a more personal and intimate connection for the audience. As Frank Gehry suggested in his vision of Disney Hall, it feels as if Ma and Ax are about to entertain in a very large living room. Mr. Ayers opens his briefcase when the concert begins and rummages for the sheet music he’s brought. Hong, seated behind us, helps him find his place, and Mr. Ayers follows along. He looks up on occasion, whispering for me to get a good look at the fluidity of Ma’s bowing, and he laughs heartily when Ma stirs the crowd with dramatic flourishes. At the completion of each piece, Nathaniel lets forth a hardy “Bravo!” As a valentine to the appreciative crowd, Ma and Ax encore with a selection from Mendelssohn’s Song Without Words, then take their bows.
“Let’s go,” Hong says, and we weave our way through the crowd, down a spiral ramp, along a hallway and into a small dressing room. Mr. Ayers takes a look at himself in the mirror, training his hair into place and worrying about his appearance for such a big occasion. He wants Yo-Yo Ma to see a well-kept, self-respecting man.
“You look fine,” I tell him.
Hong goes to check on Ma and returns to tell us it won’t be long. Mr. Ayers is on his toes, bouncing, talking, checking the hair, tugging at his lapels. He calms himself by talking to Hong about the performance, calling it gorgeous. I stand back and watch in admiration. Ben Hong, Yo-Yo Ma, Emanuel Ax and Nathaniel Anthony Ayers have all passed through Juilliard on their way to something unknown, and though Mr. Ayers has taken a terrible fall, not one hour of practice has been lost to self-pity. Yes, he wishes he could take all the scattered notes and string them together. He gets frustrated by his lapses and sometimes even demoralized. He’d like to play an entire piece perfectly, all the way through, and he’d like to be good enough to play alongside great musicians. But even though all of that remains elusive, music still keeps his spirit intact, and he doesn’t envy Ma, he admires him. Thirty-five years after they sat briefly in the same orchestra, their paths have intersected once more, a block from the tunnel where Mr. Ayers slept all those many nights next to his Little Walt Disney Concert Hall buggy.
Suddenly Ma appears, gliding into the room with an uncanny mix of star power and unpretentiousness. He’s elegant in a black tux but exudes a casual, genial manner, and Mr. Ayers holds his breath and takes a nervous half-step back as Ma approaches, hand extended.
“You’re an amazing player,” Mr. Ayers says bashfully.
“Did you like it?” Ma asks. “I know you like Beethoven.”
Mr. Ayers’s answer includes a reference to “Mr. Ma.”
“First of all, I’m Yo-Yo. Not Mr. Ma,” the cellist says.
“I remember your hands from Juilliard,” Mr. Ayers says, studying them as if trying to decode the magic.
It isn’t clear if Ma remembers him from Juilliard, even though Mr. Ayers now cites several specific performances that have stuck with him over the years. Ma listens intently, then puts his arm around Mr. Ayers.
“I want to tell you what it means to meet you,” he says, looking Mr. Ayers directly in the eye. “To meet somebody who really, really loves music. We’re brothers.”
Mr. Ayers doesn’t know what to say. Ma tells him he’ll be right back and returns seconds later with his cello.
Take it, he tells Mr. Ayers. Go ahead and play.
Mr. Ayers reluctantly reaches for the instrument and holds it awkwardly, the bow dangling from his hand. He looks at me with bewildered awe.
Go on, Ma tells him again. Give it a try.
“This is Yo-Yo Ma’s cello,” Mr. Ayers says as Ma excuses himself to greet other admirers.
“Go ahead,” Hong encourages, and Mr. Ayers reluctantly fiddles just long enough to be able to say he played Yo-Yo Ma’s cello.
It isn’t easy to get Mr. Ayers to leave Disney Hall when the evening draws to a close. He talks with Hong about the life of an orchestra member, he lingers in the hall near the dressing rooms, strikes up a brief conversation with Emanuel Ax and stops before a gallery of L.A. Phil photos. Maybe it’s harder for him than I realize.
“There’s Mr. Hong,” he says. “And there’s Mr. Snyder.”
It’s getting late, and I have to drag him away from the gallery. I’d like to tell him he’s had his own kind of success, and his achievements each day and every year are as commendable as those of the musicians he admires. But for a curse, his photo might be on this wall, too.
31
"Yes, uh, Mr. Lopez, this is Nathaniel Anthony Ayers calling. Hello to Jeffrey and Andrew Lopez, Caroline Lopez, Mrs. Lopez and of course yourself. I’m wondering if you’re still planning to come to Lamp this morning. I recall you mentioning something about a surprise of some type. If you could get back to me, sir, I would appreciate that, and have a blessed day.”
He leaves the message at my office, then calls me on my cell phone before I can get back to him. I’m driving to the new studio when he calls, along with Ben Hong, to drop off some presents and make sure everything is set.
“Yes,” I tell him. “I got your message and I’m on my way with a special guest. Just give me ten minutes and we’ll be there.”
With Peter Snyder and Adam Crane out of town, Hong has asked if he can stand in for his colleagues and help Mr. Ayers celebrate the opening of his music studio. It’s two days after Christmas, and I’m going to surprise Mr. Ayers with an upright string bass I bought from a jazz musician. The studio, with white walls and a blue carpet, smells of fresh paint. Hong says it reminds him of the little practice studios that lined the fourth floor of Juilliard. It’s a place for a fresh start, with a box full of the sheet music I bought that day in Santa Monica. The big upright bass, which I delivered earlier, leans against the wall in one corner. And the donated Baldwin upright is in place against the wall, with a framed photo of Mr. Ayers and Yo-Yo Ma on top of it. Hong has brought gifts, as well. Cello strings and a Franz Schubert biography, which he sets on the Baldwin before we leave for San Julian Street to get Mr. Ayers.
“Ben Hong!”
Mr. Ayers can’t wait for us to cross the street. He has been watching from the courtyard and comes toward us with all his gear, which includes the trumpet and a deflated punching bag he’s been carrying around of late. He wears a plastic poncho even though a morning storm has already moved out, leaving behind a brilliant blue sky. My name is written on his cap along with “Donald Duck Concert Hall,” sharing space with an embroidered likeness of Che Guevara. A pair of white-framed sunglasses are perched atop the bill as a fashion statement. We begin walking; Mr. Ayers begins talking.
“In Cleveland we had Severance Hall, Cleveland Institute of Music, Settlement Music School, Mr. Harry Barnoff on bass, Cleveland Municipal Stadium along the shores of Lake Erie, home of the Cleveland Browns, Mr. Jim Brown, Jacobs Field, The Jake, Elliot Ness, Arsenio Hall and Mr. Henry Mancini, ‘Moon River.’ That’s not a Beethoven city, though, like Los Angeles, which has the statue in Pershing Square, and I still cannot believe that Beethoven is there. A little bird told me he was there and I came upon him one day and I said, ‘My God, Los Angeles must be his city.’ He’s not at Lincoln Center, where you have Alice Tully Hall, Avery Fisher Hall, the Juilliard School for the Performing Arts at, what is it, Sixty-fourth Street?”
We cross San Pedro and turn left on Crocker, with Mr. Ayers emptying his registry of every musician, athlete and music venue he can think of. It’s a typical jumble, though maybe fueled a bit more than usual by nervousness and excitement. We’ve been talking about this day for months, and it has been made all the more special by the appearance of Hong, who has a natural, easy way with Mr. Ayers. Hong admires and even envies Mr. Ayers’s relationship with music. For Hong, music is joy but it’s also work, and there is no easy way to separate the one from the other.
Down the long hall we walk. I open the door and the three of us step inside.
“I can smell the paint,” Mr. Ayers says, a bit stunned as he stands smiling in the center of the studio, eyes aglow. He points to the photo of himself with Yo-Yo Ma and giggles, then picks up the Schubert biography.
“He’s one of my favorite composers,” Hong says, and Mr. Ayers thanks him.
Like a kid on Christmas day, he doesn’t seem to know what to play with first. He runs a few scales on the piano, then zips open the vinyl bag to get at the string bass.
“Merry Christmas,” I tell him.
“This is huge,” Mr. Ayers says, getting reacquainted after roughly thirty years of playing violin and cello.
He’s right. The bass is so big it makes him look tiny, like the kid who fell in love with the instrument in Mr. Moon’s middle-school music class.
“I’ve waited almost two years to hear this,” I tell him.
At first, Mr. Ayers looks as if he’s wrestling a bear. The fingering is entirely different than on cello and violin, Hong tells me. But a few minutes into it, the instrument seems more natural in Mr. Ayers’s hands, and his left hand slides cleanly up and down the neck as his right hand plucks out a bluesy riff.
“He’s got the
groove back,” Hong exclaims. “That’s fantastic!”
Anna McGuirk, a neonatal nurse who donated the piano, arrives in time to help Mr. Ayers celebrate Christmas, New Year’s and the opening of the studio that will serve as the new home for an instrument that has been in her family for forty years. By coincidence, she’s the daughter of a carpenter from Cleveland, and after reading about Mr. Ayers, she thought he needed the piano more than she did. “An instrument has a soul,” McGuirk says. “Instruments need to get played, and now mine will. That means everything in the world to me.”
Mr. Ayers sets down his bass and plops himself back on the piano stool, warning that he isn’t much of a player. But the way he runs the scales this time suggests he’s been holding back on us. He picks up momentum as he limbers, and volume, too, and suddenly he is hunched over the keyboard and putting his shoulders into it, thunder-testing the walls of his new studio.
“What is that?” I ask Hong.
“Liszt,” he says with a look of amazement. “A Liszt piano concerto.”
“Can you play?” I ask, hoping Hong will take over on piano, with Mr. Ayers accompanying on bass.
“Not like that,” Hong says.
When Hong begins playing Mr. Ayers’s cello, the mood changes instantly. Nathaniel is at first awed and then crestfallen. Hong’s earlier sense of Mr. Ayers’s relationship with music wasn’t quite right, and he realizes that now. His own skill is almost too much for Mr. Ayers to bear.
“Oh, my God,” Mr. Ayers says. “I’ll never be able to play like that.”
True enough, he won’t. But he’ll be no less inspired by music than Hong or any other musician, and no one will play with more desire or love.
Shannon Murray and Patricia Lopez arrive to help christen the new studio. They were the ones who joined me at Second and Hill almost two years earlier. They were the ones who said they’d try to coax him in, warning me that this sort of thing can’t be rushed. He’d do it in his own time.