Eli Carmen, a musician, died the other day. Just another statistic - much like many others one sees in a newspaper or hears from friends or acquaintances. But Eli wasn't like most of the "others." Eli was special. As a musician he was as dominant a figure as there was in the profession. As a man he was not entirely without the frailties and the foibles most of us possess. But one quality shone through. Honesty. Honesty without compromise. His faults were such that one loved him still the better for them.
He was a good friend - asked no questions, passed no criticism, gave no advice unless asked.
As bassoonist, he was without peer. He did his work with pleasure, yet, perhaps with impatience - as if the challenge of the occasion did not sufficiently tax his superior abilities.
Re-examining our relationship in retrospect - I met Eli at one of my film recordings in the Forties. He substituted for my regular bassoonist who played the first chair with the New York Philharmonic and could not make the date. I remember that day well - as the film being recorded was about wildlife and the bassoonist's part was anything but the subservient voice usually relegated to that instrument in the movie scores of that era. The opening section of the film called for a bassoon statement, and as I raised my baton and turned to the woodwinds - Eli's face caught my eye. He was peering at me through the opening between the top of the music stand and the bottom of the clip-on light. His look wasn't hostile - but it wasn't friendly either. I remember the thought that crossed my mind at the time. Here was a substitute in a strange environment, face to face with an important solo! Apprehensively I delivered a downbeat and with the first note realized that something extraordinary was happening. I, for one, had never heard such bassoon tone. It was a sound that seemed to fill every corner of the studio, bounce off the walls and hit the microphones with gentle intensity and rhythmic grace. This was the beginning of an association and friendship that lasted for over 30 years.
He was my neighbor in the suburbs, and although we did not see much of each other - it was a comfort knowing that he was close by. Now he's gone and remains a legend and a memory - when he would have preferred to be an artist, a husband, and a father.
Someone once said: "Let us not lament too much the passing of our friends. They are not dead, but simply gone before us along the road which all must travel."
Au revoir, Eli - and if we are to meet again - I'm almost looking forward to it.