Thursday, April 22, 2010
They Couldn't See JACK
Contactular!
So, CONTACT! all caps exclamation mark is the new, new-music ensemble within the New York Philharmonic, and they are doing their best to raise its profile as this hip, edgy new thing—they're putting the public in direct CONTACT! with the ensemble and its composers by holding concerts in the more informal Symphony Space, inviting red-hot, tastemaking bloggers [cough cough] to its shows for free, and even allowing liveblogging on the premises to those who might so opt.
I opted out, but I could not resist the siren call of free Phil tix. Not that tickets were terribly expensive in the first place—I bought an extra ticket for my extra date (2 arms = 2 slots for arm-candy), and the house was small enough that everybody seemed to have a pretty good seat. I'd never actual been to a show in Symphony Space before (I know, I know), and it is a very different place to hear classical music. My auxiliary date thought it looked like a repurposed discotheque, and yeah maybe it does look a little cheap and gaudy, and yeah the acoustics are a little dry (more on that later), but it achieved what the Phil was obviously after, which was to let their collective hair down a bit.
Okay, there was something a little forced about the whole setup—the Phil's chamber group playing in front of an exposed brick wall, wearing the new-music "all black" uniform rather than the symphonic "concert black" uniform, and then the MCing, sheesh the MCing between each piece. John Schaefer is, to be sure, a treasure to the world of contemporary music, but every time I see him MC something it feels like that weird moment in the game show where Alex Trebek asks June from Yuba City about the hobbies she mentioned in the pre-interview. Alan Gilbert's remarks were articulate and pleasingly blunt, and Magnus Lindberg was UTTERLY ADORABLE, cannot stress that enough. Why not just give Lindberg the mike? Did adding yet a third facilitator to introduce the composers to the audience really make us feel more at home? I dunno.
(The funniest moment of Mandatory Informality actually came after the concert, when a really nice staff photographer apologetically asked Nico Muhly, with whom we were in mid-shmooze, if she could get a picture of him holding a plastic cup of beer instead of a plastic cup of wine. We didn't ask why—these were her instructions, she said—but I assume that wine was too snooty? They wanted more of a "Facebook kegger pix" vibe? It was completely not a big deal, and I've already made too much of it, but I swear it was very funny at the time.)
I'm not sure the pre-performance chitchat was terribly helpful to the audience, either. During Sean Shepherd's piece, These Particular Circumstances I found myself listening for the correlations between the titles of each of the twelve continuous movements of the piece and the musical materials of each before I finally realized I was enjoying the piece less this way than if I'd just sat there and listened.
More important than knowing what Shepherd's scheme was, was perceiving that Shepherd had conceived of a sturdy structural scheme, and yes one could, and it was satisfying. I also thought of Boulez, whose works are often structured as similar chains of "effects" explored singly in short, attacca movements movements, and who also features, like Shepherd, a richly colored, volatile, Frenchy style. But the voice was Shepherd's own, engaging rather than confrontational, not ashamed to wink at the audience once in a while. (Date #1 caught a reference to The Planets and tittered.) Your Friend & Mine Nico Muhly characterized Shepherd's style quite well in the intro to his own piece—"like a flock of birds turning upon a single point," he said or something like that, which is right! Alive and chaotic with tiny details, centered and organized invisibly, but perceptibly. I shall keep an eye out for Shepherd's name in the future.
He also came across quite well in the little intro-interview (INTROVIEW!)—small, handsome, charming. Danny likes this.
Nico's own piece, Detailed Instructions, showcased his by-now-familiar musical obsessions—the influence of Adams and Glass, yeah, and also his orchestrational obsessions: piccolo, viola (molte viole, no violins), low brass (trombone bass trombone, tuba). The first movement was positively arid, Gilbert further baring the piece's already exposed clockworks like Boulez conducting the Rite of Spring. Were these the right choices, compositional and interpretational, for a premiere in such an acoustically unappealing space? The audience could hear everything that was going on, which was impressive, but we could also hear everything that wasn't going on.
There were also balance problems, or at least one big balance problem—the viola is such a quiet instrument, when that were playing off of the brass or the woodwinds, it wasn't much of a contest; the hapless fiddlers would've had to lay into their instruments like orchestral soloists for the whole piece, which didn't happen, and sometimes they were totally inaudible.
THAT SAID. The slow second movement was lovely—very lovely—maybe one of the most moving things Nico's ever written, and the third was like a happy speedread through early Glass, constantly shifting and moving urgently forward. I would very much like to hear this again, especially with an amplified or closely recorded ensemble.
Since we're keeping score now, Nico was a hit in the interview as well, very funny and dressed stylishly as ever—a black, I don't know, tunic I guess? very long, uneven hem, under a deceptively conventional black jacket. Nice!
Matthias Pintscher (sharply cut black suit, skinny black tie, hot) explained that he was attracted to the Hebrew original of the very familiar text he set, from the Song of Songs, by the language's density of meaning; for me, there was also a sense, listening to the music, that this cryptic score was also an untranslated utterance of some kind, an exotic code. That pedal G being passed around the ensemble, what does it mean? What's the connection between the text and the logic of this score? Dissonant and atmospheric, it was too elaborately knotted for me to untangle cerebrally, and instead I experienced it as the expression of some primitive passion—think of the way that Solomon expresses his love in terms of beasts, in terms of sweet fragrances, and so do Pintscher's songs from Solomon's garden communicate, with strange noises, with wafting clouds of sound. Also worth noting that the soundworld of the piece survived, intact, its premiere in the funky space—it contained its own resonances.
The presence of Thomas Hampson at this event was almost surreal. He was the most famous person on the stage that night, by a longshot, and with the exception of his star-aura was dressed like everybody else, all in black, plus his trademark pompadour and a pair of reading glasses for his sheet music. His out-of-placeness was at once awesome (America's most celebrated opera man sings avant-garde music in intimate venue?? YES please) and awkward. His vocal instrument is amazing, and he sang a difficult score very passionately, but was he really the best guy for the role? Mightn't a less polished artist have had a more incisive take? (One of my dates suggested that his Hebrew was less than spot-on, as well.)
Anyway: three World Premieres, three successes. Put this shit in the WIN column. And I tease, but the social atmosphere was quite congenial; there wasn't a sharp line between HERE'S WHERE YOU SIT FOR THE CONCERT and HERE'S WHERE YOU CHILL OUT AFTER, so everybody milled around and it was kind of a party right there. Your favorite people showed up! Again! Nico's librettist, playwright Craig Lucas; to my delight, Matthias Pintscher's seat was RIGHT NEXT to ours, and right behind us were Timo Andres and Ted Hearne; Zachary Woolfe was there from the Observer, and Jordan Brown from Musical America, and I'm sure I'm forgetting somebody I'll regret but hooray anyway. I was actually feeling not so hot due to some lingering flu-y crap, so I didn't get to drink anything and didn't get to stick around very long, but it was a nice vibe and everybody seemed to be having a good time and I had a nice nap on the train back to New Haven, iTunesing the Redhooker album, which I seem to be doing an awful lot lately. But they are a post for another day! And with that fair reader I bid you whatever.
I opted out, but I could not resist the siren call of free Phil tix. Not that tickets were terribly expensive in the first place—I bought an extra ticket for my extra date (2 arms = 2 slots for arm-candy), and the house was small enough that everybody seemed to have a pretty good seat. I'd never actual been to a show in Symphony Space before (I know, I know), and it is a very different place to hear classical music. My auxiliary date thought it looked like a repurposed discotheque, and yeah maybe it does look a little cheap and gaudy, and yeah the acoustics are a little dry (more on that later), but it achieved what the Phil was obviously after, which was to let their collective hair down a bit.
Okay, there was something a little forced about the whole setup—the Phil's chamber group playing in front of an exposed brick wall, wearing the new-music "all black" uniform rather than the symphonic "concert black" uniform, and then the MCing, sheesh the MCing between each piece. John Schaefer is, to be sure, a treasure to the world of contemporary music, but every time I see him MC something it feels like that weird moment in the game show where Alex Trebek asks June from Yuba City about the hobbies she mentioned in the pre-interview. Alan Gilbert's remarks were articulate and pleasingly blunt, and Magnus Lindberg was UTTERLY ADORABLE, cannot stress that enough. Why not just give Lindberg the mike? Did adding yet a third facilitator to introduce the composers to the audience really make us feel more at home? I dunno.
(The funniest moment of Mandatory Informality actually came after the concert, when a really nice staff photographer apologetically asked Nico Muhly, with whom we were in mid-shmooze, if she could get a picture of him holding a plastic cup of beer instead of a plastic cup of wine. We didn't ask why—these were her instructions, she said—but I assume that wine was too snooty? They wanted more of a "Facebook kegger pix" vibe? It was completely not a big deal, and I've already made too much of it, but I swear it was very funny at the time.)
I'm not sure the pre-performance chitchat was terribly helpful to the audience, either. During Sean Shepherd's piece, These Particular Circumstances I found myself listening for the correlations between the titles of each of the twelve continuous movements of the piece and the musical materials of each before I finally realized I was enjoying the piece less this way than if I'd just sat there and listened.
More important than knowing what Shepherd's scheme was, was perceiving that Shepherd had conceived of a sturdy structural scheme, and yes one could, and it was satisfying. I also thought of Boulez, whose works are often structured as similar chains of "effects" explored singly in short, attacca movements movements, and who also features, like Shepherd, a richly colored, volatile, Frenchy style. But the voice was Shepherd's own, engaging rather than confrontational, not ashamed to wink at the audience once in a while. (Date #1 caught a reference to The Planets and tittered.) Your Friend & Mine Nico Muhly characterized Shepherd's style quite well in the intro to his own piece—"like a flock of birds turning upon a single point," he said or something like that, which is right! Alive and chaotic with tiny details, centered and organized invisibly, but perceptibly. I shall keep an eye out for Shepherd's name in the future.
He also came across quite well in the little intro-interview (INTROVIEW!)—small, handsome, charming. Danny likes this.
Nico's own piece, Detailed Instructions, showcased his by-now-familiar musical obsessions—the influence of Adams and Glass, yeah, and also his orchestrational obsessions: piccolo, viola (molte viole, no violins), low brass (trombone bass trombone, tuba). The first movement was positively arid, Gilbert further baring the piece's already exposed clockworks like Boulez conducting the Rite of Spring. Were these the right choices, compositional and interpretational, for a premiere in such an acoustically unappealing space? The audience could hear everything that was going on, which was impressive, but we could also hear everything that wasn't going on.
There were also balance problems, or at least one big balance problem—the viola is such a quiet instrument, when that were playing off of the brass or the woodwinds, it wasn't much of a contest; the hapless fiddlers would've had to lay into their instruments like orchestral soloists for the whole piece, which didn't happen, and sometimes they were totally inaudible.
THAT SAID. The slow second movement was lovely—very lovely—maybe one of the most moving things Nico's ever written, and the third was like a happy speedread through early Glass, constantly shifting and moving urgently forward. I would very much like to hear this again, especially with an amplified or closely recorded ensemble.
Since we're keeping score now, Nico was a hit in the interview as well, very funny and dressed stylishly as ever—a black, I don't know, tunic I guess? very long, uneven hem, under a deceptively conventional black jacket. Nice!
Matthias Pintscher (sharply cut black suit, skinny black tie, hot) explained that he was attracted to the Hebrew original of the very familiar text he set, from the Song of Songs, by the language's density of meaning; for me, there was also a sense, listening to the music, that this cryptic score was also an untranslated utterance of some kind, an exotic code. That pedal G being passed around the ensemble, what does it mean? What's the connection between the text and the logic of this score? Dissonant and atmospheric, it was too elaborately knotted for me to untangle cerebrally, and instead I experienced it as the expression of some primitive passion—think of the way that Solomon expresses his love in terms of beasts, in terms of sweet fragrances, and so do Pintscher's songs from Solomon's garden communicate, with strange noises, with wafting clouds of sound. Also worth noting that the soundworld of the piece survived, intact, its premiere in the funky space—it contained its own resonances.
The presence of Thomas Hampson at this event was almost surreal. He was the most famous person on the stage that night, by a longshot, and with the exception of his star-aura was dressed like everybody else, all in black, plus his trademark pompadour and a pair of reading glasses for his sheet music. His out-of-placeness was at once awesome (America's most celebrated opera man sings avant-garde music in intimate venue?? YES please) and awkward. His vocal instrument is amazing, and he sang a difficult score very passionately, but was he really the best guy for the role? Mightn't a less polished artist have had a more incisive take? (One of my dates suggested that his Hebrew was less than spot-on, as well.)
Anyway: three World Premieres, three successes. Put this shit in the WIN column. And I tease, but the social atmosphere was quite congenial; there wasn't a sharp line between HERE'S WHERE YOU SIT FOR THE CONCERT and HERE'S WHERE YOU CHILL OUT AFTER, so everybody milled around and it was kind of a party right there. Your favorite people showed up! Again! Nico's librettist, playwright Craig Lucas; to my delight, Matthias Pintscher's seat was RIGHT NEXT to ours, and right behind us were Timo Andres and Ted Hearne; Zachary Woolfe was there from the Observer, and Jordan Brown from Musical America, and I'm sure I'm forgetting somebody I'll regret but hooray anyway. I was actually feeling not so hot due to some lingering flu-y crap, so I didn't get to drink anything and didn't get to stick around very long, but it was a nice vibe and everybody seemed to be having a good time and I had a nice nap on the train back to New Haven, iTunesing the Redhooker album, which I seem to be doing an awful lot lately. But they are a post for another day! And with that fair reader I bid you whatever.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
About Time
You're probably wondering why I haven't been blogging lately, and the reason why is pretty fascinating! I was walking past an apartment building in Chinatown when a woman on the third floor opened her window and accidentally knocked a flowerpot onto my head. I lost all memory of my previous life and was taken in by a gang of street toughs, who enlisted me in their high-stakes craps game. I won and lost a fortune, but during a raid, when a police baton duplicated exactly the cranial blow that erased my memory, my name and my love of classical music came back in a rush, and I returned home to post this entry.
Just kidding, the reason why is super boring. Let's talk about the Kronos Quartet, instead!
I.
So I went to the Kronos Quartet's tribute to Terry Riley couple weeks back and basically it was the most fun thing ever. Obviously I mean the concert was, but the whole trip down to the city was a blast, since I was reunited with a favorite Greg AND got to chat with two of the boys in Kronos AND hobnobbed with some of your FAVORITE INTERNET CELEBRITIES, such as Steven Swartz and Darcy James Argue and Sidney Chen. You love them! Also spotted, but did not dare to speak to, La Monte Young and Marian Zazeela, and somebody who looked vaguely familiar and later turned out to be the Edge, as in the lead guitarist from U2, but as I was saying LA MONTE YOUNG AND MARIAN ZAZEELA were there, wearing their La Monte Young and Marian Zazeela outfits. Love.
Okay, now, MUSIC. The Kronos recital was part of a series at Carnegie Hall, where the quartet was playing a whole weekend's worth of concerts down in Zankel, ladling out basically every food group from their buffet of recitals: Music from Around the World, Collaborations with Western Vernacular Artists, etc. Same thing they do on their records—on the one hand you've got like Short Stories, which was one of the first classical tapes(!) I ever bought myself, during those formative years when the existence tape full of concert music for string quartet that freaked my parents out (Sharp, Zorn, etc.) came as something of a revelation—and then on the other hand you've got something like Nuevo, where every piece on the program was unified not only by nationality but by the distinctive stamps of star producer (Santaolalla) and arranger (Golijov), even though basically every piece was not only by a different composer but in a different genre (pop and folk and concert music all together).
But for all the awesomeness inherent to Kronos's project of Exploding the Recital, my favorite program of theirs is still the vastly more traditional Composer Portrait–style show. Their all-Górecki/all-Schnittke/all-Glass albums are far from the most typical records they ever put out, but for my money they're some of the best. I like my Kronos thick 'n' meaty (chawmp).
And so I was super stoked to check out this all-Riley thing, which surveyed the quartet's history with Riley from the now-classic (the words "Terry Riley" have been synonymous with Kronos even longer than the words "leather pants") to the brand-new. Or, I guess the survey ran the other way round, starting with a world premiere: Another Secret eQuation was written for string quartet plus Young People's Chorus of New York, and wow Riley did a ridiculously good job of writing for children. The very first gesture in the piece is an exploitation of that thing only kids can do with their voices, that super-high squealing noise they're always making on the playground or wherever. The sound of children at play always cuts through me like an icy dagger, so imagine the intensity of hearing an ENTIRE CHORUS of screeching children, one of those acoustical effects whose pressure you can actually feel inside your ears. The slow crescendo to full, deafening screech was like hearing a hungry mewing kitten outside my door, and then slowly opening it to see AN ARMY OF HUNGRY, MEWING KITTENS, AS FAR AS THE EYE COULD SEE, innocent supplication amplified to the point of menace.
As an effect, it was of a piece with the piece's message to the audience. The text consisted of two semi-cryptic lines, one accusing (something like, simply "they don't care about us"—dammit, why didn't I take notes? I assumed the exact words would be printed in the program and then of course forgot them long before I got around to sitting around and writing this) and one consoling, after an I guess somewhat Buddhist fashion (something like, "the universe just makes it up as it rolls along"). So, the sort of thing that would seem like hippie cliché if it weren't couched in the work of an intensely original artist. The point is that the lyrics openly preached to, chastised the audience, in the voices of these children, while the children themselves actually seemed to be having a great deal of fun, bopping along with the rhythms and really getting into all of Riley's extended techniques (the singers also, whilst squealing, scratched their nails on the outsides of their choral folders, and later the piece had them affecting a nasal sort of quasi-Oriental tone). The music was challenging, but clear; the chorus was the focus of attention, and the string quartet was playing second fiddle.
Riley had, in other words, flipped around the triangular power-dynamic of composed music: the pleasure of the performers, specifically the choir, was obviously as high a priority—if not higher—than the pleasure of the audience (we were, nevertheless, quite pleased); the audience was not just entertained but confronted by the composer and performers (we were, nevertheless, highly entertained). It was a cute piece, but not just cute, and not condescending to the young performers. Thrilling, actually.
The rest of the program feature Kronos without guests. Now, one of the things that makes the string quartet such an exciting medium is the relatively limited resources of the ensemble. You've got to flesh out each musical idea, and introduce the germ of the next, without wasting a player or leaving anything out, with just four (basically) monophonic instruments. Different composers have responded to this challenge in all different ways—you can meticulously construct the piece to respond to the demands of the form; you can smash through the classical paradigm to create a new kind of string quartet; you can "cheat" and supplement the string quartet with electronic resources (and of course, "electronic resources" run the gamut from taped accompaniment to interactive digital tech).
The Zankel concert demonstrated that, over the course of his partnership with Kronos, Riley has basically done all of these things, and done all of them well. The rest of the concert continued in reverse chronological order, ending with "Good Medicine" from the old Salome Dances for Peace, an airtight movement of interlocking loops (for acoustic string quartet), and starting with, before the intermission, the New York premiere of Transylvanian Horn Courtship (for string quartet alternating between detuned Stroh instruments, and amplified conventional instruments with digital looping). The Stroh instruments for this performance were the product of Kronos's partnership with Walter Kitundu, MacArthur Genius and Kronos luthier-in-residence. The Stroh violin, invented during the era of acoustic recording (wax cylinders and such), before microphones, was designed with a trumpetlike bell coming out of the top, to focus their sound towards the bell of the recording equipment, instead of a having a pair of F-holes carved into the wood. Riley had the instruments tuned down a fifth, for an even more uncanny sound, as if the performance were emanating from some remote place and time.
…Except for the movements where the players switched back to "modern" instruments, and played against live digital loops of themselves. Live looping is a tricky thing, since a pedal-stomp misplaced by one 32nd-note can trainwreck the whole megillah—but it has the advantage of conceptual rigor; all the music you hear has been created live for you, onstage, no "cheating."
The electronic accompaniment to the next piece—The Welcoming Baptism of Sweet Baby Grace—was taped, but also quite focused, consisting entirely of a sampled tamboura, the instrument that usually provides the drone for performances of Indian classical music. Obviously, one reason for Kronos's fruitful relationship with Terry RIley is their mutual fascination with non-Western music, and Kronos' investment in repertoire beyond the Euro-American pays off with a left-hand technique perfectly matched to Riley's Indian influences. I'm tempted to call this piece a sort of meditation or prayer, except wouldn't most of this program fit that description? That Secret eQuation is certainly some kinda sacred work (the combination of young voices and stringed consort accompaniment reminds me of those amazing choral albums Fretwork has been putting' out), and of course Salome Dances for Peace, though radically different in style and composed decades earlier, is another invocation of the same spirit, isn't it?
And then of course, "One Earth One People One Love" from Sun Rings, a piece written as a commission from NASA and originally realized as a huge multimedia spectacular for string quartet with electronics, video projections, and choir (no choir or video tonight). Befitting the cosmic scope of the commission, the electronic accompaniment pulls out all the stops—space sounds and speeches from the NASA library, prerecorded strings, and percussion with dub reggae–style echo delays (suggesting again the influence, on Riley's composition, of non-European music, and possibly also the influence of smoking big old giant splits?). Newish Kronos cellist and new-music sex symbol Jeff Zeigler's solo soared—I forgot how much of this piece is all about him. Gorgeous! His playing, I mean. We need a recording of this, ASAP.
And so after augmenting the string quartet with a choir, a tamboura, custom-made anachronistic instruments, conceptually focused and cinematically expansive electronic accompaniments, we ended up with Salome Dances for Peace, whose "Good Medicine" movement sounds more or less how you'd expect a Terry Riley string quartet to sound—which is actually pretty atypical for any piece by Terry Riley—sort of "minimalist" I guess—and everybody made it look easy. Riley wrote a meaty piece, and Kronos bopped through those elaborate, layered rhythms like they was nothin'.
II.
Their latest album, RAINBOW, is an unusual project for them, starting with the digipak (oh did I say "digipak"? I meant DOUBLE DIGIPAK). The logo says Smithsonian Folkways, not Nonesuch; and the record's subtitle is Music of Central Asia Vol. 8, which tells you right away this is not really an integral part of the Kronos oeuvre, but something else, and indeed! The artists are listed as "Kronos Quartet with Alim & Fargana Qasimov and Homayun Sakhi," but really it's the other way around—Alim & Fargana Qasimov, and Homayun Sakhi, with Kronos Quartet as backup band. Not that they don't play with plenty of personality (dude they're still Kronos how could they not), but they play modestly, letting their guests take the spotlight at every moment.
The title track (a.k.a. Rangin Kaman) by Afghani rebab player (rebabist?) Sakhi, has Kronos accompanying like the orchestra in a concerto, in a long piece that takes the listener on a musical tour to all four corners of Afghanistan; but while world-music enthusiasts will enjoy tasting the rainbow of Afghani musical culture, the disc's greatest pleasure, as far as I'm concerned, is the astounding voice of Azerbaijani singer Alim Qasimov. In this, our post–Peter Gabriel age, I think we've all grown to accept and appreciate the high, pinched sound of great Central Asian vocalists, but Qasimov's instrument—full and ringing even in its topmost registers—is really something else, striking even to big dumb Ugly American ignoramuses such as myself. Again, Kronos's accompaniment is just that (accompaniment) but it fleshes the sound out nicely.
The DVD that comes with Rainbow is not a huge deal. There's also an Interactive Glossary of the instruments played on the recording, so you can see what they look and sound like as well as what they're called, which is brilliant and terrifically useful and educational, and while the documentary about the educational initiative funding these recordings is really sort of a long commercial, it might be worth watching just for the footage of those classes of adorable kids playing their little hearts out on all kinds of different Central Azn instruments. The documentary about the recording of the album is a bit more satisfying, however—not that the interviews are so illuminating or that there's so much performance footage (nay and nay), but the cinematography is quite fine, and it's interesting to see what kind of work actually went into the making of the album. A string quartet that can't improvise and doesn't speak Azerbaijani, working with a singer who can't read music and doesn't speak English? I would ASPHYXIATE FROM SHEER FRUSTRATION, but Qasimov and Kronos, no doubt thanks largely to the highly capable arrangers and translators we see in the film, instead make beautiful music together. If you're at all a fan of music from this region, or if you enjoyed Kronos' recent foray thereinto on their disc Floodplain, you should probably check this one out; if you're looking for a disc of avant-garde string quartet repertoire, well you can keep on looking.
Next post: the NY Phil's latest CONTACT! concert.
Just kidding, the reason why is super boring. Let's talk about the Kronos Quartet, instead!
I.
So I went to the Kronos Quartet's tribute to Terry Riley couple weeks back and basically it was the most fun thing ever. Obviously I mean the concert was, but the whole trip down to the city was a blast, since I was reunited with a favorite Greg AND got to chat with two of the boys in Kronos AND hobnobbed with some of your FAVORITE INTERNET CELEBRITIES, such as Steven Swartz and Darcy James Argue and Sidney Chen. You love them! Also spotted, but did not dare to speak to, La Monte Young and Marian Zazeela, and somebody who looked vaguely familiar and later turned out to be the Edge, as in the lead guitarist from U2, but as I was saying LA MONTE YOUNG AND MARIAN ZAZEELA were there, wearing their La Monte Young and Marian Zazeela outfits. Love.
Okay, now, MUSIC. The Kronos recital was part of a series at Carnegie Hall, where the quartet was playing a whole weekend's worth of concerts down in Zankel, ladling out basically every food group from their buffet of recitals: Music from Around the World, Collaborations with Western Vernacular Artists, etc. Same thing they do on their records—on the one hand you've got like Short Stories, which was one of the first classical tapes(!) I ever bought myself, during those formative years when the existence tape full of concert music for string quartet that freaked my parents out (Sharp, Zorn, etc.) came as something of a revelation—and then on the other hand you've got something like Nuevo, where every piece on the program was unified not only by nationality but by the distinctive stamps of star producer (Santaolalla) and arranger (Golijov), even though basically every piece was not only by a different composer but in a different genre (pop and folk and concert music all together).
But for all the awesomeness inherent to Kronos's project of Exploding the Recital, my favorite program of theirs is still the vastly more traditional Composer Portrait–style show. Their all-Górecki/all-Schnittke/all-Glass albums are far from the most typical records they ever put out, but for my money they're some of the best. I like my Kronos thick 'n' meaty (chawmp).
And so I was super stoked to check out this all-Riley thing, which surveyed the quartet's history with Riley from the now-classic (the words "Terry Riley" have been synonymous with Kronos even longer than the words "leather pants") to the brand-new. Or, I guess the survey ran the other way round, starting with a world premiere: Another Secret eQuation was written for string quartet plus Young People's Chorus of New York, and wow Riley did a ridiculously good job of writing for children. The very first gesture in the piece is an exploitation of that thing only kids can do with their voices, that super-high squealing noise they're always making on the playground or wherever. The sound of children at play always cuts through me like an icy dagger, so imagine the intensity of hearing an ENTIRE CHORUS of screeching children, one of those acoustical effects whose pressure you can actually feel inside your ears. The slow crescendo to full, deafening screech was like hearing a hungry mewing kitten outside my door, and then slowly opening it to see AN ARMY OF HUNGRY, MEWING KITTENS, AS FAR AS THE EYE COULD SEE, innocent supplication amplified to the point of menace.
As an effect, it was of a piece with the piece's message to the audience. The text consisted of two semi-cryptic lines, one accusing (something like, simply "they don't care about us"—dammit, why didn't I take notes? I assumed the exact words would be printed in the program and then of course forgot them long before I got around to sitting around and writing this) and one consoling, after an I guess somewhat Buddhist fashion (something like, "the universe just makes it up as it rolls along"). So, the sort of thing that would seem like hippie cliché if it weren't couched in the work of an intensely original artist. The point is that the lyrics openly preached to, chastised the audience, in the voices of these children, while the children themselves actually seemed to be having a great deal of fun, bopping along with the rhythms and really getting into all of Riley's extended techniques (the singers also, whilst squealing, scratched their nails on the outsides of their choral folders, and later the piece had them affecting a nasal sort of quasi-Oriental tone). The music was challenging, but clear; the chorus was the focus of attention, and the string quartet was playing second fiddle.
Riley had, in other words, flipped around the triangular power-dynamic of composed music: the pleasure of the performers, specifically the choir, was obviously as high a priority—if not higher—than the pleasure of the audience (we were, nevertheless, quite pleased); the audience was not just entertained but confronted by the composer and performers (we were, nevertheless, highly entertained). It was a cute piece, but not just cute, and not condescending to the young performers. Thrilling, actually.
The rest of the program feature Kronos without guests. Now, one of the things that makes the string quartet such an exciting medium is the relatively limited resources of the ensemble. You've got to flesh out each musical idea, and introduce the germ of the next, without wasting a player or leaving anything out, with just four (basically) monophonic instruments. Different composers have responded to this challenge in all different ways—you can meticulously construct the piece to respond to the demands of the form; you can smash through the classical paradigm to create a new kind of string quartet; you can "cheat" and supplement the string quartet with electronic resources (and of course, "electronic resources" run the gamut from taped accompaniment to interactive digital tech).
The Zankel concert demonstrated that, over the course of his partnership with Kronos, Riley has basically done all of these things, and done all of them well. The rest of the concert continued in reverse chronological order, ending with "Good Medicine" from the old Salome Dances for Peace, an airtight movement of interlocking loops (for acoustic string quartet), and starting with, before the intermission, the New York premiere of Transylvanian Horn Courtship (for string quartet alternating between detuned Stroh instruments, and amplified conventional instruments with digital looping). The Stroh instruments for this performance were the product of Kronos's partnership with Walter Kitundu, MacArthur Genius and Kronos luthier-in-residence. The Stroh violin, invented during the era of acoustic recording (wax cylinders and such), before microphones, was designed with a trumpetlike bell coming out of the top, to focus their sound towards the bell of the recording equipment, instead of a having a pair of F-holes carved into the wood. Riley had the instruments tuned down a fifth, for an even more uncanny sound, as if the performance were emanating from some remote place and time.
…Except for the movements where the players switched back to "modern" instruments, and played against live digital loops of themselves. Live looping is a tricky thing, since a pedal-stomp misplaced by one 32nd-note can trainwreck the whole megillah—but it has the advantage of conceptual rigor; all the music you hear has been created live for you, onstage, no "cheating."
The electronic accompaniment to the next piece—The Welcoming Baptism of Sweet Baby Grace—was taped, but also quite focused, consisting entirely of a sampled tamboura, the instrument that usually provides the drone for performances of Indian classical music. Obviously, one reason for Kronos's fruitful relationship with Terry RIley is their mutual fascination with non-Western music, and Kronos' investment in repertoire beyond the Euro-American pays off with a left-hand technique perfectly matched to Riley's Indian influences. I'm tempted to call this piece a sort of meditation or prayer, except wouldn't most of this program fit that description? That Secret eQuation is certainly some kinda sacred work (the combination of young voices and stringed consort accompaniment reminds me of those amazing choral albums Fretwork has been putting' out), and of course Salome Dances for Peace, though radically different in style and composed decades earlier, is another invocation of the same spirit, isn't it?
And then of course, "One Earth One People One Love" from Sun Rings, a piece written as a commission from NASA and originally realized as a huge multimedia spectacular for string quartet with electronics, video projections, and choir (no choir or video tonight). Befitting the cosmic scope of the commission, the electronic accompaniment pulls out all the stops—space sounds and speeches from the NASA library, prerecorded strings, and percussion with dub reggae–style echo delays (suggesting again the influence, on Riley's composition, of non-European music, and possibly also the influence of smoking big old giant splits?). Newish Kronos cellist and new-music sex symbol Jeff Zeigler's solo soared—I forgot how much of this piece is all about him. Gorgeous! His playing, I mean. We need a recording of this, ASAP.
And so after augmenting the string quartet with a choir, a tamboura, custom-made anachronistic instruments, conceptually focused and cinematically expansive electronic accompaniments, we ended up with Salome Dances for Peace, whose "Good Medicine" movement sounds more or less how you'd expect a Terry Riley string quartet to sound—which is actually pretty atypical for any piece by Terry Riley—sort of "minimalist" I guess—and everybody made it look easy. Riley wrote a meaty piece, and Kronos bopped through those elaborate, layered rhythms like they was nothin'.
II.
Their latest album, RAINBOW, is an unusual project for them, starting with the digipak (oh did I say "digipak"? I meant DOUBLE DIGIPAK). The logo says Smithsonian Folkways, not Nonesuch; and the record's subtitle is Music of Central Asia Vol. 8, which tells you right away this is not really an integral part of the Kronos oeuvre, but something else, and indeed! The artists are listed as "Kronos Quartet with Alim & Fargana Qasimov and Homayun Sakhi," but really it's the other way around—Alim & Fargana Qasimov, and Homayun Sakhi, with Kronos Quartet as backup band. Not that they don't play with plenty of personality (dude they're still Kronos how could they not), but they play modestly, letting their guests take the spotlight at every moment.
The title track (a.k.a. Rangin Kaman) by Afghani rebab player (rebabist?) Sakhi, has Kronos accompanying like the orchestra in a concerto, in a long piece that takes the listener on a musical tour to all four corners of Afghanistan; but while world-music enthusiasts will enjoy tasting the rainbow of Afghani musical culture, the disc's greatest pleasure, as far as I'm concerned, is the astounding voice of Azerbaijani singer Alim Qasimov. In this, our post–Peter Gabriel age, I think we've all grown to accept and appreciate the high, pinched sound of great Central Asian vocalists, but Qasimov's instrument—full and ringing even in its topmost registers—is really something else, striking even to big dumb Ugly American ignoramuses such as myself. Again, Kronos's accompaniment is just that (accompaniment) but it fleshes the sound out nicely.
The DVD that comes with Rainbow is not a huge deal. There's also an Interactive Glossary of the instruments played on the recording, so you can see what they look and sound like as well as what they're called, which is brilliant and terrifically useful and educational, and while the documentary about the educational initiative funding these recordings is really sort of a long commercial, it might be worth watching just for the footage of those classes of adorable kids playing their little hearts out on all kinds of different Central Azn instruments. The documentary about the recording of the album is a bit more satisfying, however—not that the interviews are so illuminating or that there's so much performance footage (nay and nay), but the cinematography is quite fine, and it's interesting to see what kind of work actually went into the making of the album. A string quartet that can't improvise and doesn't speak Azerbaijani, working with a singer who can't read music and doesn't speak English? I would ASPHYXIATE FROM SHEER FRUSTRATION, but Qasimov and Kronos, no doubt thanks largely to the highly capable arrangers and translators we see in the film, instead make beautiful music together. If you're at all a fan of music from this region, or if you enjoyed Kronos' recent foray thereinto on their disc Floodplain, you should probably check this one out; if you're looking for a disc of avant-garde string quartet repertoire, well you can keep on looking.
Next post: the NY Phil's latest CONTACT! concert.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
The Great Compression
If you’re using the ordinary MP3 audio system like, say, the audio system on your computer or an iPod, you probably won’t notice any difference between the clips. If, however, you’re using a high-priced, high-quality audio system (the two aren’t necessarily the same thing), you’ll notice the difference immediately. Given the ubiquitousness of the iPod and other crap audio systems, you’d be pretty stupid to pay out more bucks and give up more storage space for a CD-quality MP3.Which—what? An iPod is a crap system? What is he talking about? In fact, the iPod is a pretty decent piece of hardware: the digital-to-analog converter in some models in fact the same as you'll find in high-end, audiophile components; there's no power cord to generate noise; the internal connections (since the device is so tiny) are extremely short and therefore less likely to make trouble than the connections inside your CD player. It has its problems, but it's far from "crap." And so our host responds:
I can’t believe that you have used an iPod to play back any of the lossless formats it supports through good-quality headphones and still think it is a “crap audio system”. I worry that if your idea of “mediocre” starts somewhere beyond this, then you’re hardly typical of even classical music purchasers – indeed it may well be that your idea of “good” surpasses the quality of the electronics used to record most classical albums in the first place.To which, "Let me guess," ACD suggests; "You think Bose is a high-end, top quality audio system, right? I’d also guess you’re under 30." In other words, the answer is no. No, A.C. Douglas has never listened to a high-quality sound file on an iPod; he is speaking from sheer ignorance; his only response is to accuse his interlocutor of being—shock!—young.
I would actually be a little surprised to learn that Proper Discord is under 30, considering how knowledgeably and capably he writes. It would seem to me that he has some real experience listening to, writing about, and working with classical music. In ACD's spirit of enlightened debate, however, let me suggest that Douglas is over 70, monstrously obese, lonely and sad. Anybody taking wagers?
Monday, March 22, 2010
Q: What's Shy, Mighty, and Forthcoming from Nonesuch Records?
A: It looks as if Timothy "Timo" Andres' album of two-piano music, Shy and Mighty, has been slated for a May 4 release on the record label that Adams and Reich and those guys call home. You're so excited! You've been hearing about his music for years, but you live out in the boonies and never get to hear it! Well it is YOUR LUCKY DAY, sweetie. (May 4 is.) ANYWAY, you can listen to some clips from the cycle here; you can find more info here, plus an album cover photo that will make you wonder how I forgot to include him in my roundup of new-music sex symbols. Rowr!
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Non Compos
See, if you're not a Sequenza21.com addict like Danny, then you might not be aware that that is where the voices of dissent gathered, in the comments section of this post on the subject. The complaint: a $50 entrance fee. Their battle cry: comp the comp comp!
Some very interesting people weighed in in; Corey Dargel (whom we also love), points out that $1000 would in fact be way too low for a commission, when you consider the time and trouble that goes into fulfilling it—but of course this isn't a commission. With a commission, you sign a contract that says you will write something, and then you have to write it. This is totally voluntary, an excuse to stop that score for Pierrot Plus from rattling around in your desk drawer.
This being the Internet, of course, there are also less-than-thoughtful responses. One commenter sniffs that his music won't be of interest to 8bb because a "serial composers [sic] chances aren’t very good these days," which really makes no sense, not just because I wasn't actually planning to enter, I just showed up for the whine-tasting is something of a childish attitude, and not just because I am entitled to performances of the music I am willfully writing in what I perceive to be an outmoded style is a slightly crazy attitude, but also just because this is eighth blackbird we are talking about, and they are HUGE FANS of some serial composers, so sweetie please do your homework.
And what is this? "...8bb has never had particularly strong community interaction, having been guided early on by success-driven agendas." Dude, no. Haven't they actually been pretty good about commissioning young composers? And, now think about this, what the hell is wrong with a "success-driven agenda"? What does the word "success" mean in this sentence, and why should we be so afraid of it? Should 8bb be shooting for failure? Who has a "failure-driven agenda"? (If you are my father, do not answer that question.) If they weren't "successful" then we wouldn't even be having this conversation, now would we, because nobody would want eighth blackbird to play their music.
But what's most striking about these comments is the peculiarly adversarial relationship that some of the commenters are imagining between composers and performers, formulated by one composer as a "men-women, white-black, straight-gay" sort of power imbalance. 8bb won their Grammy "[on] the backs" of the composing class!
Wait, what? I mean, well sure, if you want to get all Marx-y about it, then yes there is an imbalance of power between performers who have dedicated their careers to performing new works and composers of new works, because such performers are so few, and DMA composers are so many. And yes there is an imbalance of power between eighth blackbird and, well, YOU (I am assuming, when I write this, that you are not a world-class composer of new music), because they have earned so many laurels doing their jobs, and you are still on your way, with much to prove.
But then let's take this economical analysis of the situation the rest of the way and you will discover that you, composer, DO NOT NEED eighth blackbird. They do not have a monopoly on musical performance. You can play your own music! Your friends can play your music! You can form a collective of likeminded composers and performers and record it yourselves, distribute it yourselves. It's the 21st century! YouTubes are everywhere! Seize the means of production! Composers of the world, unite! You have nothing to etc but your etc.
Is $50 too high of an entry fee? Okay probably yes, just because a lower entry fee would have encouraged more submissions and been less of a PR headache. I'm not against an entry fee in principle, though, just because it seems like a smart way to stem the cataract of scores that you KNOW is already gushing in their transom. And look: if you think that an entry fee is too great a gamble, then fine, don't pay it. You're free! No one can make you enter this contest.
The important message here, though, is that this adversarial attitude is Not Healthy. Not for your career, and not for Music. Performers are not the enemy—performers are, or can be, and should be, your friends! Corey Dargel, you are going to be in Chicago this weekend, right? eighth blackbird, are you going to be in Chicago? Why don't you guys check out his show, which I am pretty sure will be great, and then afterwards he can buy you some beers (because of the POWER IMBALANCE), and then you can all be friends. Sound cool? Okay now hug.
I Don't View the Prospect with Equanimity
I meant to post our good friend M. Croche's entry in the Parterre Box procrastination contest sometime last week, but never quite got around to it.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
OMGWTFNYCO
New York City Opera just put up the new schedule for the next season, and it is INSANE. Not surprises: Stephen "Pippin" Schwartz's Séance on a Wet Afternoon, Leonard "Mass" Bernstein's A Quiet Place, and Schönberg's Erwartung, all of which were predicted by the enigmatic La Cieca, astrologer to the stars.
SURPRISES: the other two one-acts completing the Erwartung-evening are, get this, La Machine de l’être, a new work by John Zorn, and Neither by Morton Feldman and Samuel Beckett; there will also be a benefit matinee performance of the brief, brilliant, savage Where the Wild Things Are by Oliver Knussen and Maurice Sendak.
People, THIS is how you make modern opera appealing to audiences. You don't apologize, you don't pander, you don't bait and switch. Zorn fans know exactly what they're getting themselves into with his music, and if they stick around for Feldman and Schönberg they're going to get even more of what they love. Expect the Miller Theatre/The Rest Is Noise crowd to turn out. Actually, can I please have three tickets for this, right now, please?
Stephen Schwartz—I don't know his Séance, but the man has demonstrated that he can write for voices and pit band, that he can tell a story with music. Surely some tiny fraction of the millions who have swarmed to Wicked will be curious to hear the guy do opera?
I was pleased, if not thrilled, by the announcement of this season's City Opera programming; this time around, color me thrilled. More here.
SURPRISES: the other two one-acts completing the Erwartung-evening are, get this, La Machine de l’être, a new work by John Zorn, and Neither by Morton Feldman and Samuel Beckett; there will also be a benefit matinee performance of the brief, brilliant, savage Where the Wild Things Are by Oliver Knussen and Maurice Sendak.
People, THIS is how you make modern opera appealing to audiences. You don't apologize, you don't pander, you don't bait and switch. Zorn fans know exactly what they're getting themselves into with his music, and if they stick around for Feldman and Schönberg they're going to get even more of what they love. Expect the Miller Theatre/The Rest Is Noise crowd to turn out. Actually, can I please have three tickets for this, right now, please?
Stephen Schwartz—I don't know his Séance, but the man has demonstrated that he can write for voices and pit band, that he can tell a story with music. Surely some tiny fraction of the millions who have swarmed to Wicked will be curious to hear the guy do opera?
I was pleased, if not thrilled, by the announcement of this season's City Opera programming; this time around, color me thrilled. More here.
Monday, March 8, 2010
A Nose Not to Be Sniffed At
What to say about The Nose? No, really, I mean that. What to say about it? I walked out of the hall speechless, unable to articulate what I'd just seen. It is what it is, I'll say that. It demands to be taken on its own terms. While it may not be the greatest opera of the 20th-century, or even the greatest opera written by Dmitri Shostakovich, it is a thrill, an unjustly neglected work, and easily the greatest opera about an anthropomorphic, disembodied nose since Arianna a Naso.
The Met's first production of the piece, by visual artist William Kentridge, most certainly does take the piece on its own terms, answering the absurdity of the libretto with visual absurdities, and answering the flatly confrontational music with a visually flat, confrontational aesthetic. In response to Shostakovich's musical collages and abstractions, Kentridge has gleefully ransacked the genius of the early Soviet avant-garde to pack the set with found Russian texts and with geometric shapes; the moving projections constantly superimposed upon them recalled the Russian masters of animation and montage. Using a newspaper-office scene as his starting point, Kentridge adopted a color scheme that was black and white and red all over, plastered with faux newsprint and popping with sensational "headlines" (you can switch off your Met Titles: supertitles are projected onstage, incorporated seamlessly into the text-heavy visual design), and the rumor-maddened townsfolk of the chorus are constantly reading giant, stylized papers as they march across the stage.
There were a few opening-night glitches; in one scene, the a cartoon horse supposed to be pulling the set across the stage was accidentally projected a few too many feet ahead of it; at the end of Act One, the curtain fell on top of the set instead of in front, and had to be tugged down by an unseen stagehand; my post-HOC drinking buddies, all of whom (oddly enough) were apparently fluent in Russian, complained of misspellings in the Cyrillic text projected onstage, and I even caught one in an English supertitle (FIGHTEN when it should've been FRIGHTEN, if you're reading this and work for the Met). But I think that's pretty much it as far as flaws in the execution.
Am I focusing too much on the visuals? Am I making it sound as if William Kentridge, and not the beautiful, gifted, charming South Pacific baritone Paolo Szot was the star of the show? Well y'know what, he (Kentridge) was. Of course, each member of the cast received warm applause, especially Szot, and even more especially Andrei Popov, whose performance as the Police Inspector required him to sing most of his lines way up in the treble clef; living musical treasure Valery Gergiev earned the audience's general adoration (though as he ascended the podium to begin the piece, we heard, bizarrely, what sounded like a solitary boo. What the fuck happened there?? "Maybe he was saying 'bra-VOO,'" I suggested to a friend afterward; "Maybe he was saying BOO-URNS," replied friend. Or maybe he was a disgruntled emigré booing Gergiev's cozy relationship with BFF Vladimir Putin? It was hella Slavs in the house Friday night).
But the greatest applause went to Kentridge. He deserved it. Not only did the production rise to the challenges of a, let's face it, very challenging opera, it was a work of art in its own right. When I was in school, I used to look at the photographs of the old Ballets Russes and its collaborations between the most daring composers, dancers, and visual artists of their era and think, why not now? Why couldn't we have an institution today that marries the most gifted visual artists to the greatest performers and composers of classical music? At The Nose, I felt as if it were finally happening, as if I were finally seeing opera live up to its potential as a place where challenging music, classic literature and deeply satisfying visual art can appear on a single stage and add up to something even greater.
Okay, but no, let's talk about the music. The history of Russian art having been written at the barrel of a gun, it's difficult to imagine that Shostakovich might once have been responsible for some of his era's hairiest avant-gardisms, and the sound of The Nose will certainly come as a shock to anyone familiar with Shostakovich chiefly through his Greatest Hits. It does have its moments of weird beauty, however, brought to glowing life by Gergiev's band and by the cast's perplexingly vast parade of minor players, and when the score's ostentatious complexity became baffling, as it was surely designed to, it was never allowed to become totally obscure.
For me, Szot was the great unknown here, since I am a neglectful faggot and have not kept up with the world of Musical Theatre. Would he have the musical chops, or the vocal power, to get his part across from the stage of the Metropolitan Opera? Answer: YES. He rose to the opera's musical challenges as ably as its considerable dramatic challenges—he made me care about an unappealing character's progress through a series of impossible situations.
If only there were an HD broadcast this season, to record Szot's performance; if only there were plans to revive this production at the house. Everyone should get a chance to see this thing. The first unambiguous artistic triumph brought into existence by the Gelb regime and a resounding vindication of its values, the synergy of the Kentridge/Gergiev/Szot Nose represents everything the opera can be. It's enough to revive one's hope for opera as a medium, and for the Metropolitan Opera as an institution.
The Met's first production of the piece, by visual artist William Kentridge, most certainly does take the piece on its own terms, answering the absurdity of the libretto with visual absurdities, and answering the flatly confrontational music with a visually flat, confrontational aesthetic. In response to Shostakovich's musical collages and abstractions, Kentridge has gleefully ransacked the genius of the early Soviet avant-garde to pack the set with found Russian texts and with geometric shapes; the moving projections constantly superimposed upon them recalled the Russian masters of animation and montage. Using a newspaper-office scene as his starting point, Kentridge adopted a color scheme that was black and white and red all over, plastered with faux newsprint and popping with sensational "headlines" (you can switch off your Met Titles: supertitles are projected onstage, incorporated seamlessly into the text-heavy visual design), and the rumor-maddened townsfolk of the chorus are constantly reading giant, stylized papers as they march across the stage.
There were a few opening-night glitches; in one scene, the a cartoon horse supposed to be pulling the set across the stage was accidentally projected a few too many feet ahead of it; at the end of Act One, the curtain fell on top of the set instead of in front, and had to be tugged down by an unseen stagehand; my post-HOC drinking buddies, all of whom (oddly enough) were apparently fluent in Russian, complained of misspellings in the Cyrillic text projected onstage, and I even caught one in an English supertitle (FIGHTEN when it should've been FRIGHTEN, if you're reading this and work for the Met). But I think that's pretty much it as far as flaws in the execution.
Am I focusing too much on the visuals? Am I making it sound as if William Kentridge, and not the beautiful, gifted, charming South Pacific baritone Paolo Szot was the star of the show? Well y'know what, he (Kentridge) was. Of course, each member of the cast received warm applause, especially Szot, and even more especially Andrei Popov, whose performance as the Police Inspector required him to sing most of his lines way up in the treble clef; living musical treasure Valery Gergiev earned the audience's general adoration (though as he ascended the podium to begin the piece, we heard, bizarrely, what sounded like a solitary boo. What the fuck happened there?? "Maybe he was saying 'bra-VOO,'" I suggested to a friend afterward; "Maybe he was saying BOO-URNS," replied friend. Or maybe he was a disgruntled emigré booing Gergiev's cozy relationship with BFF Vladimir Putin? It was hella Slavs in the house Friday night).
But the greatest applause went to Kentridge. He deserved it. Not only did the production rise to the challenges of a, let's face it, very challenging opera, it was a work of art in its own right. When I was in school, I used to look at the photographs of the old Ballets Russes and its collaborations between the most daring composers, dancers, and visual artists of their era and think, why not now? Why couldn't we have an institution today that marries the most gifted visual artists to the greatest performers and composers of classical music? At The Nose, I felt as if it were finally happening, as if I were finally seeing opera live up to its potential as a place where challenging music, classic literature and deeply satisfying visual art can appear on a single stage and add up to something even greater.
Okay, but no, let's talk about the music. The history of Russian art having been written at the barrel of a gun, it's difficult to imagine that Shostakovich might once have been responsible for some of his era's hairiest avant-gardisms, and the sound of The Nose will certainly come as a shock to anyone familiar with Shostakovich chiefly through his Greatest Hits. It does have its moments of weird beauty, however, brought to glowing life by Gergiev's band and by the cast's perplexingly vast parade of minor players, and when the score's ostentatious complexity became baffling, as it was surely designed to, it was never allowed to become totally obscure.
For me, Szot was the great unknown here, since I am a neglectful faggot and have not kept up with the world of Musical Theatre. Would he have the musical chops, or the vocal power, to get his part across from the stage of the Metropolitan Opera? Answer: YES. He rose to the opera's musical challenges as ably as its considerable dramatic challenges—he made me care about an unappealing character's progress through a series of impossible situations.
If only there were an HD broadcast this season, to record Szot's performance; if only there were plans to revive this production at the house. Everyone should get a chance to see this thing. The first unambiguous artistic triumph brought into existence by the Gelb regime and a resounding vindication of its values, the synergy of the Kentridge/Gergiev/Szot Nose represents everything the opera can be. It's enough to revive one's hope for opera as a medium, and for the Metropolitan Opera as an institution.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Liveblogging REDISCOVERED PROKOFIEV
Phew what a liveblog that was! If you're wondering what the hell all that was about, there was, up in here, a live broadcast from Yale University of some extremely rare Prokofiev pieces, headed up by pianist Boris Berman, one of Prokofiev's very greatest champions.
8:21 Okay if you're just joining the concert, you missed an EXCELLENT duet between Robert Blocker and Boris Berman, playing waltzes for four hands. Boris Berman is delivering some fine commentary between pieces, which he hopes will not duplicate the information in the program, which, how often does THAT happen. Double-bravo, Berman. Okay the ballet music is starting.
8:24 The sound and picture are remarkably fine. I've got one computer streaming full screen this whilst I, thanks to the generosity of a certain someone, am blogging it on a borrowed laptop, and even in full screen there's very little distortion of the image. But the sound is what counts more than anything, and crankin' it on my stereo, I've got few complaints (although, after that raucous piano duet, my neighbors might have a few).
8:30 Berman's claims for Trapeze as a major work are pretty well born out by this performance.
8:32 Uh oh—buffering problems. I'ma pause this stream and see if that helps?
8:33 It didn't help much. The ADVANTAGE of watching this via live stream, of course, is that when the stream is less than smooth, I can have a drink of this beer instead of worrying too much about it.
8:36 Cripes those fiddles are ON FIRE. Fully committed.
8:39 1st violin is playing con sordino now—I can't believe how well orchestrated this piece is, given the funky instrumentation: 2 violins, clarinet, oboe, bass. By all rights, this should result in instruments picking up some really unidiomatic materials, or unsettling gaps in the texture, or SOMETHING, but no, the parts snap together like a jigsaw puzzle.
8:43 Wait I said two violins, that is clearly a VIOLA. Christ, I am going to VIOLA HELL for that.
8:45 Oh god, the switchboard is lighting up, the angry calls are coming in, LOOK, HE WAS PLAYING IN HIS UPPER REGISTERS, I'M WATCHING THIS ON A TINY SCREEN, ANYONE COULD HAVE MADE THAT MISTAKE.
8:49 Was totally enraptured by more excellent string writing—then alienated by more streaming problems. I think if I'm going to watch this in HD with my DSL connection I can't keep consulting the e-program. NO WASTING PRECIOUS BANDWIDTH.
8:51 The phone rang. I paused the stream to answer it. It was a pollster. Whoever paid for that poll is going to hell.
8:53 [applauding] Hey I'm gonna go get my laundry out of the dryer, brb.
9:00 Back. Hey, I can see pianist Ilya Poletaev in the fourth row! HI ILYA!
9:07 More excellent remarks from Berman—they're going to bring on LIVE DANCERS for this piece, y'all.
9:08 Hahaha those outfits are AMAZING.
9:11 I'm fully going to allow this. There is something super-Soviet about those dudes' tops.
9:13 BERMAN IS CLAPPING RHYTHMICALLY.
9:15 The stream just cut out totally. "Off Air" it says at the bottom of the screen. Attempting to refresh.
9:16 Annnnnnnnd we're back. At least it wasn't my fault this time—the number of viewers online is listed at the bottom of the screen, and it dropped from 80 to nobody and is still rising.
9:17 Connection still jittery.
9:24 I think it would be much harder to make a case for this piece as a major work—Berman remarked that the intended context of the original performance, an outdoor athletic exhibition, didn't offer much room for subtlety in the score, but even with a grain of salt, it's hard for me to get terrifically excited about this on the concert stage. It's easy to see why Berman, as he put it, didn't want to deprive the work of its physical component—it doesn't really transcend its incidental role.
9:29 Opera excerpts coming up. I am rather stoked, actually. I need a lot more Russian opera in my life.
9:31 Berman is giving a detailed synopsis of the scene; the opera is apparently a farce about students, love, and arctic exploration. I am very, very sad that it was never completed beyond the first fifteen minutes.
9:35 Actually, from that description I expected something of a throwaway work, but this is really, really lovely. These harmonies are actually, like, intoxicating—and Berman's playing is making a complex introduction sing out.
9:37 How much longer until these webcasts come with subtitles? THEN we will TRULY be living in the future.
9:47 I am now eating a delicious dinner whilst enjoying the opera scene. I have to say, the singers seem very well-suited to this repertoire, just in terms of their instruments.
9:55 Streaming jitters keep coming back, past few minutes, grr. There's also the technical matter of miking singers who won't stand still, but that's rather to be expected, ain't it.
9:59 [applauding s'more]
10:00 The End.
8:21 Okay if you're just joining the concert, you missed an EXCELLENT duet between Robert Blocker and Boris Berman, playing waltzes for four hands. Boris Berman is delivering some fine commentary between pieces, which he hopes will not duplicate the information in the program, which, how often does THAT happen. Double-bravo, Berman. Okay the ballet music is starting.
8:24 The sound and picture are remarkably fine. I've got one computer streaming full screen this whilst I, thanks to the generosity of a certain someone, am blogging it on a borrowed laptop, and even in full screen there's very little distortion of the image. But the sound is what counts more than anything, and crankin' it on my stereo, I've got few complaints (although, after that raucous piano duet, my neighbors might have a few).
8:30 Berman's claims for Trapeze as a major work are pretty well born out by this performance.
8:32 Uh oh—buffering problems. I'ma pause this stream and see if that helps?
8:33 It didn't help much. The ADVANTAGE of watching this via live stream, of course, is that when the stream is less than smooth, I can have a drink of this beer instead of worrying too much about it.
8:36 Cripes those fiddles are ON FIRE. Fully committed.
8:39 1st violin is playing con sordino now—I can't believe how well orchestrated this piece is, given the funky instrumentation: 2 violins, clarinet, oboe, bass. By all rights, this should result in instruments picking up some really unidiomatic materials, or unsettling gaps in the texture, or SOMETHING, but no, the parts snap together like a jigsaw puzzle.
8:43 Wait I said two violins, that is clearly a VIOLA. Christ, I am going to VIOLA HELL for that.
8:45 Oh god, the switchboard is lighting up, the angry calls are coming in, LOOK, HE WAS PLAYING IN HIS UPPER REGISTERS, I'M WATCHING THIS ON A TINY SCREEN, ANYONE COULD HAVE MADE THAT MISTAKE.
8:49 Was totally enraptured by more excellent string writing—then alienated by more streaming problems. I think if I'm going to watch this in HD with my DSL connection I can't keep consulting the e-program. NO WASTING PRECIOUS BANDWIDTH.
8:51 The phone rang. I paused the stream to answer it. It was a pollster. Whoever paid for that poll is going to hell.
8:53 [applauding] Hey I'm gonna go get my laundry out of the dryer, brb.
9:00 Back. Hey, I can see pianist Ilya Poletaev in the fourth row! HI ILYA!
9:07 More excellent remarks from Berman—they're going to bring on LIVE DANCERS for this piece, y'all.
9:08 Hahaha those outfits are AMAZING.
9:11 I'm fully going to allow this. There is something super-Soviet about those dudes' tops.
9:13 BERMAN IS CLAPPING RHYTHMICALLY.
9:15 The stream just cut out totally. "Off Air" it says at the bottom of the screen. Attempting to refresh.
9:16 Annnnnnnnd we're back. At least it wasn't my fault this time—the number of viewers online is listed at the bottom of the screen, and it dropped from 80 to nobody and is still rising.
9:17 Connection still jittery.
9:24 I think it would be much harder to make a case for this piece as a major work—Berman remarked that the intended context of the original performance, an outdoor athletic exhibition, didn't offer much room for subtlety in the score, but even with a grain of salt, it's hard for me to get terrifically excited about this on the concert stage. It's easy to see why Berman, as he put it, didn't want to deprive the work of its physical component—it doesn't really transcend its incidental role.
9:29 Opera excerpts coming up. I am rather stoked, actually. I need a lot more Russian opera in my life.
9:31 Berman is giving a detailed synopsis of the scene; the opera is apparently a farce about students, love, and arctic exploration. I am very, very sad that it was never completed beyond the first fifteen minutes.
9:35 Actually, from that description I expected something of a throwaway work, but this is really, really lovely. These harmonies are actually, like, intoxicating—and Berman's playing is making a complex introduction sing out.
9:37 How much longer until these webcasts come with subtitles? THEN we will TRULY be living in the future.
9:47 I am now eating a delicious dinner whilst enjoying the opera scene. I have to say, the singers seem very well-suited to this repertoire, just in terms of their instruments.
9:55 Streaming jitters keep coming back, past few minutes, grr. There's also the technical matter of miking singers who won't stand still, but that's rather to be expected, ain't it.
9:59 [applauding s'more]
10:00 The End.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Nun of the Above
On my way to her first opera, Hildegard, on Friday night, I was thinking again about Sarah Kirkland Snider’s music, and how I might descri...
-
First! Everybody buy the new Kronos Quartet CD, which has liner notes by one of my favorite Gregs. The Nonesuch.com store has it on sale, ...
