A Beast in a Jungle

Pay Attention! The Beast has moved.

2013-11-03T15:49:00.002-08:00

This blog has moved.

Come over here.

Do it now.

Don't make me say "Please."

Do what Manuela says!
Photo of Mauela Horn by Mark and Tracey Photography

San Francisco Opera: Falstaff

2013-10-31T08:45:00.000-07:00

A post on SFO's Falstaff is here:
http://abeastinajungle.com/2013/10/31/san-francisco-opera-falstaff/

Looking this cheap takes a lot of effort...

2013-10-29T00:52:00.000-07:00

There was an interesting Op-Ed in the NY Times this weekend about writing, and getting paid for it (or more specifically, being asked to write something for free).

It reminded me of a guy who contacted me last summer, offering to send me a DVD of Kenneth Branagh's film version of The Magic Flute to review. I wrote back saying sure, send it, and it arrived about a week later. He soon contacted me, not once, but numerous times asking when the post would appear, hoping I would write about it before the film's US release. As I took it, what he was essentially asking in return for mailing me a free DVD of a seven year-old film was that I would pretty much drop everything, sit down and watch it (and pay close enough attention for more than two hours so that I could write about it intelligently), and then spend another two to three hours (at least) writing about it, so that his company might have some good reviews to use when the film came out in theaters. Tired of being hassled about it, I just decided I wasn't going to watch the damn thing at all.

The film came and went in theaters. Poof! Did you miss it?

Never mind that if the distributor was going to make any money on the film it would come over an extended period of time as people added it to their DVD collection based on online reviews or word of mouth, not from the box-office revenue of the theatrical release. Of course Joe Marketing dude didn't really seem to get that, either. He apparently just thought that getting a free copy of a DVD would motivate me to willingly be a cog in their machine. If he had at least taken the time to read this blog he would have known that I'm not even an especially huge fan of Mozart's operas, with the exception of Cosi Fan Tutte, which, by the way, is what Branagh should have spent someone's $27,000,000 on in the first place.

If I were so inclined, having read someone else's favorable review, I could now buy that DVD on Amazon for less than $15.00. If I remove the hoped-for pleasure of viewing and actually enjoying the film, based on the marketer's incentive, writing that post would have been worth about $5 an hour to me. If it didn't please me, the time spent watching would be added into the equation, lowering my hourly rate to somewhere between $2.50 and $3.00 an hour.

So.... yeah- I'll get right to that. Yep. Thanks for that opportunity?

"But what about the joy of writing it? You're a blogger, right? You don't get paid for what you write anyway!" Well yes, on both counts that it is for the most part true: I really do enjoy writing about the arts, but I enjoy it because I get to choose what I write about. I didn't start this for money, free tickets, or DVDs. I started it because I found myself frequently disagreeing with Josh Kosman's opera reviews and after discovering a few other local blogs, especially Patrick Vaz's, I was inspired to start my own.

There are only so many hours in a life, and at this point if I'm going to do something that is essentially for someone else's benefit, at least on a monetary level, and I really do want to stress that qualifier, it's because I believe in what the artist is doing, I have a genuine interest in their work, and I want other people to experience it. In other words, it interests me to see them succeed. For example this past weekend I received an email from a singer whom I've seen before and whose performances I've really admired. She wrote asking if I would be interested in a copy of her most recent CD. I replied that I would, though it may take me some time to review it, so the choice was really hers. She's an artist whose work I admire, so I'm interested in helping promote her, just like I want to promote going to hear the San Francisco Symphony, or seeing an opera or a play- I write about these things because I want you to go, with the old-fashioned hope you'll enjoy it as much as I do. I'm trying to sell you something I think you'll enjoy, or in some cases warn you against wasting your money.

So if you want me to write something for your interests, on your schedule, I'd be happy to do that, but you're going to have to pay me, bitches.

Alonzo King LINES Ballet: Collective Strength on Writing Ground

2013-10-28T23:54:00.001-07:00

An awareness of community, manifested in numerous ways, pervades nearly every aspect of Alonzo King LINES Ballet's stunning fall season program, which opened last weekend at YBCA's LAM Research Theater.

In King's program note he quotes John Muir:

"When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe."

The existence of these connections, the danger which comes from threatening them, and the power resulting from their maintenance, forms the spine of Writing Ground, King's collaboration with writer Colum MCCann. The latter's poetry inspired the program's design of fourteen verses, titled to invoke religious and historical points of reference or states of mind. Music and movement are sometimes juxtaposed, somtimes combined to pinpoint the fragile and complex nature of the universe as suggested by Muir's quote. The musical selections, especially when the Quran's Sura XVII is preceded and followed by sacred Jewish texts, and the drama which accompanies them, is breathtaking, bordering on heartbreaking. At 40 minutes and fourteen sections, it's a long piece, but it feels like every aspect has been well thought out- the dancers, costumes, and lighting, are fully engaged to make every moment feel vital to the whole. Writing Ground is one the most thought-provoking, rewarding works I've seen in a long time.

Also on the program is the world premiere of Concerto for Two Violins, titled after, and propelled by Bach's music of the same name. As the company moves through its paces in the outer movements, there are nods to both Balanchine and Lucinda Childs and there's a sharp focus in King's choreography which makes everything here seem essential. However, the heart of the work is its central Largo movement, performed by Meredith Webster, Kara Wilkes, David Harvey and Michael Montgomery. Here the four dancers take turns engaging, entwining, releasing and surrendering to each other in a series of gorgeously executed waves which rise to crests on the verge of crashing at any moment, suggesting the precarious nature of being, and how the support, and perhaps presence, of others keeps the individual afloat. It's simply magnificent to watch.

Go see this. Five performances remain from October 30 through November 3. Tickets and more informaton can be found here.

San Francisco Opera's Dutchman: Flotsam and Jetsam

2013-10-24T00:47:00.001-07:00

Wagner's Der fliegende Holländer (The Flying Dutchman) holds a unique place in the composer's body of work: it's easily the most of accessible of his major operas, containing set pieces, arias, duets and other trappings that fit well within the casual fan's expectations, including a relatively straightforward, familiar-feeling plot. There aren't any rings, knights, swans, grails, Gibichungs, and other strange and alienating elements to deal with. There's no incest taking place and no convoluted family trees of gods to figure out. Musically it's also unique in that it has actual tunes which stick in one's head after hearing it as well as a healthy dose of what makes Wagner's music so, well, Wagnerian. It's his one opera that can easily entertain and educate newcomers to his music as well as deliver the goods to the die-hard Wagner freaks. If Dutchman were a Woody Allen film (and wouldn't Wagner love that analogy?) it would be Sleeper- a classic in its own right, but one that only hints at what's to come. But despite all it has going for it, it's not bullet-proof, and the current San Francisco Opera production which set sail Tuesday night at the War Memorial felt like sitting through Shadows and Fog- a lot of assembled talent used to very little effect.

It obviously didn't help matters when General Director David Gockley fired the director and set designer Petrika Ionesco a week before opening night for murky reasons which reek of the usual "artistic differences," but that reason doesn't quite add up because it's a co-production with Belgium’s Opera Royal de Wallonie, which premiered in Liege in 2011, with- that's right, Ionesco at the helm. So what gives? If it sucked in Liege, wouldn't Gockley know that way before last week? Like two years ago? I don't pretend to know how these things work, but it can't be all that complicated and one wonders why these things weren't ironed out beforehand if Gockley felt elements of the Liege version weren't suitable for the provincial sensibilities of San Francisco (by the way, as I mentioned in yesterday's post, what I found online of the Liege production looks pretty damn good). From the audience's perspective it's hard to know the exact toll axing Ionesco has had on the production, but it's undoubtedly had a domino effect and even elements of the production which aren't up to snuff (the costumes by Lili Kendaka either irritate or bore, depending on the scene) that may have had little to do with it become tainted by the contretemps, I've already heard of it being referred to as "Dutchgate."

Things go awry from the very beginning when one of the most thrilling overtures ever written for an opera got an unexpectedly slapdash treatment from the pit under conductor Patrick Summers. It sounded like there was never a rehearsal. The brass bleated where they should have blared, winds came in late, and the immense sweeping waves of sound which should have filled the house came across as mere ripples. While this disappointment was taking place, Senta, played by Lise Lindstrom in her company debut, stood atop a house, gazing at a portrait of the Dutchman's eyes while a stormy sea was projected behind her. The sea turned to a large close-up of the Dutchman's closed eyes, and the effect was kind of disgusting, akin to looking at a poorly executed knock-off of a Chuck Close self-portrait that turns a lurid blood-red like something out of a Dario Argento movie. Wrongly, the impression it made is that Senta, in her demure Laura Ingalls Wilder dress, was a naive character out of a Bronte novel (either sister will do), instead of a woman whose strange inner demons manifest themselves in obsessions with morbid legends. It's a very long eleven or twelve minutes with no payoff, unless you have a fetish for cinematic storm scenes or are a fan of V.C. Andrews.

Adler Fellow A. J. Gleukert, as the Steersman, sang his ditty of desire at the beginning of Act 1 extremely well- his voice was clear if not particularly big enough for the house, and though his diction wasn't precise (a problem with most of the cast for most of the night), his tone hit the right spot. Kristinn Sigmundsson's Daland bothered me the entire the evening, not because of his singing, which was fine, but there was an eagerness in his performance that made Daland, who is not a sympathetic father-figure type even in the most nuanced portrayals, flat-out loathsome, with an avarice that bordered on parodying a certain kind of stereotype one really doesn't want to bring up when discussing Wagner. Never mind that the character is supposed to be Norwegian.

Things got worse when the Dutchman wandered onstage looking like he somehow ended up here instead of an Iron Maiden concert. With his long, shiny black hair pulled into a ponytail, matching black goatee, and sleeveless black tee shirt revealing his well-honed biceps and apparently shaved armpits, topped off with a gold chain last seen when it was stolen from a B-boy back in 1983, Greer Grimsley looked absurdly out of place. Thankfully he can sing the part, not that it really helped all that much because soon he would be sporting a long, slender-fitting, black trench coat, making him look like Rasputin at a Halloween party, but for a while the orchestra gelled a bit as he sang his extended tale of woe. Grimsly was in good voice, and in any other production would probably be well worth seeing in the role, which has long been part of his repertoire. Things finally got good when a huge trapdoor rose to reveal the interior the Dutchman's ship, filled with that same lurid red light which would return again and again, but here it cast a creepy glow on skeletons nesting in hammocks of cobwebs- perhaps too reminiscent of Disneyland's Pirates of the Caribbean ride, but fun nonetheless. It wouldn't re-appear, but that's because- well, I really don't know why- it reappeared in the Liege version. Daland happily pimps out his daughter in return for the Dutchman's gold, and then we have intermission.

That's right. Intermission. Never mind that there isn't supposed to be an intermission in this opera. Never mind that an intermission turns what is usually a tad long, but fairly streamlined night at the opera into a three hour slog. Go get a drink. You probably want one by now.

Picking up with the Spinning Scene, which is now the Sweeping Scene (if part of the concept was ripe for replacement this was it), the bright gaiety of the music and the excellent, robust singing from the women of the chorus couldn't rise above the mundane approach to the staging. To have the women at spinning wheels isn't a necessity- Nikolaus Lehnhoff's production seen here in 2004 (which I loved though most didn't), is a good example of how this can be effectively rendered without being literal, but it should be a visually engaging moment as it is undeniably a high point of the opera. However, here it felt rote and flat. Lindstrom's first big moment, Senta's aria about the legend of the Dutchman, followed, and curiously she sang the first two syllables of each line on top of each other- it was a jarring effect each time she did it, and her high notes pierced at times though she held the long lines well. The aria lacked a sense of foreboding, and Lindstrom failed to convey much about who Senta is and what drives her obsession with the Dutchman.

Her duet with the Grimsley, his face now powdered to vampiric white, created no heat as both singers more often than not stood singing to the audience instead of each other, while Grimsley making the same sweeping arm gestures repeatedly, reminding me of a quote I recently read by a director (his name escapes me) who said he has banned any sort of gestures that suggest the tenor would like to sell the members of the audience a lovely cupcake from this beautiful display case, or something to that effect. Sadly, there was no help to be had from the pit, and even had there been, a volcano of oceanic waves spews behind the singers during the beginning of the scene to an extent that becomes a punishment rather than an enhancement.

Had Summers been able to bring out the music's excitement the problems on the stage might have been less troublesome, or at least satisfyingly mitigated. But as I mentioned yesterday, the music carried an oddly Italianate tone to a distracting degree for much of the night, causing me to look online to see if this was the first time Summers has conducted Wagner. It isn't, but if it had been I would not have been at all surprised. The music during the first half of the duet scene sounded more like Verdi than Wagner, and there's a point somewhere in here when a sail appears onstage, and it's supposed to be moving in the breeze I guess, but what it looked like to me was the front of a satin thong, hung upside-down to dry. It was very distracting, especially because the projections behind it now looked like maggot-infested, rotting cherries.

After Erik (capably sung by Ian Storey, who is wasted in the overall scheme of things) mucks things up for Senta, causing the Dutchman to reject her, departing once again to the sea, what follows is accurate to the story, but again, in a change from the Liege production which should have been left alone, the execution is way too reminiscent of Tosca to the point that it felt like a lazy choice. However, this laziness was quickly outshone by an extremely silly, vapid projection which brought it all to a close, and looked lifted straight from a 1980's Hallmark Cards commercial.

Whatever happened to "If it works don't fix it"?

2013-10-23T01:41:00.001-07:00

"It is true that I removed Petrika Ionesco from his role as director and scenic designer once the production arrived onstage, as it had become clear that the revisions we had been working on since the Liege premiere were not successful. Of the basic scenic pieces designed by Mr. Ionesco, 60% remain. The staging of the principals has been considerably amplified, and the use of supernumeraries for various purposes has been virtually eliminated. Many of the projections in the production originated conceptually with Mr. Ionesco, but they have been expanded upon and refined by production designer S. Katy Tucker working closely with me and the staff- most specifically with Assistant Director Elkhanah Pulitzer. Our goal has been to tell the story of the opera clearly, theatrically, and musically.
- David Gockley, General Director, San Francisco Opera

Well, while I'm sure the intentions were good, the result is a mistake.

The current production of Wagner's Der Fliegende Hollander (The Flying Dutchman) that opened last night at San Francisco Opera is a co-production with Belgium's Opera Royal de Wallonie, which premiered in Liege in 2011. From what I could find of the Liege production online, the 40% that's been changed was the stuff that should have been kept. To make Hollander work requires an acceptance of the story's macabre setting, an acceptance that pretty much every character is batshit crazy in one way or another (Erik may be the most co-dependent, in-denial romantic figure in all of opera), and have a conductor who really knows how to conduct the score (I really like Patrick Summers but this sounded more like Bellini on steroids than Wagner, and it was pretty horrible- flaccid brass, missed entrances all over the place in the wind section, limp tempos). Most importantly, and Ionesco obviously got this, Senta is not some dreamy-eyed adolescent, but a girl with some serious issues. Compare the opening of the Liege production, which clearly makes the case that Senta is a morbid, death-obsessed woman who is ripe for what's about to happen to her, compared with the innocent woman standing in front of a Howard Hawks movie now showing at the War Memorial. Spoiler warning:

(here's the link if it doesn't show up in your mobile browser)

While that looks nothing like what I saw Tuesday night, it does sets the story perfectly in place.

Below is another video showing scenes from the Liege production. Note the interesting aliens (?) at 4:44, the different tone of the staging (and props), the costuming, and most importantly, the ending at 5:09, which makes much more sense than the re-enactment of the climax of Tosca currently bringing down the curtain in San Francisco.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zgh-btYz710

I'll have more to say about this, a lot more actually, but for now, I think Inonesco was wronged (not to mention the audience). It's a complete shipwreck.

Yuja Wang: No more questions

2013-10-17T00:25:00.001-07:00

It's easy to be distracted by her extraordinarily high heels and even shorter dresses; by her speed, her youth, her curves, and the sometimes shocking amount of force emanating from such a petite person. A sexist perspective? No doubt, but sex is part of the package and for past couple of years Yuja Wang's gotten pretty far with it. Exploiting culture's more prurient side with seemingly little effort while appearing mostly indifferent to all the noise, she just kept doing her thing, touring and performing around the world. People asked questions, she answered. She performed, they gawked. Houses filled with expectant buzzes for her performances. People became interested. They talked about her. She's become the one classical musician many people can probably name besides Yo-Yo Ma.

However, an impolite question began to linger in my mind after each dazzling performance: is she really that good, or is the hype around Yuja a case of classical razzle-dazzle? Would these performances have the same impact if the person onstage was an unnattractive woman in a boring dress or a middle-aged schlub in a tux? How much of her reputation is built on sex-appeal? That's she's tremendously talented is beyond question- don't think I'm implying anything to the contrary- but there are many highly skilled performers who aren't chosen to be in ads for Rolex watches. Granted, she's not the only classical musician sporting the watch but even on Rolex's site the hype for her grander than that of her peers: "The technique of a master. The imagination of a genius."

Is it true?

After attending her first solo recital at Davies Symphony Hall last night, I would say yes, it is.

Though I arrived on time at Margarita's apartment, she was naked when she opened the door, deliberately so, and we ended up taking our seats at precisely 8:00 PM. I didn't mind cutting it so close. At 8:05 Yuja strode onstage in six-inch heels wearing the same red dress she wore when I saw her perform Rachmaninoff's 3rd with the orchestra in June of last year. I have to admit that was a bit disappointing. I thought fashionistas kept databases on this sort of thing to avoid repeats. Isn't that a rule? Never be seen in the same dress, at least at the same place, twice? The second time around it has less impact, so I actually did pay close attention, often with my eyes closed, on what I was actually hearing.

Her account of Prokofiev's Sonata No. 3 was played completely at the edges- either extremely fast, breathtakingly so at points, and with great force, or gorgeously slow, with impeccable nuance and control. She followed this with the beginning of a long foray into Chopin, performing his Sonata No. 3. Later would come the Nocturne in C Minor. and the Ballade No. 3. I became lost at some point during all of this Chopin, as it dawned on for the first time really, truly and deeply, how much of a fucking genius he was: how incredibly modern-sounding and ahead of its time his music is. I've listened to a lot of Chopin, and I've never heard him performed in a manner which brought out these modernist-sounding elements.

When she returned to the stage Yuja had on a different dress obviously by the same designer (both feature a vertical panel running down the backside which at the right angle creates a fantastically curved silhouette- a plus for a performer with a penchant for raising her right haunch off the bench as she performs). This number was black, with a matte skirt below sparkly top, separated by a peek-a-boo gash above the right hip. Neither I nor Margarita liked it at all. It looked like something a young woman from the suburbs would wear for a night of clubbing in San Francisco at a club filled with other suburbanites out for a night of clubbing in San Francisco (like this place).

So when she sat down and began playing Nikolai Kasputin's Variations for Piano, Opus 41 I was lost, thinking she has just decided to wing it and play an unknown-to-me variation on Gershwin. You see, I didn't read the program notes, and Yuja decided to change the order of the selections from what was printed. Always read the program notes beforehand, people. If I had, I would have realized what I was mistaking for a Gershwin theme was actually inspired by Stravinsky's Rite, which I've heard in so many guises over the past year it's come to sound like everything. I was expecting classical, and what I was hearing was drenched in jazz. Soon I stopped caring what it was, mesmerized by the sound, this dense, lush, rumbling collision of two genres without preference of one over the other. It's an amazing piece (Marc-Andre Hamelin has recorded it). You really must hear it- listen to this. But the point was that Yuja Wang was playing jazz and doing it like she was Brad Mehldau.

Had she stopped here the recital could have easily been seen as a triumph, but what came next was one of those rare moments that concert-goers live for. A performance of Stravinsky's Three Movements from Petrushka that was so exciting you could feel it taking root in the audience, then spreading through it so that by the time she made her way through the final movement of the Shrovetide Fair there was a sense of electricity coursing through the hall. Something truly special had just taken place. For her efforts she received one of the most sustained (and deserved) standing ovations I've ever seen in the hall. She encored with Art Tatum's arrangement of Tea for Two (like the red dress, a repeat from last June), Horowitz's Carmen Variations, and Kocsis' arrangement of Rachmaninoff's Vocalise.

She also definitively answered my impolite question with the best possible response, which was to make me wonder how I ever had the temerity to ask it in the first place.

Time has been kind to Carrie White

2013-10-16T00:33:00.000-07:00

In April of 1988 Sonny Bono was elected mayor of Palm Springs, California, President Reagan was preparing for a trip to the Soviet Union, Celine Dion won the Eurovision Song Contest and on Broadway, Carrie- the Musical began a run of sixteen previews. The next month, in May, Microsoft released Windows 2.1, Sue Ellen fired three shots into J.R. Ewing, Adele was born, and Carrie- the Musical closed after 5 performances, earning a place in theater history as the most expensive Broadway flop ever. 1988 was also the year a certain musical featuring a falling chandelier began what eventually became the longest run in Broadway history. Apparently Carrie's falling bucket of pig's blood was no match for the Paris Opera House's chandelier, but twenty-five years later Carrie has aged a lot better than the Phantom.

I don't know what spooked the show's producer's into pulling the plug, though undoubtedly there's a chapter explaining their reasoning in the book Not Since Carrie: 40 Years of Broadway Musical Flops. Maybe the 2009 re-write revealed a maturity its creators, Lawrence D. Cohen (who wrote the book and also the screenplay for Brian De Palma's legendary film adaptation), Dean Pitchford (lyrics), and Michael Gore (music, also of Fame fame) couldn't quite nail in '88. However, a comparison of numbers from the original and the current revision shows much has been left intact, at least judging by the titles and their sequencing. Also, the musical hews pretty closely to the plotting and scenes of the De Palma film (I've never read the novel), so I doubt the current Carrie looks and sounds all that much different from her original stage incarnation. Maybe time has just been good to her.

Maybe what has come since- Wicked, Rent, Hairspray, High School Musical and television's Glee, to name just a few, has made the idea of a musical based on Stephen's King's novel less strange than it seemed in 1988. Certainly if today's culture can willingly embrace Anna Nicole Smith as the subject of an opera, why can't Carrie White can be the source of a successful musical? Time changes perceptions and tastes. Can you imagine a 1988 opera or musical based on the lives of Jessica Hahn, Rob Lowe, or Donna Rice? How about Jim Bakker or Jimmy Swaggert? Or looked at another way, would Spiderman or have gotten a green light in 1988? I doubt it.

But Carrie's resurrection is deserved (she's also coming back in a new film version), and if you need any proof check out Ray of Light Theatre's current production of the musical - a huge success that does everything right, from casting an actual high school student in the lead role to knowingly working within the confines and expectations of the source material's genre.

Cristina Ann Oeschger, a junior at Carlmont High School who has a voice one could hear in the last row of Carnegie Hall, is perfectly cast as Carrie- she can sing, she can act, and she is spot-on, flat-out fantastic from the moment she enters, wailing "That's not my naaaaaame!" in response to taunts of "Scary Carrie" coming from her peers, to the last final fright (it's slightly different from that of the original film's). As her nemesis Chris Hargensen, Riley Krull is one convincing bitch of a mean girl, and Courtney Merrell does a fine job as the ambivalent Sue Snell, proving once again that no good deed goes unpunished. While Nikita Burshteyn isn't going to make anyone forget William Katt, he walks Tommy Ross's conflicted line of teenage mixed emotions with easy skill at every turn. Of the kids, only Forest Neikirk's turn as Billy Nolan, misses the mark, but he's also saddled with the unfortunate task of taking on a character stamped with John Travolta's indelible imprint. As Carrie's crazy, Evangelical loonymama Margaret, Heather Orth manages to be convincingly loathesome in her ferver yet manages to wring some empathy out of this most unsympathetic of characters- she's also an excellent singer. Jef Valentine is perfectly pervy as Mr. Stephens and Jessica Coker convinces as the girls coach.

Musically, Carrie treads over what is by now pretty familiar territory- one song had me thinking of Rent's "Seasons of Love," and if there aren't any immediate earworms, there isn't anything which doesn't fit the play or serve the story well, and the ensemble numbers work every time. Kudos to Music Director Ben Price, who also worked on Ray of Light's excellent productions of Jerry Springer: The Opera and The Full Monty; Director Jason Hoover, another alum of those earlier successes as well as the company's winning Sweeney Todd; Choreographer Amanda Folena. But what matters most is all the individual talents gathered here would be wasted if the company had misjudged what's right about this play and how to stage it- and on this score they nailed Carrie squarely on her head. It's fun without being campy, and that makes all the difference.

Ray of Light Theatre Company's production of Carrie- The Musical runs through November 2nd at the Victoria Theatre on 16th Street near Mission Street, easily accessible by BART, easy parking can be found a couple of blocks heading east from Mission Street (don't leave your valuables in your car). Tickets available here and on Goldstar.com. Strongly recommended.

Adès gets TKO'd by Mendelssohn

2013-10-13T22:10:00.000-07:00

This photo by Blizzard Terrak is titled "ax11 All Alone on Walpurgis Night" and is much more interesting that yet another boring image of Felix Mendelssohn, don't you agree?

At the end of the 2008/09 season the MTT and the San Francisco Symphony had a Schubert/Berg festival titled "From Dawn to Twilight." The programming of the individual concerts made little sense to me, but the juxtaposition of the first and second Viennese School heavyweights looked good on paper and the concerts were highly rewarding, especially if one favored Berg in the match-up. Schubert lost every round until the last one, when he handily stomped Berg's Chamber Concerto into the mat with his symphony commonly known as "The Great," which is kind of fitting if you like boxing metaphors, and I obviously do. On paper the match-up of Felix Mendelssohn and Thomas Adès must have made sense to someone, but the real common thread (works inspired by Shakespeare are plentiful and thus seems a bit lame) remained hidden to me even after attending the final program, which heavily favored Mendelssohn by featuring two complete, substantial works of his against excerpts from one by Adès. It was never going to be a fair fight, even if for many, including myself, Adès' music was the main event.

The Suite from A Midsummer Night's Dream (1843) was up first and though lengthy, it was well-played, and featured an especially lovely solo from Nicole Cash. It's also crammed with familiar music, so much so that those of us who don't count ourselves as fans of Felix probably kept saying to the themselves, "Oh yes, that... Oh, that too? ...Oh yes, I forgot about this part..." for a good chunk of the half hour. I would never seek the piece the out, but much of it was pleasing, if not really illuminating, and that pretty much sums up how I felt about Mendelssohn at this point.

What followed this good-natured music was something else entirely, a series of scenes from Adès' The Tempest, which I've neither seen nor heard, having so far missed the Met's transmissions of it, but it's an opera I'm quite keen to experience so I was quite curious this. Unfortunately, at least on a cold hearing and without having any musical context to place the scenes in, I found myself constantly see-sawing between the music and the vocal writing and never really being able to fully absorb either. Some of this may be due to the fantastically bizarre writing Adès has come up with for the character of Ariel, written at an astonishingly high level that makes the Queen of the Night's famous aria from The Magic Flute look easy by comparison. It sounded punishing, but it was fascinating to watch (and hear) soprano Audrey Luna take it on, even if I could hardly understand a word she was singing without consulting the program. Rod Gilfrey as Prospero sounded better than I have ever heard him, and Alek Shrader and Isabel Leonard, in the less-showy parts, were in fine voice, but without a doubt this was a showcase for Luna's extraordinary abilities and Adès' boundary-pushing writing for the voice. This was so much the case the music actually left little impression on me- as soon I turned my attention from the singers to the orchestra, I found myself switching back to the singers within moments. By all accounts I've read, The Tempest is widely regarded as an appealing, rewarding contemporary opera, but this excerpt probably confused rather than sold an audience unfamiliar with its virtues.

The second half of the concert featured Mendelssohn's The First Walpurgis Night, and this was simply a fantastic performance on every level. Guest conductor/referee of the Mendelssohn/Adès match Pablo Heras-Casado was really connecting with the orchestra here, and superb contributions came from the San Francisco Symphony Chorus, Gilfrey, Shrader, and mezzo-soprano Charlotte Hellekant. Interestingly, the material is inspired by Goethe's Faust, so this is the second time in as many months we've seen a musical interpretation of the scene as it was also featured in Boito's opera Mefistofele, recently presented by San Francisco Opera. Musically, Mendelssohn's take on Goethe blows Boito's out of the water because it feels like a cohesive whole, but more to the point, the exuberance of the music and the gusto of the singing overshadowed everything which came before it, leaving me to wonder why I've always been largely indifferent to Mendelssohn, especially when considering how much I appreciated last week's performance of his "Scottish" Symphony. But somehow, I don't think converting listeners to the merits of Mendelssohn was the intent of the festival. Perhaps I'm wrong about that.

On Verdi, briefly

2013-10-10T23:59:00.000-07:00

On the 200th anniversary of his birth I’d like to be able to tell you why I like one Verdi opera more than any other, or which one deserves to be labeled “the best,” but the reality is there are a half-dozen one could pick that would get no counter-argument from me, even if I didn’t consider it to be among my personal favorites, which at this point in my life is led by Rigoletto. Rigoletto is perfect in nearly every way: the music never falters, there are a number of great tunes, the story is compelling and the relationships contain real emotional weight. That it’s one of the most popular operas of all time does nothing to lessen its appeal or merits. Only a snob would dismiss it as anything less than a masterpiece.

However, the number one spot has changed over time, and has been previously held by, in roughly chronological order (my own chronology that is, not Verdi’s): Don Carlo, Un Ballo in Maschera, Simon Boccanegra, and Otello. The best performance of one of his works I’ve seen was, without a doubt, San Francisco Opera’s 2004 production of La Traviata with Ruth Ann Swenson as Violetta, Dmitri Hvorostovsky as the elder Germont and Rolando Villazon as Alfredo. Patrick Summers conducted, John Shipley directed, and it was the most flawless performances of a fully-staged opera I’ve seen so far (the overall number one spot is held by the Salonen/Jones production of The Tristan Project with the LA Phil a few years ago). I just wanted you, dear reader, to know this- and if you want to add your own thoughts, please do so in the comments section.

ZOFO duet: four-handed heat

2013-10-09T23:05:00.002-07:00

ZOFO duet at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music. Photo by Matthew Washburn.

According to the cheery young woman in the cage selling tickets for Keisuke Nakagoshi's recital at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music last Friday night, there weren't very many tickets left, so I chose the one which seemed most ideal out what remained and upon entering the hall wondered almost out loud what the fuck was she talking about? A decent-sized crowd filled the room, but I could have selected a much better seat based on what I was seeing with my own eyes, though to be fair there was a lot of musical events happening in the City that night and some people probably double-booked, changed their plans, or got out of Bonnie Raitt's set at Hardly Strictly Bluegrass later than expected.

This only really began to bother me after I sat down next to an old queen who immediately started to chat me up. Somehow the subject of the San Francisco Symphony came up (rather quickly, in hindsight), and he said, "Oh who cares about them? They only play circus music!"

I asked him to explain what he meant by that, which was a mistake on my part (I've made so many lately) because that was the opening had been seeking all along in order to let me know he used to take clarinet lessons from the former Principal of the Symphony and it was he who said all they played was "circus music," and on he yammered with great ostentation.

I tuned him out at that point, thinking of another old queen who lives in my building who will tell anyone who will listen that he was an opera singer and sang with Joan Sutherland, and tell them repeatedly. He is hell to be with in the elevator, as he always asks me "You like opera, right? Did you know that I...?" Now he hobbles along on a cane and has little better to do than befriend young women with low self-esteem who live in the building and then turn viciously against them. A seventy-something mean girl with a penis. It's so unattractive.

Feeling the frost, the queen said to me and the air around us "There seems to be plenty of seats, so I'm going to go sit where I can see the hands."

"Toodles" I replied, not bothering to look up from my program.

Then a woman sat down directly in seat in front of me. She was pretty, perhaps nearing 40, perhaps far short of it, and apparently alone, as she turned her head to give me a look I felt was intended to be noticed. What I did notice was that she had the most remarkable long, graying hair which complimented her black and white-striped dress and colorful bohemian-flavored jewelry. She played with her Iphone for a moment and then removed a copy of Michel Foucault's This is Not a Pipe from a smart leather bag. Now I guess that's not too unusual in itself, but this was the third time in little more than a week this particular book had come across my path in one form or another. I had seen Magritte's image somehwere recently with Margarita and that led a conversation about the book, and I believe it was Patrick who also brought it up during a lunch we shared only days before and now I was distracted from the program notes as my mind tried to recall the threads from those earlier conversations.

As I was thinking about the implications of what life would be like if everyone was suddenly reading Foucault, Nakagoshi strode onstage with Eva-Maria Zimmermann, his partner in the Grammy-nominated ZOFO duet, he looking quite dapper and she graceful and elegant, and they played Nakagoshi's own composition entitled Synaesthesia, which according to his own notes in the program is a condition that both Scriabin and Messiaen shared, which essentially means they heard sounds as colors. Nakagoshi took inspiration from this to write "an atmospheric nocturne that is filled with twisted sororities which might give the listener a synaesthetic experience, not necessarily with visions but also smell or taste." it didn't quite have that effect on me, though I did find it interesting.

Next Nakagoshi performed a piece from 2007 by Mason Bates titled White Lies for Lomax, which is built on "distant blues fragments- more fiction than fact" and true to Bates's style, incorporates electronic elements in the form of what sounds like an old radio broadcast of field music which encroaches on the pianist toward the end of the piece. I found that interesting as well, though for some odd reason once the recording entered it made me think of Moby's song "Run On." Nakagoshi followed this with Rachmaninoff's Piano Sonata No. 2, combined of elements of all three existing versions (Rachmaninoff's 1913 original, his 1931 revision, as well as a later revision by Horowitz) which resulted in a thrilling display favoring bold technique and intelligence over passion. That choice wouldn't normally be how I would want it, but Nakagoshi convinced me his was the right one.

Toru Takemitsu's Rain Tree Sketch followed the intermission and truth be told it made little impression on me, perhaps owing to my anticipation of what was coming next: the return of Zimmermann to join him in Stravinksy's four-handed version of The Rite of Spring, which I'd never heard performed live and had been looking forward to for weeks. Nakagoshi sat to Zimmermann's left and as they performed the piece together an inevitable physical closeness developed between the two of them that became as compelling to watch as it was to hear. Thinking about it now I can't help but wonder if the physical act of performing the thing is somehow inherent in its overall design, as if Stravinsky deliberately desired the performers to become intimates while playing it.

It certainly felt that way as the personal space between Zimmermann and Nakagoshi dissolved as they worked their way through it. Nakagoshi would thunder over the slashing minor chords and then lean back slightly to allow Zimmermann access to the middle keys, and in doing so she would lean gently into him. A mixture of erotic and voyeuristic overtones became present in the performance, obviously magnified by the music itself, to which both seemed willing to submit. At the climax (sorry, but there really isn't a more appropriate choice of words here) each traded turns at rising off the bench with the music of the "Sacrificial Dance," playing with complete abandon, perhaps unconscious of the image they were evoking, perhaps not caring. It was like watching two people have sex on a piano bench. It was hot, electric, and fantastic.

ZOFO duet's next local concert takes place October 20th at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music (free admission). Check their schedule for additional concerts across the country. This concert was part of Conservatory's Alumnae Recital Series. Check their calendar for addtional upcoming concerts

Thoughts on "Gravity"

2013-10-08T20:11:00.000-07:00

The only thing I knew about Gravity when we sat down in the theater was the film had elicited some strongly favorable review headlines and it was about two stranded astronauts. I didn’t even know the astronauts were played by George Clooney and Sandra Bullock. I recognized Clooney’s voice immediately, but it took about a minute of watching Bullock to recognize her (I’ve seen many more of his movies than hers- in fact I think the last movie I saw starring Sandra Bullock was probably Speed and I only saw that because I had been in Greece for awhile and wanted to watch something which had dialogue I could actually understand). Because I knew nothing about it, I also decided to see it in 2-D, as 3-D effects usually distract and annoy me. This was a big mistake on my part. Should you see the film, and I recommend you do, definitely see it in 3-D. I’d actually like to watch it again just to see what it looks like in 3-D becuase if there was a ever film that justified it, this one is it.

[Spoiler Alert- the ending of the film is revealed in the second and discussed in the third paragraphs.]

On the surface Gravity is disaster movie on a human scale: its plot is little more than the worst-possible-case-scenario one can imagine about being an astronaut. It’s Open Water in outer space, and it’s dazzling enough in its execution to work on that level with completely satisfying results. However, Gravity’s real ambitions are allegorical and unlike summer’s dismal Elysium- an empty, big, stupid movie with pretensions to be about important things, Gravity pulls the viewer into its message with disarming subtlety until its final scene, where in what amounts to only a modest betrayal, it goes a little Hollywood. Not Spielberg-Hollywood, like when that director ruined the near-masterpiece Saving Private Ryan by sending in the cavalry to save the day in a rip-roaring display of patriotic fervor (at least that’s how I remember it- a certain Sly Wit may see it differently), but ending of Gravity is warmer and softer than need be for a film which offers its audience some fairly large spiritual questions to chew on- even teleological ones. Or as Margarita put it, “if the movie were made in Poland she would have definitely died.”

But Bullocks’s character doesn’t die. Instead, she crawls out of the water and onto land, Earth, we assume, which despite its accurate depiction of the effects being in a zero-gravity environment, visually struck me as a believer’s exegesis on evolution. A better ending, or at least a more agnostic one which would have aligned better with the rest of the film would have found Bullock unable to escape her spacesuit, much less the seaweed (this caused much unintentional laughter in the audience), sending a message of doubt instead of hope. Or it may be that for director Alfonso Cuarón, hope is gravity, the very thing which keeps us tethered to the real world, and to ourselves. It certainly does better at the box office. Despite the ending, which may be a potentially false note for only some its audience, Gravity is undoubtedly one of the more satisfying major films to be released in some time.

Merci, Patrice Chéreau.

2013-10-07T23:26:00.002-07:00

Patrice Chéreau died today at the age of 68. His career had many highlights, but for many, including myself, the high point was his direction of Bayreuth's Centennial Ring Cycle, which debuted in 1976. The production was filmed and released on video. One day (probably around 1995) I rented Das Rheingold from the library, popped it into my VCR at home, and as soon as the Rhinemaidens began to sing, standing at the top of that hydroelectric dam, the ineluctable genius of Wagner suddenly made itself plain to me. Today it's one of four complete DVD sets of the Ring I own, and I've viewed over half a dozen more, but it's the one to which I return over and over again, never tiring of its genius, its profound dramatic sensibility, the mesmerizing sets, the brilliance of the performers and the music conducted by Pierre Boulez. I'll never be able to thank him for the gift, but I would if I could. This will have to do, though it's certainly inadequate.

What's the frequency, Felix?

2013-10-06T13:41:00.000-07:00

Leila Josefowicz

The San Francisco Symphony's Mendelssohn/Adès festival began this week with a knockout performance of... Stravinsky. I'm not sure if that was the result of curious design or nothing more than an unintended consequence of motherhood. The mother in question is Leila Josefowicz, the superb violinist who during 2009 performed 10 different concertos during a single tour. That's an astounding feat, especially since she had most, if not all of them, committed to memory, including new works by Esa-Pekka Salonen and Adès' own Concentric Paths, which she performed here in San Francisco that year.

So why Josefowicz performed Stravinsky's concerto instead Adès' is a legitimate question, don't you think? I suppose I could act like a real journalist and actually ask someone at the Symphony that question, but sometimes it's more fun to speculate and besides, it's 2:00 AM and if I wait around for an answer this post will never get finished- it will end up like my post about the Rolling Stones concerts back in May, just sitting there in the queue, waiting for me to get back to it one day.

I took a look at Josefowicz's tour schedule and she's not nearly as ambitious as she was in 2009: only three works appear on her calendar for 2013, all of which she has a long history of playing: the concertos by Stravinsky, Salonen and John Adams. Next year she adds Francesconi to the list, but apart from a couple of recitals with a more varied program which include works she been performing for awhile and a single performance of the Berg Chamber Concerto, it' almost all Igor, Esa-Pekka, and John, with a bit of Luca, through June of 2014. So I'm guessing that if you want Leila to show up, you've got to choose among those four guys. And if you'll notice, three of those guys are still alive, and performing the work of one living composer during a festival promoting another living composer is just not comme il faut. But what about Concentric Paths? I for one, would certainly welcome a repeat performance of the work, which I found extremely engaging when it was performed in 2009, and besides, didn't Gil Shaham just recently play the Stravinsky Concerto here? Why, yes- yes he did. So I think Josefowicz said something along the lines of "I have two kids to take care of and this is the rep I'm performing right now. See this toddler? Do you know what it's like having a toddler and touring? If I can play one of these four works, I'll come play it with you. Otherwise I'll see you in 2015, because I'm busy."

And I think whoever is in charge of these things said something along the lines of "You know, having Leila play Stravinsky is better than no Leila at all, and it's certainly better than having her play Adams, Salonen, or Francesconi while Adès is in the house, Okay, it's a deal." And there you have it, although there is the possibility that this whole thing has been planned for a couple of years now, long before her most recent child was conceived, and she's the one who made the call and said "Sorry, but there's been a change of plans..." and a decision was made to accommodate her rather than seeking another soloist.

Either way, it was a damn good decision, because Josefowicz was in excellent form, even if the piece stuck out like Sinead O'Connor at a Miley Cyrus concert. Looking radiant in a yellow silk chiffon dress (I'm kind of guessing about that) with an olive green sash banded around the waist which continued vertically down the front of the dress, her hair pulled up in a fancy twist, she and guest conductor Pablo Heras-Casado (35 years old) made quite a dapper-looking pair at the front of the stage. Sex appeal is one thing, what's even better is when they deliver, and both did, though Heras-Casado's job on this piece was aided by Josefowicz, who constantly turned to orchestra members as it to queue them, or to make sure they were following her. Josefowicz is a physical performer, but not a showy one. Her fingers move along the neck of her instrument with uncanny precision while her body takes on the music's rhythm. You can see her thoughts vividly expressed on her face while she's playing, which makes her one of the most transparent and engaging performers I've seen.

The concert began with two brief pieces from Jean Baptiste Lully, the Overture and Passacaille from his opera Armide (1648). It's been a long time since I've heard the orchestra perform music from the Baroque era and these pieces showcased the particular beauty of which this string section is capable. Building on that, Adès came next with Three Studies from Couperin (2006), an orchestration of pieces originally written for the harpsichord. In the program notes James Keller writes that Adès "recalls Stravinsky's reworking of Pergolesi (and that composer's contemporaries) in Pulcinella, right down to potentially rude thumps from brass and percussion" in Les Tours de Passe-passe (The Sleight of Hand), the second of the three, so perhaps there is a link to the concerto's appearance, but that connection was lost on me, as I found myself constantly drawn to the structure and tone of the three movements. The third, L’Âme-en-peine (The Soul in Distress), was especially effective.

At the intermission GG turned to me and asked "What is the theme of this concert?" I replied that I rightfully didn't know anymore, though the Symphony's website mentions something about Adès and Mendelssohn's "Baroque fascination."

If there's such a fascination evident in Mendelssohn's Symphony No. 3, Scottish (1842), it was all but buried on this night to the point of being invisible under the warm Romantic glow Heras-Casado elictited from the orchestra. Conducting without a score, Heras-Casado brought the work's folk elements to the fore in a highly robust, precise performance, with especially fine turns by Principals Carey Bell on clarinet and Tim Day on flute.

On Thursday night Adès performed with musicians from the orchestra in a chamber concert featuring two of his works sandwiching one each by Debussey and Ravel. If there were connections Adès wanted to make between his pieces and those of the others they weren't obvious to me, though I was hearing each work for the first time and each had its own delightful distractions. The first piece was Adès' Sonata da Caccia, Opus 11, with Adès on harpsichord, Jonathan Fischer on oboe and Chris Cooper on horn. James Keller's program notes quote Adès as saying "My ideal day would be staying at home and playing the harpsichord works of Couperin- new inspiration on every page." To each their own, I guess, as my ideal day at home wouldn't involve a harpsichord under any circumstances unless Julianne Moore was sprawled on top of it. However, watching and hearing Adès perform on one, with his combination of Bryan Ferry-like panache and an almost punk rock fervor, certainly engages the listener, especially since his compositions embrace the lower end of the instrument's range in favor of its tinkly top. If there's a composer who can finally warm me up to the allures of the harpsichord, which until now has always escaped my ears, it's Adès.

Both works by Debussy (Sonata for Flute, Viola, and Harp) and Ravel (Chansons madécasses) contain strands of their more widely-known string quartets, and like those two pieces, these formed a conversation between them which Adès then joined in with his Piano Quintet. The conversation was moving along quite well as far as I could tell when suddenly cellist Amos Yang stopped it cold by standing up. He muttered something to his fellow musicians, set his cello down on the floor, on walked offstage with his bow in hand. I couldn't make out what any part of what he said, and no explanation was offered to the audience, who sat there waiting to see what would happen next as none of the musicians moved or gave us any indication that we should do anything else. Yang returned about a minute later, whether or not he was holding a different bow I couldn't tell, and they resumed the piece where they left off- or at least that's what seemed to happen. The odd moment distracted me however, and I lost the work's thread. Baritone John Brancy sang Chansons madécasses beautifully, and his rich timbre reminded me of a young Keenlyside.

The Mendelssohn/Adès Festival continues next week with Mendelssohn's Suite from A Midsummer Night's Dream and The First Walpurgis Night and scenes from Adès' The Tempest,. Joining the orchestra for these performances is a highly talented group of singers- Alek Shrader, Audrey Luna, Isabel Leonard, Charlotte Hellekant, Rod Gilfrey, along with the San Francisco Symphony chorus. The theme for this one is obvious. Heras-Casado will be on the podium once again. Tickets are available here.

Gary Clark Jr. in Oakland

2013-10-05T16:56:00.001-07:00

Gary Clark Jr. Photo by Mark Rudio

Like many people, my first exposure to Gary Clark Jr. was seeing his 2010 performance of "Bright Lights," filmed during Eric Clapton's Crossroads festival. As I watched him tear through two blistering solos on a red, hollow-bodied Epiphone, and was taken in by the song's refrain, "You're gonna know my name by the end of the night" which sounded more threatening than boastful, I thought to myself who is this guy?

The clip compelled me to check out the Bright Lights EP (2011), four tracks which cover a lot of ground, including solo acoustic versions of "Things are Changin''" which hinted that Clark was a lot more than just a new guitar sensation, and "When My Train Pulls In," an eight-minute display of hard acoustic blues, built on a riff that's as much "Rock Candy" as it "Voodoo Chile," with some flamenco tones thrown in for a little extra flavor. But it was the menacing, fuzz-toned title track that seared itself into my brain.

Bright Lights signalled Clark was someone to watch, but it didn't quite set the stage for 2012's Blak and Blu- a hard-rocking master class in which Clark mines sixty-odd years of black music for inspiration and comes up with gold on every track. Opening with the sixties-tinged soul of "Ain't Messin 'Round," followed by a molten electric version "When My Train Pulls In" he moves easily through scorching blues, fuzzed-out rock, some Glimmer Twins-infected glam, pop, hip-hop, and more. It's a remarkably cohesive album which succeeds in its intent to defy easy categorization or be pigeonholed into a single genre (or three). On top of all of that, Clark can sing (almost) as well as he can play the guitar- it's as easy to hear strains of Marvin Gaye and Sam Cooke in the music as it is Hendrix and Stevie Ray Vaughn (Clark, like Vaughn, hails from Texas).

The day after his first local headlining show at the Fox Theater was announced, Margarita and I were watching the first episode of House of Lies which ends (appropriately) with "Bright Lights" playing over the ending. About 10 seconds into the song she turned to me and said, "I really like this- who is it?" I told her, mentioned the upcoming show, and plans were made then and there, including her cancelling a trip to L.A..

The Fox show sold-out, and there was a palpable buzz in the crowd when we entered the theater around 8:45. The floor was packed, but we snaked our way toward the front. Shortly after 9 the lights went down, the band strode onstage, and the Johnnies (Radelat on drums, Bradley on Bass) kicked it off with a thumping intro to "Ain't Messin 'Round" which moved every hair on my body. Bradley plays the bass like it's a second kick drum, creating an enormously fat-bottomed sound. Radelat's style leans on heavy on the beat with few fills and a disdain for flourishes. Together they form a rhythm section that pounds like a jack hammer. Eric "King" Zapata is the second guitarist in the band, and I hesitate to describe him as a rhythm guitar player- in any other band he'd probably be the fucking star. His style is wholly different from Clark's; his more rock-oriented approach creates a stark contrast to Clark's acid-fuzz when he takes the lead, but together they create a monstrous, Spectoresque slab of sound. Zapata and Clark traded licks through an extended jam during the song, with Clark casually quoting the riff from Curtis Mayfield's "Pusherman" at one point. It was obvious there would be no "warming up."

From there they launched into blues territory, including a cover of Albert King's "Oh, Pretty Woman," followed by "When My Train Pulls In" with Zapata playing a double-neck guitar. Hearing it live, the opening riff sounds like a twist on Fleetwood Mac's "Oh Well" and the two vastly different solo sections on the album version made a lot more sense to me listening Zapata taking the first one as the band began to sound like Crazy Horse on an extremely good night, then Clark followed with ample evidence of why he's being hailed as the "next Hendrix."

That's an probably an inevitable comparison, but not necessarily the right one. If Clark were white, people would probably say he's the "next Vaughn," yet this would still miss the mark, though as a guitarist he is undoubtedly that good. However, a more apt comparison may be that he's the next Prince, as the next song was the title track of the recent album- a turn in direction neither Hendrix nor Vaughn would have made in a million years, but a display of versatility that's a given for the Purple One, who. like Ernie Isley, has never been properly acknowledged for being an extraordinary guitar player because his (and Isley's) music wasn't geared toward rock audiences.

"Please Come Home" was another highlight, which found Clark doing his best Smokey-flavored vocal impression before melting the soul groove down to a metallic base, his right hand strumming so fast the sounds emanating from the guitar became a hazy blur wafting over the ballad's beat.

Throughout the two-hour set the band never let up and it's nothing against Clark's outsized talents to say they deserve to be recognized as more than a back-up band. This is a solid outfit and my previous comparison of them to Crazy Horse is deliberate: these guys kick ass, and while Clark's proven through numerous appearances with the Rolling Stones and others that he can hold his own with anyone, the trio behind him had a lot to do with making this one of the best gigs I've seen in some time, and Zapata especially, is hugely talented. Though this was evident from the beginning of the show, as they launched into the medley of "Third Stone From the Sun/If You Love Me Like You Say" it became obvious that this is a band that can play as they churned the sludge into a funky, reggae-tinged stomp that had the audience dancing along to a savage groove.

Clark's tour is taking him to smaller venues around the country through November. If you don't see him now, chances are the next time his train pulls in it's going to be at bigger venues. Believe the hype- you're gonna know his name.

Dolores Claiborne

2013-10-04T23:58:00.000-07:00

The set of Dolores Claiborne. Photo by Cory Weaver.

Poor planning on my part caused me to miss all of Patricia Racette's performances as Dolores Claiborne in Tobias Picker's opera of the same name, based on the Stephen King novel and just wrapping its world premiere at San Francisco Opera. However, I did manage to attend Catherine Cook's first night in the title role (she was the understudy for Dolora Zajick, who now famously bailed out just three weeks prior to the opening night of an opera written specifically for her) and she turned in a solid performance as the put-upon, beaten-down, yet resilient Maine housekeeper whose nearest and dearest don't fare very well.

Picker re-kindled his earlier partnership with librettist J.D. McClatchy, and on the whole the result of their labors works well, but much of its success rests on the dramatic elements furnished by King's plot and characters (especially in the second half where the music, at least on my initial encounter, is less impressive than in the first) and an absolutely magnificent production. In fact, as the season's opening one-two punch, Mefistofele and Dolores Claiborne are easily among the best productions seen onstage during Gockley's tenure and combined they raise the stakes pretty high for the rest of the season as far as production values go. It will be interesting to see if SFO can maintain this level of quality staging, as so many during the past couple of season have seemed to have skimped on values and budgets. The dazzlingly versatile two-tiered set by Allen Moyer, the cinematic lighting by Christopher Akerlind and the perfectly executed projection design by Greg Emetaz create a highly theatrical experience and have a major role in bringing the story to life and keeping the audience thoroughly engaged as Picker's music increasingly hits the mark with only intermittent success.

The first act starts off with the death of Claiborne's employer Vera Donovan (Elizabeth Futral) as she tumbles down a flight of stairs and then Claiborne steps up to finish the deed by wielding a heavy object above her head. Cut. Fade. Cue Claiborne being interrogated by the police and now hit rewind to show how we got to the starting point of all of this. Tobias's music hits on all cylinders here, especially as the first extended scene features numerous maids running hither an yon at Donovan's estate as a steady rhythm percolates underneath it all. As the scene transitions to the small Claiborne house, furnished with second-hand furniture and oozing an air of gritty poverty, the percolating music starts chug like a jigsaw and then swirls in on itself, becoming a whirlpool that swallows the energy of the estate and sourly belches it out into the Claiborne living room where we meet Dolores' husband- a sleazy drunk named Joe St. George (Wayne Tigges) and her obviously unstable daughter Selena (Susannah Biller). That musical transition is a miracle of Wagnerian scale, but it's also the only one I noticed that was so skillfully rendered. There's also a brilliant segment which takes place during a ferry ride, where the music creates a gorgeous effect of the tide moving against the boat, while Dolores pulls out the horrible truth about what's been going on between her daughter and husband. This incestuous bit of sexual abuse gets it own signature tune which unfortunately sticks in the mind all too well, in the same way "Singing the in Rain" gets ruined in A Clockwork Orange,only maybe worse because the song is just so disgusting.

But Picker's musical inventiveness, which really carries the first act, isn't sustained in the second, and musically it seems to become very reminiscent of Britten. Is that due to challenges of singing decent lyrics in English, or is it because Britten's shadow is so large when it comes to English-language operas that composers have to push so far away from him to not draw the comparison? I really don't know, but during the second act the music kept bringing me back to a land-locked Billy Budd. The exception to that comes near the end, when Vera sings "Let me die" and suddenly it sounds like the ending of La Boheme. Still, everything else continues to work in the opera's favor- Tigges gives his all to the role and is thoroughly convincing to the point that when he gets his due the audience wants to cheer, and Biller, now an adult in the second act, not only gets the best aria of the entire show but she nails it perfectly. In fact, Biller's performance here is a triumph on all levels- she's equally convincing as a fourteen year-old girl and forty year-old woman, and her voice makes the transition convincingly as well, rising to the substantial challenges Picker's laid out for her. The same can be said for Futral, who manages to make Vera a sympathetic character despite the fact that she's a cold and calculating murderess herself and is gets a chance to sing anything remotely appealing but appeals nonetheless.

But the lack of musical engagement is almost easy to ignore because Dolores Claiborne is a contemporary verismo, a thriller-as-opera which consistently engages the viewer through its tight plotting, cinematic staging, and the dramatic conviction of the performers. For this Cook deserves kudos of all kinds- second-billed in her first leading role after 20+ years and 40 some-odd productions at SFO, she was wholly believable in the role and did an admirable job with the vocals. George Manahan conducted, and seemed well in control of the score, always in support of the singers, and letting the orchestra loose with visceral effect when the music called for it. Dolores Claiborne, as a new form of American verismo, isn't Tosca, but it succeeds.

Vanya and Sonia and Masha(!) and Spike(!)

2013-09-30T23:36:00.001-07:00

L to R: Anthony Fusco, Caroline Kaplan, Mark Junek and Lorri Holt. Photo courtesy of kevinberne.com

One of the best suggestions I ever took was to take an acting class in order to learn the mechanics of what actors really do. It turned out to be an education in more ways than one, especially on the day when eight pairs of students had to perform the same page of dialogue from Neil Simon's Barefoot in the Park. I had never seen the play, nor the movie, but my familiarity with the author gave me an idea of how the scene should probably go. Or so I thought. The instructor gave us no rules or guidelines beyond the directive "learn the lines." How we delivered them was up to us.

So it came as no small revelation on the day when the eight pairs of us wannabe actors performed eight scenes from eight completely different plays. We all delivered the exact same lines, but that was really the only thing each performance had in common. It was pretty amazing to see how such seemingly ordinary lines could have so many interpretations- and how many of those interpretations were wholly justifiable decisions. By turns the scene was funny, melodramatic, absurd, and sad. It all depended on the delivery.

In the years since, I've often watched plays and films and wondered what would be different if the lines a given actor, or some part of their performance, were delivered differently. I've also noticed that when I begin to ask myself these questions it means I'm not sold on the performance I'm watching. Something happening onstage or onscreen is pulling me from the immediate experience, making me desire an alternative version. Most recently I experienced this last week at the Roda Theatre during Berkeley Rep's opening night of the West Coast premiere of Christopher Durang's Tony Award-winning Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike.

All of the actors assembled for this Chekovian farce are top-notch, as is the set by Kent Dorsey and the costumes by Debra Beaver Bauer.Sadly, it's the direction by Richard E.T. White that undermines Durang's witty script, which is laden with sharp dialogue, vivid characters, some keen insight and more than a few laughs. The script of Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike takes characters, situations, and themes from Chekov's plays and spins them into frothy social commentary featuring Vanya and Sonia, who have spent the last fifteen years caring for their now-deceased parents now rambling around a huge Pennsylvania home in their pajamas, supported by their sister Masha, a Hollywood actress now getting offered matronly roles after a career of being cast as a sexpot. One day Masha returns home unexpectedly with the intent of selling the family home, effectively kicking her siblings to the curb after they've sacrificed their entire lives sacrificing their entire lives for their parents.

The early scenes with Anthony Fusco (Vanya) and Sharon Lockwood (Sonia) serving up long-held frustrations and resentments to one another before Masha's return set the stage for a promising evening which goes off the rails shortly after Masha's (Lorri Holt) entrance with Spike (Mark Junek), her most recent male-of-the-month. For the next two hours White has Holt and Junek perform "at eleven" without once letting the actors breathe a bit of actual life into the roles by allowing them to dial it down a bit. Instead, the farce becomes forced, and Durang's succession of well-crafted exchanges becomes frustrating, then exhausting, as everyone keeps playing the same repeated note for volume rather than effect. And that's a shame because when the audience finally does get to see a glimpse behind the mask of these characters it's apparent that an opportunity at sharp, subtle comedy (see Chekov, Anton) comedy has been tossed away in favor of a shallow attempt to fish a constant stream of yuks from the audience.

Lockwood slyly steals the show, managing to give Sonia a real arc despite the clatter around her. Fusco has a brilliant moment during a haranguing monologue pitting the digital present against a Kodachrome past. Heather Alicia Simms manages to rise above almost uncomfortable stereotyping as Cassandra, the household maid who can sometimes accurately foretell the future, sometimes not so much, and Caroline Kaplan scores the highest ratio of hitting the target dead-on as Nina, a young neighbor who walked off the set of The Seagull to admire Masha and Spike but becomes a student of Uncle Vanya.

Holt and Junek don't fare as well, though one wishes they could. Both are obviously talented actors, and Junek's physical presence onstage is massive, but through the majority of the play neither is given much of an opportunity to present their characters as more than caricatures. White doesn't seem to understand that the script has already done that part for them- what would have been nice to see is the humanity that's hiding in just beneath the surface, and as I said, when he finally does it's too late. The ending also feels forced and false- it's way too sunshiny, and a little "Rain" would have been more appropriate. That one's on Durang.

Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike plays through October 25th at Berkeley Rep's Roda Theatre.

Emanuel Ax plays Beethoven

2013-09-28T13:33:00.000-07:00

Although it was almost 20 years ago I can still remember the precise moment I fell in love with Beethoven. I don't mean when I started to like Beethoven- I mean when his music became something of an obsession with me. At the time I was living in an apartment above the post office in La Honda (pop. 500), working at an Italian restaurant near the Stanford campus, and taking a survey course on Western music appreciation at a community college. The class had progressed through Bach, Vivaldi and Mozart and though I had taken to playing The Four Seasons in my car at a volume level usually reserved for Social Distortion, I hadn't yet experienced that moment where it all made intuitive sense to me. An upcoming assignment was Beethoven's Piano Concerto No. 3, so after checking my Penguin Guide for some recommendations I picked up a copy of Emanuel Ax performing the 3rd and 4th, with Andre Previn conducting the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra (RCA), at a local store.

It must have been after dinner when I put the CD in the player because I remember it was already dark outside. I was alone, so I turned the volume up pretty high and sat down on the couch. The disc came with no liner notes so I was just sitting there listening to what sounded pretty good Mozart on steroids for about three minutes when orchestra heaved three times and fell silent. What came next I could only relate to as a monster riff. It was like hearing "Smoke On the Water" or "Whole Lotta Love" for the first time. Though the orchestra had just played pretty much the same theme, hearing it coming from the piano was a revelation. The thought "now that's rock and roll" popped into my head, and my obsession began. By the way, I found the rest of the disc to as compelling, and once I heard the 4th Concerto I wondered why we were studying the 3rd, since the 4th was so obviously superior (I still think of it as being one of Beethoven's very finest compositions- certainly it's the best of the piano concertos).

So needless to say I've always had a soft spot for that particular recording, though until this week I had never seen Ax perform in concert. But now here he was, in town to perform the 3rd with the San Francisco Symphony. I had been quietly looking forward to this concert for weeks.

It began with Mahler's Blumine, which received a gorgeous performance less than a year and a half ago but I welcomed the opportunity to hear it again. It offers Principal Trumpet Mark Inoyue an outstanding showcase of which he took complete advantage to show off his formidable skills with a series of elegantly elongated notes that melted into one's ears. Concertmaster Alexander Barantschik was equally impressive.

While the piano was being raised to the stage I tried to eavesdrop on what the two ladies seated next to us were saying to composer Samuel Carl Adams, who sitting alone in front of them, but I couldn't make any of out as I was also paying attention to Margarita's narrative about an upcoming adventure she has planned. I found it intriguing to see Adams here, and wondered if there was one particular piece that drew him to this program.

Ax's performance was everything I had hoped for, and even taking my sentimental bias out the picture, he and the orchestra were marvelous. I noted in a post at the beginning of this year how foolish I had been to choose not to attend many of the concerts featuring the standard rep in recent years, and here was another reminder of how good this orchestra is with the basics. MTT and Ax were in perfect sync with each other, taking the 3rd at a robust tempo in the first movement, amplifying the early heroic tone of the work, noticeably bringing out textures which make it seem hard to fathom this is 200 years old because it sounds so thoroughly contemporary in many aspects. As Ax soloed through the first movement I thought that someone hearing this for the first time in 1804 must have felt the same way people did when they heard Eddie Van Halen's "Eruption" in 1978- "well, no one's done that before," since Beethoven was incorporating new design elements for the piano into a composition for the first time. And even if one isn't susceptible to the pyrotechnics, Ax was still remarkably on target with it, never showy, but very precise and noticeably engaged with his fellow musicians at every moment. They kept it up all the way through, and Ax received one of the most deserved standing ovations I've witnessed in some time. He returned for an encore- Schumann's "Des Abends," which only left me wishing there was more.

The second half of the concert looked quite odd on paper but turned out to be something I would like to see a lot more of in the future. MTT explained he modeled this half of the program based on his experiences at USC attending the salons of Jascha Heifetz, where short pieces would merit the same attention and level of dedicated performance as would normally be found for longer works. Copland's music for the film version of "Our Town" was first, and though the program stated it was about nine minutes long it felt like twenty for some reason, though that's not to say I didn't enjoy it the first half of it before I felt like we were driving around it in circles. Shorter gems from Debussy, Delius, Sibelius, Rachmaninoff and Delibes followed, and it worked quite well. More, please.

As we were leaving the concert I learned Ax was signing CDs in the lobby, so I did something I never do and stood in line to thank him personally. He was quite gracious about it, which only made me like him that much more.

Mefistofele

2013-09-21T12:49:00.000-07:00

The Easter parade. Photo by Cory Weaver.

On Friday night at 6:45 PM I gave the woman behind the ticket counter $10 and in return she gave me standing room ticket #31, which meant San Francisco Opera's revival of Arrigo Boito's Mefistofele wasn't going to be very crowded. I went inside, placed my coat near the center of the orchestra level rail, then went outside to read the program and enjoy a cup of coffee. The main article in the program didn't make it sound like I was going to regret going on the cheap, as it included this quote about the opera from none other than the composer's friend and eventual publisher Giulio Ricordi:

“Boito has written an opera with many virtues and not a few defects. The question is: are these defects due to inexperience as regards the stage and matters theatrical? In that case, so much the better; we shall note a steady progress from one opera to the next, and in due course I shall hope to number Boito among the great composers. If, however, these faults are the result of a preconceived theory, of an unshakable artistic conviction, then I must say with all the frankness which informs my warm and deeply felt friendship for Boito: you may be a poet and a distinguished man of letters, but you will never be a composer for the musical stage.”

Next came this quote from George Bernard Shaw:

“Boito’s version of the Faust story seems almost as popular as Gounod’s, though Gounod’s is a true musical creation whereas Boito has only adapted the existing resources of orchestration and harmony very ably to his libretto. The whole work is a curious example of what can be done in opera by an accomplished literary man without original musical gifts, but with ten times the taste and culture of a musician of only ordinary extraordinariness.”

Reading this made me wonder why San Francisco Opera can be so prickly when someone slams one of their productions because apparently they're actually paying someone to write program notes stating what you're about to see and hear was once considered by experts to be shit.

Despite being almost twenty-five years old, Robert Carsen's production is one of the best things I've seen on the stage of the War Memorial in quite a long time. Michael Levine's sets and Gary Marder's lighting are gorgeous to look at and exquisitely detailed, from the flaming, blood-red curtain of their theater-within-a-theater concept to the priapic costuming of the male chorus during the Witches Sabbath scene, there is always something visual clamoring for one's attention. The conclusion of the Prologue, with the chorus occupying the entire stage and four tiers of opera boxes filled with trios of angels holding candles aloft as they belt out "Hail to thee," is one of those moments that could easily turn a first-time opera goer into an enthusiast. It gave me chills of pleasure, though the music caused me to make a mental note to check which came first, Mefistofele or Mascagni's Cavalleria Rusticana because there was some "borrowing" going on somewhere. Cav is the latter work, and in thinking about it I wonder if Mascagni's intent was to create a leitmotif based on the Faustian theme, which would be a nice touch, or did he just steal some ear candy from Boito? Probably the latter.

Act 1 starts off with an Easter Sunday carnival, which is an even greater delight than what came before. I haven't seen something on this stage with this much visual energy since the 1999 production of Un Ballo in Maschera, which was idiotically destroyed for some reason during the Rosenberg era. Ironically, that production also featured the SFO debut of tenor Ramon Vargas, who took over the role of Riccardo during the last two performances from an ailing Richard Margison. I was in the house for the first of them, and Vargas made his entrance by bursting onstage with an exuberance and energy that I've never seen nor heard from him since. Vargas is the Faust of this production, co-starring with Ildar Abdrazakov as Mefistofele. Vargas and Abdrazakov know these roles well because they've performed them together before- not only in Boito's operatic version of Goethe's story, but also in Berlioz's and Gounod's. It's kind of strange if you ask me, like they've become the operatic version of Robert DeNiro and Joe Pesci's appearances in gangster films.

Perhaps it's this over familiarity with each other and the roles that saps both men's performances of some much needed charisma. While Abdrazakov undoubtedly has the physical presence to play the Devil, and can ham it up with ease, his performance lacks wit and engagement. During Act 2's Walpurgis Night scene he's placed on a long buffet table surrounded by minions who are having a wickedly good time beneath him but all he does is sit leisurely on a throne. I was thinking while watching this how static it felt despite all the hubbub coming from the chorus and that the Devil should be dancing across that table, not idly sitting on it. The fault for this may lie with the revival's director Laurie Feldman, but I would think that Abdrazakov, with all his experience in the part, would have something more to contribute besides mugging his way through the scenes, no matter how adroitly. His voice too, has lost some of it menace since I last heard him as the Devil in the Berlioz version at the Met in 2009 (yes, Vargas was Faust in that one as well), his lower register becoming inaudible at times.

Vargas frustrates me. He's capable of great singing, can be an engaging actor, and possesses a distinct instrument. But the last few times I've seen him he seems to coast through most of the performance, saving his powers for his last big moment onstage where he decides to really let loose, but for the previous three hours he looked and sounded like he was simply going through the motions. Not that Boito has given him a Faust to work with of any depth or dimension, in fact of three versions in the standard rep his is the least interesting, but Vargas seemed to have nothing to offer beyond what's on the page.

Patricia Racette is too mature to be convincing as Margherita at this point, which makes sense since she also sang the role here in 1994. However, this is a distraction only during Act 2, where the richness of her tone and physical stature are incapable of letting her come across convincingly as an innocent youth. Her voice seemed stretched, shrill during the quartet in the garden scene, no doubt from the ridiculous burden she's currently placing on it by performing lead roles in two operas at once. In Act 3, which returns her to the garden, now an almost unrecognizable wasteland, her maturity becomes an asset as Margherita grieves over the death of her mother and child, the end result of her affair with Faust. Like Vargas was to do in the Epilogue, she summoned a stunning amount of power for her final aria, and with the exception of one alarmingly off note slipping through during her first aria, she sang the big moments with impressive strength and clarity.

Current Adler Fellows Chaunyue Wang as Wagner and Erin Johnson as Marta were both impressive in the smaller roles, especially Johnson's breasts which could merit their own mention in the cast as Jello On Springs, to quote Jack Lemmon. Marina Harris was good as Helen of Troy during Act 4, but at this point the opera really begins to drag, and both she and Renee Rapier as Pantalis have somewhat unfortunate assignments because I can't imagine anyone's attention isn't beginning to wander toward their watch during this part, which is largely devoid of any excitement onstage.

After Faust's death, a moment which despite Vargas' best vocal efforts contains little drama, the angels in the theater return, ending the show on another stunning high note. Nicola Luisotti led the orchestra in a thoroughly robust performance, but certainly didn't disprove Shaw's observations. See it for the production values and the work of the chorus, both of which are remarkable.

Mahler visits the Gibichung Inn of Catastrophes

2013-09-19T21:16:00.000-07:00

Photo from Out West Arts

Last night I went to hear Mahler's 9th Symphony for the third time in roughly two years. Bookended by performances from the San Francisco Symphony under Michael Tilson Thomas was an extraordinary, had-to-be-heard-to-be-believed account led by Esa-Pekka Salonen with the London Philharmonia Orchestra last November. Salonen managed to make the entire ninety-odd minute beast compelling from the first movement through the third, and then broke my heart in half with a fourth which left me in tears afterward. MTT and the SFS aren't as nearly devastating with the same material, largely because in their hands the inner movements don't completely reconcile with the [more important] outer two. The second and third have their delights, to be sure, as if the weight of the world sitting upon Mahler's shoulders (and it was, as the piece followed a very dark part of the composer's life) were suddenly tossed off for a night out on the town, but what makes it worth attending a performance is the profundity of the first and the heartbreak of the last movements, both of which are drenched in Wagner's influence.

The first evoked loss and remorse, then angst and resignation before coming to rest at the Gibichung Inn of Catastrophes. It's not so much a journey from darkness to light as it is finally gaining a sense of tenuous security after having surrendered to something unknown and accepting what comes of the choice. The concluding solos by Principal Flute Tim Day and Concertmaster Alexander Barantschik were gorgeous. The climax of the third was a thundering success, and yes, there's a reason I have nothing really to say of interest about the second. The fourth was a master class on how to show off an orchestra, apparently done by performing the fourth movement of Mahler's 9th. It's almost as beautiful as Tristan, and there's no need to hire any singers.

The program repeats nightly through September 21. Get tickets here.

Di Castri's "Lineage" breaks with the past, and Bronfman kills it (again)

2013-09-16T00:50:00.001-07:00

Zosha Di Castri

Lineage, by 28-year-old composer Zosha Di Castri, is the first commission to come out of a new partnership between the The San Francisco and New World Symphonies and the music publisher Boosey & Hawkes. In the program notes for its West Coast premiere Di Castri describes it as “a combination of change and consistency, a re-imagining of places and traditions I’ve known only second-hand, the sound of a fictitious culture one dreams up to keep the memories of another generation alive.” It's a disarmingly honest statement about the work, and an accurate one. Intentionally or not, it's also a revealing truth about the music from a new generation of composers now emerging in concert halls- a generation which views (and experiences) 20th Century composers as being of a distinct era, now past, and notably not their own. These are composers whose living role models aren't Copeland, Stravinsky, Ives, Harrison, etc. Not Messiaen, or even Carter. Their living models are composers like Adams, Glass, Penderecki, Golijov and and Saariaho. I imply no judgement regarding these contemporary composers vs. their predecessors, but bring attention to this only to illustrate a distinctly new era is underway. It is taking place now.

More importantly, these younger composers are coming of age during an era when there is much more than just the Western Art music tradition to draw from, more than just music itself, actually. Technology may prove to be a greater influence on them than Beethoven or Berg ever will be. So is it a surprise that Di Castri's first piece written for a full orchestra has a structure more closely resembling the rapid-fire, montage style of an MTV video or current film than a tone poem or anything resembling sonata form? She wasn't even alive when Michael Jackson's Thriller was released.

As Lineage unfolded the musicians kept issuing snippet after snippet of arresting, alluring music- little threads that I kept hoping would expand and develop into full themes, but none did- one would just be taken over by another in a constantly shifting kaleidoscope of texture and sounds- some soft and scratchy, some noticeably melodic, but none for maybe more than 20 seconds. A constant tease, especially since many of them sounded so promising. It was a technique resembling sampling- something that has been going on in pop music for the entirety of Di Castri's life, and a form as familiar to someone her age as a triad is to earlier generations. For some listeners that may have proved frustrating, possibly even uninteresting, but for me it was like hearing what the future is going to sound like- and it sounds pretty damn interesting, though it is quite different- at least for those of us raised on a set of musical assumptions that may have been declared obsolete or irrelevant while we weren't paying attention. But the "change and consistency" she mentioned, those "places and traditions I’ve known only second-hand" proved to be true. Nicely done.

Next, Yefim Bronfman strode onstage to perform Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1 (speaking of which, what ever what happened to No. 2? Is it ever performed?). I've mentioned before that Bronfman is my personal favorite pianist to hear in concert and he proved why again with this astounding performance. His ability to play with such a substantial difference of force in each hand boggles my mind. During the first movement his left was a constant source of deliberation, almost relentless, while his right always seemed to float gently above the keys, still making each note distinctly heard within and above the orchestra, which was in rock-solid alignment with him. The first movement was so brilliantly played it drew a substantial ovation when it concluded from throughout the house.

The second movement, the tone of which to me has always alternated between an acknowledgement of winter's melancholy and a paean to the potential found in every spring, and the dancing propulsion of the third, found Bronfman steadfastly refusing to linger over any of it, refusing to milk a single note, a common practice with lesser pianists which so often turns this masterpiece into romantic gloop. This was true of his approach to the first movement as well, but became more obvious here with their briefer lengths and less luxuriant orchestral parts, which MTT led with a surprisingly taut, muscular sound. Once again, Fima killed it. In fact, this may have been the best performance of his I've attended so far.

After the intermission the orchestra played Prokofiev's Third Symphony, a relative rarity, and I can understand why. It utilizes elements from the composer's opera The Fiery Angel, which I'm unfamiliar with but now am rather keen to at hear if not see, because musically this thing is an assault on the ears led by the most overpowering brass section I have ever heard in my life. It was initially frightening, as befits the opera's story, but in the end it felt wearisome, all but obliterating the afterglow of Bronfman's gorgeous performance. There was one superb moment where Mark Inouye and another trumpet player, breaking apart from the phalanx of brass, delivered a brief passage played so softly the sudden contrast was stunning. But the bombast of the whole largely eclipsed these few fine moments scattered throughout the piece, despite fine playing from the entire orchestra, especially the strings, which sound better than ever.

Not the dead poet-

2013-09-11T23:14:00.000-07:00

If you haven't already noticed, Thomas May (not the dead poet), who is easily among the very best music writers of our era, recently began a blog called Memeteria. I find this delightful for two reasons: the first is because his writing has always been extremely informative, insightful, and straightforward; second, there's been a lot discussion and hand-wringing lately about the current state and uncertain future of classical music blogs and I find it refreshing (and reassuring) that one of the best in the business has decided to sit down at the table. All is not lost, Ms. Fine.

May has posted a link to his article for the world premiere of Tobias Picker's Dolores Claiborne, which opens at San Francisco Opera next week and after reading it my interest level in the new work, already high, rose substantially. He's also linked to a very interesting article by Philip Kennicott which recently appeared in The New Republic about the state of American orchestras that was, as May put it, "substantial and thought provoking," especially when one thinks about the San Francisco Symphony, which is in some ways following the ominous tide (as seen by Kennicott) and in others obstinately swimming against it (and I recommend you do read the comments). That's just for starters- May is always worth reading and he's a prolific poster. Check him out.

Placido Domingo in Berkeley

2013-09-10T01:55:00.000-07:00

Angel Joy Blue, Placido Domingo, and Micaela Oeste. Photo from YouTube.

This much is true: Placido Domingo, now in his 70's, still has a gorgeous voice; he's an extremely generous and warm performer who respects his audience; and he remains a riveting presence onstage. During Saturday night's concert at UC Berkeley's Greek Theater, a show that ran for nearly three hours, he proved that over and over again with little, if any, apparent effort on his part. The man is worthy of superlatives.

What's less true is that all of his talent and attributes make for a compelling concert experience. A pleasant, pleasing one? Sure. One worthy of the man's abilities. Not quite. Would it appear churlish to say I expected more? I'll leave that up to you, though I suspect many of you would answer "yes." However, before you do, please re-read that first paragraph. The man is undeniably great, but the concert was a meandering hodgepodge that in the end amounted to the kind of show one might have seen on the Vegas Strip in days gone past- glitzy, professionally staged, and flawlessly executed, but offering little more than an evening's entertainment.

That wouldn't be a bad thing if Domingo didn't have so much more to offer.

Everyone did their part, including the sound engineers who expertly captured a surprising amount of nuance from the singers and the orchestra, in effect bolstering rather than amplifying them (I've never heard an orchestra or opera singers amplified to such pleasing effect). The Berkeley Symphony, under the baton of Eugene Kohn, were for the most part marvelous- crisp and fluid, never overpowering the voices and Kohn never let things sag. There wasn't much nuance, but given the outdoor setting it was probably best not to try. Also excellent were the two sopranos Domingo brought along to share the load- Micaela Oeste and Angel Joy Blue. Filler never sounded or looked this good. All that was missing was a reason to be there beyond the opportunity to hear the man sing. Some would say that's more than enough. I will say when you've got someone as gifted as Domingo in the house, who has done so much for the art of singing, and especially operatic singing, it's not.

Domingo wound his way through some opera (Verdi, Wagner & Giordano), some show tunes, some Zarzuela and some schmaltz ("Besame Mucho"). He shared the limelight generously- everyone was allowed to shine. But I couldn't help but wonder how enchanting the evening could have been had an artistic director been engaged to turn the concert from a polished showcase into a musical journey of revelations and discoveries- about why this singularly talented man has been singing opera for over 50 years; what's special about the form and his unique contribution to it; to show how some stories are best told with the voice and an orchestra; to illustrate the connections between seemingly unrelated styles, and even to learn something more about the man himself. But ambitions of this nature were absent from the program, leaving the real potential of the massive talent onstage sadly unrealized. That was obviously fine for the majority of the audience, who enjoyed every moment of it under the warm summer sky. Their cheers brought Domingo back for numerous encores, and though each one seemed to yield diminishing returns, he looked like he was having the time of his life. I can't begrudge him that. He's certainly earned it.

The concert was presented by Another Planet in conjunction with Cal Performances.

Opening night at the Symphony, 2013

2013-09-08T17:07:00.003-07:00

What's going on here? Marcher and Margarita. Photo by Stephen Lam (SF Chronicle)

I've lived in the Tenderloin for a little over eight years. Eleven years ago I lived on the top of Nob Hill, in a small one-bedroom apartment with a great eastern view of the Financial District and the Bay Bridge. Then I became engaged to a woman from Little Rock, Arkansas so I gave up that apartment and together we rented another, larger one on the opposite side of the hill which had Golden Gate views out of every window including the bathroom. I was told the apartment was once the home of a famous billionaire's ex-wife.

The girl from Little Rock and I parted instead of married, and since it was my decision to do so it was I who had to leave the rooms with the views. I ended up doing something I swore I would never do, which was to move south of California Street, and I took an incredibly fantastic apartment on Geary Street with an oval bedroom, huge windows facing west and south, a lovely and whimsical backyard, and a neighbor who had a baby grand in his apartment from which he filled the air with impeccably nuanced interpretations of Chopin and Rachmaninoff. It was the greatest apartment I had ever lived in, even though it was on the outer edge of the 'Loin.

Then I met the woman from New Orleans, and rolled even further south into an apartment on O'Farrell half the size of my previous place, but with a stunning, 180-degree view of the south side of the City, the tawdry grit of Ellis Street eleven floors beneath me, and the myriad happy sounds of the Tenderloin drifting up to the windows 24 hours a day. The moral of this story is if you like where you live, don't date Southern women, no matter how charming they are- it only leads to an inevitable downward roll into the Tenderloin, and if you're lucky, rehab.

Living in the 'Loin, I always feel extremely conspicuous when I step outside my building into the street wearing a tux. The only upside is that it makes it very easy for a cab to spot me from two blocks away and soon I was in one heading to Margarita's place- which is only slightly more than a mile away but at times feels like twenty. I arrived at 7:00 and she was almost ready. Fifteen minutes later another cab took us to Davies Symphony Hall and soon we were in the Green Room, nibbling at slices of lox and trying to figure out who was who among the packed, buzzing crowd. Many of the faces I recognized, but an equal amount were new to me. Along one wall sat two young people with large plastic badges stating "PRESS" strung over their necks busily typing into laptops without ever looking up. I wondered what they were writing and for whom, but not enough to ask them. I guess the badges were to let others know not to ask them for more champagne, because I didn't see any of the people I know who are actually "press" wearing badges of any kind, except for a small few who chose to display their status by opting not to dress properly for the occasion.

We exited the Green Room to watch the fashion parade taking place in the main lobby. Margarita has an astute eye, and as we discussed the clothes and their wearers, she filled me in on their designers, fabrics, and prices, and I offered what I knew regarding identities, backstories, and dirt. The crowd was noticeably younger this year, and among this group the women made a valiant effort to match the glamour of their elders, some succeeding with unconventional choices which yielded stunning results, others not so much.

I also noticed 3 of my neighbors among the throng, which means that - gasp! - other people from the TL had somehow managed to crash this party, which also means not everyone who attends the opening night gala for the SF Symphony (or the SF Ballet or SF Opera, for that matter) lives in Sea Cliff or Pacific Heights. How did this happen?

I note this only because I was reading the generally class-consciously resentful/nasty/ignorant comments on SFGate that make it seem like these events are only for the very rich and powerful. While it's certainly true that these evenings are designed for and cater to that audience, that's not a bad thing- an incredible amount of money is raised from these folks which in turn supports these organizations, and in this country, the financial support of the rich is a necessity. Without it, these institutions would cease to exist. So stop carping and next year get yourself a relatively inexpensive ticket (they are available), which would cost you much less than a good seat at a 49er's game, and go enjoy the party. And believe me, it is a great party- the drinks are free, the food is good, people are out to have a good time and the entertainment is top notch- before, during, and after the concert. You will have a good time and you can choose to just ignore the fact that the mayor, the Speaker of the House, and the Yahoo woman are there in the room with you- just like they're ignoring your presence. Everybody wins!

After the obligatory singing of our national anthem, the Symphony launched into George Antheil's Jazz Symphony. I've never heard the thing before, which has heavy doses of Stravinsky and American big band thrown together into a big, messy stew, but it came off as something of a hot mess. Whether or not this was by Antheil's design or the orchestra's execution I can't rightly say, but it did give Principal Trumpet Mark Inouye a glorious opportunity to get seriously down and greasy with a mute, and Robin Sutherland also had some fine solos on the piano. Gershwin's An American in Paris mines similar territory with greater effect and substantially more coherence, and the orchestra was more persuasive with it as the finale, but both choices seemed to be programmed more as vehicles to accompany a celebration than for making a case about the importance of the intersection of classical and jazz.

However, these paled compared to singer Audra McDonald's appearances during both halves. Conveying sex appeal and elegance in equal measure in a fantastic dress, McDonald, launching her own national tour with this performance, has a voice better-suited to Broadway than the opera house, and her first set of songs were all by Leonard Bernstein, including a gorgeous version of "Somewhere" from West Side Story and a completely delightful version of "A Hundred Easy Ways to Lose a Man" from Wonderful Town. As good as she was here, she was even better in the second half with "The Music That Makes Me Dance" from Funny Girl and had the entire house singing along with her on "I Could Have Danced All Night" which somehow she made fun rather than schmaltzy. Her banter with Michael Tilson Thomas was natural and easy- they seemed like two old friends having a good time together, especially when MTT tried to mislead her about the composer of one of the songs.

The after-party is always my favorite part of this event and this year was the best, most fun-filled version of it I've attended so far. In the tent next to the hall The Cheeseballs were tearing it up, with everyone dancing pretty much from get-go (they need to work on those vocals for Daft Punk's "Get Lucky), and a DJ performing in between sets. There were tables of delicious food (coldcuts, crab cocktails, and chocolates) scattered along the walls, short lines for drinks, and plenty of room to dance or just sit and watch women approach Willie Brown and have their photo taken with him. Both he and his date seemed to take it all in with good humor.

The DJ in the tent set up on Grove Street was none other than composer/electronica artist/DJ Mason Bates, who was accompanied by a guy (I didn't get his name) on an electric 5 string double bass. Bates' set was alluring, and drew Margarita's attention, and it was only after listening for awhile and then approaching the table we were surprised to discover it was the composer. We ended up talking with him a bit and he was extremely gracious. His music will be paired with Beethoven's in two separate programs this season. I was leaning toward attending the one featuring Alternative Energy, which he performed here with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra when they came to town during the Centennial Season, but after hearing that Liquid Interface, which hasn't been heard here before, is (I'm paraphrasing here) like a waterfall, I'm inclined to want to hear that perhaps as much if not slightly more than the return of the tremendously successful Alternative Energy.

We left around midnight. The party was still going, but we had jobs to be at in the morning. It was easily the best night out I've had in a long time.

The future...

2013-09-03T01:20:00.002-07:00

... looks like this.