Renee Fleming, Alan and Marilyn Bergman, and me

Several disparate strands of my long life as a journalist, an arts buff and a Philadelphian all came together serendipitously last Thursday. I'd like to share this exhilarating experience with you.

The evening began auspiciously enough. My wife and I had tickets to the Philadelphia Orchestra's opening concert— the formal debut of music director Yannick Nézet-Séguin (whom I'd never heard), featuring the soprano Renee Fleming (whom I've long worshipped from a distance but had never heard in person).

But when I arrived home about 5:30 p.m.— 90 minutes before the concert was to start— I found a message on my answering machine from my cousin, the songwriter Alan Bergman. He and his wife Marilyn— better known as Barbra Streisand's muses, the winners of three Academy Awards and 16 Oscar nominations— had come down to Philadelphia from New York on a whim to catch a preview performance of the Philadelphia Theatre Company's Stars of David, which includes an original song of theirs. (That musical celebration of Jews and Judaism opens October 24.)

The Orchestra concert was scheduled to begin at 7 p.m. at Verizon Hall, with no intermission. Stars of David was scheduled for 8 p.m. at the Suzanne Roberts Theatre, two blocks farther down Broad Street. We resolved to catch Yannick, Renee Fleming and the Orchestra and then catch the Bergmans at the end of their show.

My dad's roommate

But first, a word of very deep background.

My father's closest friend from second grade through college was a man named Herbert Gold. At Penn in the mid-"'30s they roomed together and played in the band (Herb on piccolo, my dad on clarinet).

After World War II Herb had a construction business that built homes and apartments on Long Island for the multitudes of servicemen then returning from the war and starting families. This boom was just beginning when Herb's partner suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack. The partner's widow withdrew her investment, so Herb desperately needed a new partner.

My dad's accountant, Mark Goell, urged him to seize this opportunity. Dad replied that he was struggling to build his own ladies' knitted-wear business and had no money to invest in Herb's. But Mark Goell, a forceful fellow, refused to take no for an answer. "You will do this," he insisted.

So Dad went into debt in order to become Herb's silent partner. And that investment has generated income for Dad ever since, without his lifting a finger. By helping out a friend in need, he helped himself as well.

Fountain of youth

My Dad subsequently got interested in folk dancing; and in 1962, perhaps emboldened by his successful partnership with Herb, he sold his own business to devote himself to promoting international good will through folk dancing. He launched a traveling dance troupe that lasted 35 years and did 300 dates a year all over the world at its peak.

He also got involved with International House, the graduate student residence in New York, where he created and ran many of its cultural programs. There he discovered the proverbial fountain of youth: a building full of bright, talented attractive people who remained young even as he grew older. He didn't quit until 2008, when he was 91.

Herb Gold, meanwhile, became a patron of the opera, supporting the Manhattan School of Music and helping to finance the careers of many young singers, including a then unknown named Renee Fleming. Herb died last November at the age of 95; my Dad is still hanging on at 96.

Familiar face

Back to Thursday night. When Renee Fleming and the Philadelphia Orchestra took their final bows, we rushed down Broad Street to the Suzanne Roberts. There a friendly usher let us slip into Stars of David for the last 20 minutes— in time to hear the Bergmans' song— and even pointed out where the Bergmans were sitting.

Afterward we schmoozed with the Bergmans for the first time in perhaps 20 years and followed them backstage to meet the cast and crew. Aaron Harnick, the show's producer, described Philadelphia to me as his ideal tryout venue for a future Broadway show— by virtue of its unique combination of sophisticated audiences, its proximity to New York and its access to high-level acting talent in both cities.

Then we drove the Bergmans to 30th Street Station to catch their 10:44 train back to New York. As we waited with them on the line for the train, I noticed, standing just a few people behind us…. Oh my God, Renee Fleming!

I promptly introduced myself to her as the son of Herb Gold's best friend. Then I introduced her to the Bergmans; she and they already knew of each other, of course. As they descended down the escalator they were chatting up a storm. I, who had never heard Renee Fleming in person before that night, had not only heard but had met her and perhaps helped foster a new friendship for her. What had begun as just another Thursday night out had ended as a Night to Remember.

Five lessons

Of course it helps to be a journalist with famous relatives. So why am I telling you this story?

Because, first, you can never know when fate will surprise you with unexpected opportunities— in business or at your leisure. Second, loyal friends and advisors whom you trust (like my Dad's accountant) can make a big difference in your life. Third, even the friends you make in second grade may be very important to you. Fourth, pursuing a life in the arts, as my dad and Herb Gold did, can generate huge emotional rewards even if you're not an artist yourself.

Fifth, the sort of serendipity I just described is especially endemic to Philadelphia— a city large enough to attract world-class players but intimate enough that you might accidentally bump into them in a way that you can't in New York or LA.

Life in a big city, I've observed, is like riding a raft down a fast-moving river: If you can't navigate it, it may destroy you. But if you can, the river will carry you effortlessly to all sorts of adventures you never imagined. Thursday night proved my point.♦


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