Zbignew Tribeca, music critic for the Tribune knew immediately Stanley Kowalski, the bassist, was a genius. The sort of conclusion some critics reach before breakfast and never revisit afterward. It had little to do with the music itself. To Zbignew Tribeca, the reused chords were a moral position. A lack of banter was a refusal to participate in the culture of empty chatter, a phrase Tribeca used despite being paid to produce it. When Kowalski played the same venue over and over, Tribeca praised his “site-specific resistance to touring capitalism,” ignoring the possibility that the venue was five blocks from the Kowalski’s apartment and served a decent hot and sour. When Kowalski played his bass seated instead of standing, Tribeca hailed it as a daring assault on the cult of physical virtuosity. Nobody asked whether the chair was more comfortable. Other critics raised objections. Perhaps sitting down was easier on his back. These critics were dismissed as literal-minded people who thought music was made by musicians rather than by ideas. Kowalski himself made no claims. He avoided interviews because he found them exhausting. He played the same venue because the owner paid promptly. He sat because he had thrown out his back lifting a freezer and saw no reason to pretend this was art.

When Tribeca finally interviewed him, the questions arrived fully preloaded with theory. Why the restraint. Why the austerity. Why the refusal to evolve.

“I just do what works,” said Stanley Kowalski.

This struck Zbignew Tribeca like a Zen koan. He nodded gravely, wrote furiously, and later described the statement as a “radical rejection of intention,” – what critics say when they ran out of nouns. Kowalski never read the article. In the end, both were satisfied. Zbignew Tribeca discovered genius. Stanley Kowalski found a way to keep playing without unnecessary trouble. Each believed deeply in his own interpretation, which is how culture continues to function.