My assumptions are so quietly embedded I easily lose track of how dumb they can be.

At a small theater last night, awaiting the performance of show tunes like South Pacific’s “Gonna wash that man right out of my hair” I assumed hearing music my folks enjoyed would be nostalgic, chummy and familiar.

I assumed the music would remind me of Mom, a pianist who often pounded the daylights out of her precious baby grand, which dominated the living room of our Elmhurst ranch house like a revered guest of honor, which it was.

Both assumptions were wrong.

The sole instrument WAS a piano. Six performers DID sing “Some enchanted evening,” “Oklahoma!” and others, all composed a good 30 years before they were born.

But they made the music new. Brand new. Not different. NEW.
At least it was new to me.