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It was not until I played with more music directors and guest conductors at New York Philharmonic, did I realize something peculiar about Mr. Boulez: he laughed a lot, but I never saw him smile. Lenny smiled and laughed plenty; Mehta always had that happy buddha grin; Leinsdorf alternated between locked-eyebrows-serious to loud-cackles-funny, and so did Maazel. Even the guy with the most hard-knock life of all, Karel Ančerl, kept a smile when some nosy donor asked about his music-making while shackled in Nazi camps. But Boulez, still called the "bad kid" of music -- do kids even smile? -- never smiled. He only laughed.

You'd notice it too, if you've been to any of our galas, fundraisers, or receptions. Boulez dealt out jokes, wisecracks, and provocations like gourmet chocolate truffles he didn't have to pay for, then he'd laugh. Most times, his audience joined him in mutual mischief. On rare occasions, when his words so horrified people on the receiving end, he'd laugh by himself in a sort of muted ambiguity. I remember at one special gala, a patron, half tipsy, was complaining about contemporary operas: "the lack of masterpieces, delightful melodies, beautiful productions, and capable singers," so said he. Then, he turned to our music director. "Monsieur Boulez, what do you think? How do we fix this? Opera is dead!"

Not missing a beat, Boulez responded: "Blow up all opera houses. That should solve the problem."

Then he laughed, for a solid moment, in a small circle composed of minor donors and season ticket holders, among whom only a few let out nervous chuckles. Simultaneously, Carlos Moseley appeared out of nowhere, and ushered Boulez to, presumably, rub elbows with some big-ticket VIPs. Those bejeweled dowagers and bespectacled literati left behind, who were still shocked by Mr. Boulez's words, reacted in two ways. They either looked at each other with various expressions of horror and incredulity, or stared into Mr. Boulez's vanishing back figure while alternating between looks of unadulterated admiration and feigned repulsion.

I raised my glass, ever so inconspicuously, to the direction that Mr. Boulez walked off to, and retreated from that defense line shattered to shambles by an impromptu offensive of a radical idea. Even when he meant to provoke, Boulez's casual attacks had more color and life than what was left in the fossilised blood veins of much of New York's self-anointed cultural elites.

Radical or not, ideas are better when they become reality. I haven't seen any opera house going up in flames, but in 1973, on the morning of a breezy summer day, when I came in for rehearsal at the Philharmonic Hall, all I saw was a ground floor completely devoid of any seats. Instead, pillows, cushions, and rugs laid about on the bare floor. For the next 3 years, this became a summer ritual: overnight, hundreds of chairs were ripped out of the ground floor, so we, the New York Philharmonic, could play seven Rug Concerts, for seven nights, in one week, to young hippies on the ground, and old bones who needed actual seats on the balcony.

At our very first Rug Concert, the third oboe zoomed in on an older gentleman sitting by himself on the balcony with a glaringly red tie. Old-timers who toured in the USSR, in no time, confirmed the most improbable optics:

Dmitri Shostakovich's here!

Every other month or so, stories about Shostakovich actually being a vampire or a humanoid stage prop of the Soviets would surface, in rehearsal break musings or intermission banters. So I was excited to see the living music legend in warm flesh and blood. None of us was a stage door John or Jill, but we jittered in our seats to get Shostakovich autographs, and violas carried out the mission brilliantly. They stormed the balcony to see the man and got him busy signing our score parts, and all was done before Boulez scurried onto the makeshift podium to kick off the Webern and Stravinsky.

Sadly, when I looked to the balcony after intermission, Shostakovich's seat was empty. He was nowhere to be found, as we confirmed and conferred amongst ourselves after standing ovations from both the balcony and the chairless ground.

"That must be a Soviet propaganda run to show him off," My principal commented. "Poor guy."

"Or maybe he was looking for non-Soviet human blood to drink." Tuba butted his head over to join the chat. "He looked more pale than a vampire."

"You've seen one?" A second violin winked at his own joke.

"You've not?“ The second oboe cleared his throat, strains of flush moved along his neck and around his temples. "Ames, Moseley, the whole board, especially Ames -- you've seen them?"¹ We gave each other a knowing look, and the oboist continued. "They suck off our contracts and pay, don't give a damn to health insurance, and want us to do more work for less money than Chicago and Phily. Why don't they just tell us to lie flat and don't move so they can fuck us over already!"

"Then we'll strike a silver pike into their hearts." Tuba spoke, his fist punching an imaginary target in the air, and he twisted that fist in slow motion like a meat grinder's last spin. The strike pun made us laugh in bitter anticipation. Very soon, if the vampires on top kept pushing us and sucking our livelihood for bloody fun, we'd have to strike.

"Excuse me, the most excellent gentlemen of the New York Philharmonic!" An aged voice dropped into our roars of laughter like a water balloon, landing softly on our ears before splashing over us to call attention to itself. We looked around and over, and located a slouched street-lamp-post of a man dressed in a three-piece suit one size too big for his body. The wrinkles and ridges tried to hide, but when his mouth moved, they all hurried to show off. "Where may I find the way to the music director's office?" He asked with a bright-eyed smile. We inquired his name -- not that we cared or were curious, but we were in a mood for more gossip now that we've covered the ground for Soviet propaganda and how to deal with vampires.

"Nikolai Nabokov, also a composer!" The old man replied. None of us pretended to know what that name meant. In a moment when curiosity overrode my desire for speculation, I offered to lead Nabokov to his destination. Maybe I could find out what this funny stranger's deal is.

The office door was open and the lights were on. Poking my head in, I knocked on the door and announced: "Monsieur Boulez, a Mr. Na--"

"Bonsoir Maestro Pierre ! Nikolai Nabokov here !" The old man who was trailing behind me in great labour just a second ago leapt ahead of me into the office and presented himself before I could finish the introduction line. He stepped onto an area of the rug so worn and smooth that's effectively a banana peel, and he slipped backwards with all fours in the air twerking and swirling like a cat in a tuxedo falling from a scaffolding. I rushed in to catch him -- wouldn't be funny if he breaks his old bones here! -- but he miraculously recovered his foothold and composure before I could touch him.

"Nabokov?" Our music director looked up from the thick score volume in his lap, over a pair of reading glasses. He was sitting on his desk, one so grand and bare that any antique dealer worthy of his calipers could sell it as mint condition bauhaus. Boulez focused on Nabokov first, then threw a quick glance to me that said: stay here till I sort out this fellow. I kicked the door close and stood behind this evening's strange visitor, with my hands behind my back, and my intercostal muscles more expanded than I breathe in for a long bar.

"Nikolai Nabokov I am indeed, a minor composer. Not as distinguished as the Great One to your concert tonight." The old man bowed. I had to contain my laughter tight in the belly button. Where did the geezer learn his manners?

"Oh. You brought red carpets?" Boulez put away the score, took off his reading glasses to look at Nabokov, and remained seated on his desk.

"Not red carpets, but I came in peace and with gifts!" Nabokov exclaimed, and from the inside of his suit -- I couldn't see clearly how -- he pulled out a large basket with a gaudy yellow cloth covering its top, and dangled it between his hands like a shrink would dangle a pendulum in front of a patient. "I think it is an excellent opportunity to show hospitality to the illustrious guest from behind the Iron Curtain."

"Don't break your basket." Boulez ignored the visitor's words and movements.

Nabokov stopped his pendulum. "All I mean is, Mr. Dmitri Shostakovich was at your concert, the first of its kind, a Rug Concert -- Woodstock in style and free-love in spirit -- for a Soviet composer! Imagine the immense shock, or rather, a breaking news, almost a scandal, for him to be seen here! Doubly sure, he is in New York city right now, on the last leg of his tour in the US, and --"

"Shostakovich?" The music director glided off the table, looked around for a second before realizing there was only one chair in the entire office and it was behind his desk. "Last time I checked, he was writing music that's like the third pressing of Mahler. Has he changed?"

There was a brief silence. I couldn't tell: did Boulez meant it, or he calculated the remark on the spot to provoke Nabokov?

Between the only possible answers of "yes" and "no", Nabokov chose "and" -- he evaded Boulez's question, and started his own spiel. "Dare I say, Maestro, I reckon he is a great admirer of yours, yet so rarely travels past the Iron Curtain. So very excellent was your Webern and Stravinsky, even for this old pair of Russian ears!" He patted on his ears with a sharp-boned hand. "Rumours abound that Mr. Shostakovich is a vampire, that's why the Soviets keep him watched closely. For curiosity, would you not want to see a living vampire who comes from the Soviet Union? Or for a surprise, a man in warm flesh and blood?"

At the drop of Nabokov's last syllable, Boulez responded: "What do you mean? Do you want him to find me and drink my blood, or should I find him and drink his blood?"

Then he laughed, first by himself, then joined by Mr. Nabokov in a duet of merriment. Neither of them seemed to heed an onlooker simultaneously partaking in their amusement. A slight nod from Boulez told me: thank you for staying. I get his drift.

I left the laughing duo in the office and cackled my way to the break room. My colleagues were all gone, only a few stagehands stayed to re-organize pallets and boxes, so I took some time to wander around the seat-free floor; it had an eerie charm as evening turned to night. I wish we had carried on this new tradition every summer after Boulez's tenure.

When I finally left the hall and headed into another sultry night of New York, I might have seen two figures not far ahead of me walking together, a lanky one and a stout one. The lanky one seemed to slouch in loose clothes and spoke like a bad comedian, the stout one carried a basket and cracked jokes in an accent that blunted the "r"s and swallowed the "h"s.

The first-ever Rug Concert week concluded our summer in high spirits, but the fall rolled around, and we still haven't gotten a labor deal or a better insurance plan. Pray for the devil you know, or you'd have it worse from the devil you don't: Ames elbowed Moseley aside and took negotiations into the territory of no face-to-face meetings, and down to a swamp of lawyers' dockets, demand letters, and vague threats of an ultimatum. At least Moseley talked to us, and sounded sincere enough wanting to cut a deal if and when Avery Fisher's Big Donation would materialize. The worst part? Ames was fully aware our contract would expire at midnight on September 20th, but just 3 hours after we opened on September 18th for season start and offered a concession to continue playing, he got away from the city on the pretext of vacation. What a guy.

Enough is enough. After our September 25th performance, the entire one hundred and six of us walked out and went on strike. And by "strike" we mean it. For 12 hours every day, on three-hour shifts, we picketed around Avery Fisher Hall. All of a sudden, random passers-by and complete strangers, who never cared about our work before, all felt entitled to jab a life lesson at us:

"You are doing the work you love! That should be compensation enough!" They'd giddily say, and we'd try to convince them that musicians are still humans with stomachs and scalps, therefore food on the table and roof over the top are not optional luxuries.

A week passed, Ames still refused to come to the negotiation table. Our mood was boiling over: if the board so wanted to drag us along, we'd happily "throw in a clown car and run over the whole circus in a dumpster fire", as tuba put it. I never knew he had such colorful words until then. Perhaps poets are indeed born of hard times.

In those hard times, when the daily picketing ended, we'd tumble into Local 802's office² for a pick-me-up. Cold pizza, greasy donuts, and powder-y coffee -- they fed our tummies and fuel conversations either to shoot the breeze or talk business with Rabinowitz, the union's lawyer³. And there he was, among scrawling papers and empty pizza boxes, running the math with the finance committee. The conclusion was swift and unanimous: this strike would be a long and hard one, and we must raise money because some of us were in dicey financial situations. Counting on our art friends' charity and goodwill is not a labor strategy.

"If it helps," Someone on the concert committee said, "We are planning a benefit concert."

"'Benefit' as in money coming to us, not away from us?" A skeptic asked.

"What else could it be?" A disproving look was cast on a cynical shrug. "Carnegie Hall is offering the venue for free. Ames can't block it in his wettest dream."

It took us a hot second to remember that Carnegie Hall was under a different management, so they need not answer to our board. A wave of elation swept over the room; donut chewing and coffee chugging got louder and more energetic.

"Thanks for keeping watch for us!" Tuba gave Rabinowitz a heavy back-pat.

"Can't take credit for that." Rabinowitz shook it off. "Thank your music director. He came up with the idea. He's the guy."

A sense of incredulity and epiphany overtook us. "Iceman came up with that? Seriously?" Someone asked, and the concert committee guy answered:

"Mr. Boulez proposed the benefit concert. He thought somewhere like Carnegie Hall might host, because obviously, Lincoln Center is off-limits for the time being. We asked Carnegie, they said yes. So a fundraising concert is coming up, soon-ish."

"Any program idea?" Half a donut in my mouth, I mumbled.

Definitely La Valse. Maybe Berlioz and some Baroque stuff. "Boulez said per his contract, he has to get greenlight from them to conduct,"⁴ -- I took "them" to mean the board, so Ames & Cronies, Inc. "If they say no, we can find whoever and he can help. We'll see and let the conductor pick his favorites."

"A keeper of a GMD⁵. Batting for the band and not sucking up to management," Rabinowitz commented. Amidst our munching and snacking, we gave affirmation in verbal uttering and physical movements.

Quick knocks came on the door, and we concurrently yelled "Come in (please)!" The proverbial devil -- the good devil -- we just spoke of, stepped in. He looked a little banged-up in spirit, but still intact in dignity and pride.

"They won't give me the permission." were his first words. He said those words matter-of-factly, without any inflection or detectable emotion. "I'm really sorry."

We gave a collective grunt to make our sympathy (to him personally) and displeasure (to the management broadly) known. Rabinowitz preemptively pulled up a chair for him. The rest of us, half went looking for any remaining pizza or donut to comfort him; the other half moved to cheer him up:

Sucks for them saying no to you, sucks for us to not have you directing, but you deserve some rest. Take the day off to relax! Don't worry about us, we'll be OK! No, of course, we won't be slacking off! Still practicing our chops when not picketing or planning. We're breaking their stonewall tactics. We know you could have stayed out of this labor strife entirely, so we really, really appreciate your solidarity.

"Is there anything you really want us to play?" the concert committee guy said, after running several conductors' names by the music director.

"If I say what's on the program, that won't be fair to the conductor you work with." said Boulez, still matter-of-factly.

"What about things you don't want us to play?" Tuba asked with a pointed intent.

"Go absolutely wild! Play the most schmaltzy music when I'm not around!" There was a playful tingle in his voice and a couple of people choked on their donut or coffee laughing.

I raised a calculated provocation: "I see, so let's do Tchaikovsky -- all-Tchaikovsky! You won't object, right?"

Over one mischievous glance at us, Boulez said: "Tchaikovsky? Are all of you breaking up with me?"

In tandem with him, we all laughed, jaded in our frustration, but renewed in our resolve to fight for another day, and encouraged in our hearts that the music head honcho was fighting alongside us. Some of us already accorded to him our admiration, some graduated to fanhood, and others only begrudging respect -- but by then, we all knew that we had a fighter, a joker spirit, and a keeper of a GMD to care for us and our music in his own, curious ways.