The Decline and Fall of Rationalism

Two Christmas Gripes: Restaurant Scourges and Disappearing Trash Receptacles

2011-12-26T14:16:00.000-06:00

I was having a very pleasant dinner the other evening in a fine independent St. Paul restaurant, enjoying a marvelous meal, when I learned that the restaurant had been taken by the lowest of the low: the no show. The proprietors had set aside about one quarter of the restaurant for a large party, about fifteen. The table sat empty and eventually the owner called to find out that the offending party was now in a Minneapolis restaurant and not coming. Because it was a large group, the owner had called earlier in the day to confirm the reservation and was told that everything was a go. Come on people! The restaurant business is tough enough without this kind of inconsiderate conduct.

Okay, what's going on with trash receptacles at drive-through restaurants and coffee shops? Have you noticed that more and more drive-throughs are pulling out their convenient driver-side trash cans? Pulled them at my Starbucks. None at the McDonald's I visited the other day. I inquired of the lady at Starbucks and was told that they were taken out because, "We are not in the business of collecting trash." Hmmm. Seems to me they give out a lot of trash and that people are mostly just disposing of the trash from the prior day's visit. So much for customer convenience. I guess Starbucks just found a way to foist their drive-through trash on others. This is a new industry standard that I don't like.

ON STATUTORY BREVITY: MPR'S SUPPORT FOR LONGER STATUTES

2011-11-24T23:58:00.008-06:00

Some day every human action may be dictated by statute or written rule. Right now laws, ordinances, and regulations place innumerable restrictions on our lives: the size of our toilet tanks; the distance we must park from driveways; where we smoke; how we dispose of aluminum cans; how many cats we may have in our homes—the list is endless. And the statute books in Minnesota have in the last few decades burgeoned at an amazing rate. Despite using what seems to be thinner paper, the official Minnesota Statues have bulked up year after year to the point where they now take up three times as much space on the bookshelf as they did a generation or two ago.

The tendency to pass more and more laws and the objection to this practice have been noted throughout history. In the 1970’s, the nation had a serious discussion about “sunset laws,” laws that would be enacted for a specified length of time and then expire. As early as the 7^th Century B.C., as Gibbon notes, lawmakers recognized the value of limiting the amount of regulation:

The decemvirs had neglected to import the sanction of Zalecucus, which for so long maintained the integrity of his republic. A Locrian, who proposed any new law, stood forth in the assembly of the people with a cord round his neck, and if the law was rejected, the innovator was immediately strangled.

Gibbon, Edward. The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. London: Jones and Company, 1828. Vol. III, p. 168. Our society long ago took the brakes of the legislative engine and it is only under a very unusual circumstance that any penalty—even something as mild as public ridicule—attends the proposal of a new law.

But while I join the many who find it dispiriting that we do not limit the number of laws, there was a recent MPR story that stopped me in my tracks. In a story discussing bullying, this statement was made: “Minnesota's current law is one of the shortest in the country.” Could it be that there are people who want not better, not more effective, but longer laws? I drilled down a bit, thinking that the sentence might be an aberration. But earlier MPR stories on the subject of bullying* had also noted the brevity of Minnesota’s statute:

At just 37 words, Minnesota's law against bullying is one of the shortest in the nation:

"Each school board shall adopt a written policy prohibiting intimidation and bullying of any student. The policy shall address intimidation and bullying in all forms, including, but not limited to, electronic forms and forms involving Internet use."

That's the only requirement. Unlike other state laws, it contains no list of what those policies must include.

The headline for that article was: “A six-month Minnesota Public Radio News investigation of bullying policies across the state found a patchwork of policies and that the state's policy is one of the shortest in the nation.” http://minnesota.publicradio.org/projects/2011/05/bullying/

Indeed, thirty-seven words is a modest showing for a statute. Thousands, perhaps millions of longer statutes exist in the United States. Here, for instance, is a 145-word offering from the State of New York:

A person who overdrives, overloads, tortures or cruelly beats or unjustifiably injures, maims, mutilates or kills any animal, whether wild or tame, and whether belonging to himself or to another, or deprives any animal of necessary sustenance, food or drink, or neglects or refuses to furnish it such sustenance or drink, or causes, procures or permits any animal to be overdriven, overloaded, tortured, cruelly beaten, or unjustifiably injured, maimed, mutilated or killed, or to be deprived of necessary food or drink, or who willfully sets on foot, instigates, engages in, or in any way furthers any act of cruelty to any animal, or any act tending to produce such cruelty, is guilty of a class A misdemeanor and for purposes of paragraph (b) of subdivision one of section 160.10 of the criminal procedure law, shall be treated as a misdemeanor defined in the penal law.

Maybe MPR’s push for longer laws will lead to laws like that gem.

Of course, while thirty-seven words is quite paltry compared to the word count of many contemporary laws, it is possible to draft laws that are both brief and well-written. Consider: “Thou shalt not kill. . . . Thou shalt not steal.” These ancient laws each have only four words, but their effects have resonated through millennia. And cannot we agree that the commandment that actually does attempt to list all possible permutations of prohibition—though equally sacrosanct—is not as well drafted:

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house, covet thy neighbour's wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbour's.

Notice the catch-all provision at the end. This is necessary because the preceding list could not possibly list all the things that might belong to one’s neighbor. Why is the neighbor’s plow not listed? Why not his children? Why not his harvested crops? The act of listing is inherently perilous.

This is not to say that there are never occasions for lists in statutes. Sometimes all specific things must be listed. But in this context listing every possible act that intimidates or bullies is fraught with difficulty. Repeatedly punching someone is obviously bullying. Threatening someone is obviously bullying too. What about patting a teammate on the butt after a football touchdown? What about hugging a friend? What about raising one’s voice to the point of yelling? What about raising one’s voice slightly? What about telling a fellow student that her shirt is dirty or that her clothes are ugly? The interactions at school are so limitless that any attempt to categorize them in a detailed list is a fool’s errand. Local school officials are qualified to regulate the conduct of students without a list that explains precisely what the Minnesota legislature meant by “intimidation” and “bullying.” The legislature had a sound reason for not enumerating every unacceptable act that might fit under the rubrics of “intimidation” or “bullying.”

The notion that the quality of one state’s laws can be compared to that of another by counting words is ridiculous. While being thorough is important, the essence of good writing—and it applies to legislative writing too—is brevity. No statute should ever be criticized for not being long enough. Blaise Pascal famously observed, “I would have written a shorter letter, but I did not have time.” Similarly, statutes are often too long because they are not carefully crafted.

It may seem quite odd that anyone would be twisted enough to take time out of a Thanksgiving Day to criticize those who are pursuing the noble goal of eliminating bullying. The simple explanation is that I was a victim of childhood bullying myself and am still suffering from its shattering effects. And so I say: MPR, please do not suggest that we should evaluate the quality of statutes based on their length.

*For the record, I refuse to use the prevalent “anti” prefix when discussing bullying laws. Do we need to say “anti-murder laws” or “anti-kidnapping laws” in order to convey the notion that society is opposed to murder and kidnapping?

Alexander Melnikov in Recital

2011-11-06T21:12:00.000-06:00

The Frederic Chopin Society has been bringing talented pianists to Minnesota for about twenty-five years. Usually the pianists are not household names. Though it has sponsored such well-known artists as Marc-Andre Hamelin, Stephen Hough, Angela Hewitt, Richard Goode, Imogen Cooper, Jonathan Biss, and Simone Dinnerstein, one of the organization's great gifts is that it consistently finds brilliant lesser-known pianists, ones who nearly always give satisfying performances. Sadly, my attendance has fallen off a bit and until today I had not attended one of the Chopin Society's recitals in several years. After Alexander Melnikov's recital on November 6, I am once more excited about the society's offerings.

The concert venue, Hamline University's Sundin Music Hall, was excellent. The 326-seat auditorium was very pleasant and has superb acoustics. All the seats were filled, but the audience, with one particularly notable exception, was one of the quietest and best mannered I have observed. Perhaps this exceptionally warm November has forestalled the cold season, the perennial enemy of Minnesota piano recitals.

Alexander Melnikov is a Russian pianist who is said to be heavily influenced by Sviatoslav Richter. Though I never saw Richter in recital, Melnikov's approach seems in line with Richter's reputation and what I hear on Richter's recordings. Melnikov appeared dressed all in black and is a tall, imposing figure. While a moderate showman--on stage neither a milquetoast, like Pollini, or a clown, as Lang Lang can sometimes be--his playing is powerful and very aggressive. At times during this recital he approached the brink of loss of control, but always reined himself back in.

It's hard to think of a better way to begin a recital program than with the opening sonorities of Schubert's Wanderer Fantasy. The four-movement fantasy is based on one of Schubert's Lieder and after you have heard the opening of this piece a few times you never forget it. My knowledge of it comes from my Pollini and Kissin recordings. Melnikov let the audience know from the beginning of the piece that he was not going to hold much back. The closing minutes of the third movement and the entirety of the fourth were a savage and delectable assault on the Steinway. This was a point where Melinkov seemed to push his technique to the limit--and I think with good results. The tempo of the closing fugue was quite fast and I could not help thinking that there was a dash of Rachmaninoff in my Schubert.

The set of Brahms opus 116 pieces were next. The first of the set, a D-minor Capriccio, was again played aggressively. At times the piano seemed to be treated as if it were Melinkov's enemy. But his fierceness was in reserve during the haunting A-minor Intermezzo. Here, I thought the concert hall proved its acoustical merit: I was sitting near the back, but do not recall ever hearing such wonderfully clear quiet passages. These late Brahms pieces seemed to fit Melinkov's style very well.

The second half of the program consisted of the first twelve of Shostakovich's opus 87 Preludes and Fugues. Melinkov played with a score, but his mastery of these pieces made this seem more a habit than a necessity. What fascinated me about these pieces, ones I have heard occasionally but do not know well, was the extent to which Shostakovich showed that he mastered the manner of Bach. There are parts of Prelude No. 10 and Fugues 1, 4, 6, and 10 that could be be taken for Bach. But elsewhere there were modern and post-modern tonalities that nobody could mistake for anyone other than a 20th-century composer. My favorite of the pieces was the Fugue No. 8, which starts with a very long theme, perhaps 40 to 50 notes, that is very reminiscent of a bird song--though perhaps one with hints of modernism. Another favorite, the last Fugue played, No. 12, was pure Shostakovich. No Bach here: instead a piece of driving intensity that builds to what almost seems a false ending and then quits quietly. Too bad that there was that one loud cough just as the piece was drifting into silence.

All of Melnikov's offerings were well received by the audience. But despite three bows, there were no encores. I am usually disappointed if there are no encores, but on this occasion Melnikov's decision was exactly correct. He had offered two-and-a-half hours of exceptionally fine music and the audience left the hall sated and smiling.

The Perfect Saturday: Learning to Talk About Books I Haven't Read

2011-10-30T19:29:00.000-05:00

In Minnesota a late October day and a trip to the mechanic rarely lead to much good. But an afternoon full of warmth and sunshine, when combined with the discovery of a tight, funny, and novel collection of essays meant that I could find happiness even while my car was up on the rack. The fun started while perusing the "Books About Books" section of Half-Price Books in Highland Park. Lately I have more and more taken to absorbing my literature indirectly--not by diving into literary works themselves, but by trying to find interest and amusement without the hard work. And so I came upon Pierre Bayard's "How to Talk About Books You Haven't Read," as translated by Jeffrey Mehlman.

I expected cheesy instruction on the strategy of chatting about literature. But this is nothing of the sort. The work is a thoughtful discussion of why we should be enthusiastic about literary and other ideas even in the face of life's grand limitations. It begins by appealing to the reader's self-interest, by absolving readers for not having read all of literature's canon.

Can't we all admit that there are some iconic works that we should have read, but haven't? For instance, I have never read Joyce's "Ulysses." A sad admission for a devotee of literature, but there you have it. Bayard makes the point that even if we are well read, we are still likely to have huge gaps in our knowledge of literature. Who has really read all of Conrad, Mencken, Traven? And can anyone really stay abreast of the twenty promising new novels published each month? The point is drilled home with reference to someone who, looking for a specific bit of wisdom, strolls the stacks of a vast library and does a mental calculation, finding that it will take a hundred lifetimes to tackle just this one library. So Bayard charms us by showing how any attempt to actually read everything, or one percent of everything, or even all works in the "canon," is folly.

Bayard also tackles the ambiguity of what it means to have read something. If you have read a work, but cannot remember anything of it, can you really claim to have read it? Even if you've recently finished reading a book, how quickly does it vanish from memory? Doesn't it really become what Bayard calls a "shadow book," a sometimes inaccurate, always modified version of the original?

His discussion of what happens when the public meets an author is instructive. Sometimes readers fix on details and interpretations that leave the author aghast. Precision and detailed recollection of a work can interfere with such a meeting, perhaps leaving the author with the bitter realization that a work has been revered for all the wrong reasons, reasons perhaps perverse to the author's intention. His advice: praise the work without offering specifics. Similar observations are made about academic or classroom discussions of literature. Attempting to find out if someone has read a book, or assuming they have not based on stated inaccuracies, is demonstrated to be a dangerous, uncertain, and even counterproductive business.

A good collection of essays, like a family, has both commonalities, that which binds them, and differences, that which makes them interesting. This collection is marvelously unified. Bayard has uncovered five or six stunning literary references that bear on his theme. The varied nature of these references, from classic French writers like Valery and Balzac, to scientific studies involving attempts to teach Hamlet to African natives, gives the reader confidence that one is being guided by a very thoughtful man. I admire Bayard's gift here. He realizes that these references can be pulled together and enlisted towards his end.

The individual chapters are likable, humorous, and penetrating. One chapter dissects a work wherein college literature professors play a game called "Humiliation." The players score points by naming prominent works that they have not read. Another chapter analyzes the Bill Murray movie "Ground Day" and touches on how to talk about literature with one we love. Each individual essay is worthwhile.

The closing essays address literary criticism, asking the question, "How much must one read before one knows that a work is deficient?" Then it is suggested that the point of literary criticism really has nothing to do with the merits of the work itself, but is just an art form--one where a negative review can serve the critic's art just as well as a positive one. Equally provoking is the assertion that we have a moral duty not to read certain books--not as I expected because they are immoral, but because they are a waste of time.

I read the book while walking in the sunshine along the Mississippi and finished it just as my car lowered from the rack. "How to Talk About Books You Haven't Read" somehow eased the pain of the expensive brake job--my only regret being that Bayards' interesting and important work was not available to me many years ago.

City of Thieves: The Perfect Airplane Read

2010-05-18T07:14:00.003-05:00

Operas, Pianists, Nabokov, Bryan Garner--this blog is guilty of snootishness. And with essays on croquet and orchids on tap for next month, I thought it appropriate to eschew an examination of belles lettres in favor of a mention of a nice airplane read: City of Thieves, by David Benioff. Because the work was published in 2008, it seems this is as current as I get. Recent posts have seen me either stuck in the middle of the last century or trying to board the David Foster Wallace bandwagon long after DFW's death. But City of Thieves was so good I may just continue to look around and see what the 21st century has to offer.

An airplane book should be short. My unique way of measuring the length of a book, one I have used since college (a result of reading prolix Dickens novels), and which predates computer programs that count words automatically, is pages x lines per page x characters per line. Here we have 258 pages, 35 lines per page, and about 65 characters per line. So the book is approximately 586,950 characters long. By comparison, The Pickwick Papers was 2,109,120 characters long per my ancient calculations; Hard Times, 661,960; and Jude the Obscure (Yes, I was even capable of reading Hardy), 924,715. So the book starts with an approximate length appropriate for the genre. Then, because of the profusion of dialogue in the book--this is a buddy story, though a dark one--the actual length is overestimated by my rough formula. Of course, the point here is not that it is simply short, or else a "Modest Proposal" would make a good airplane read. Instead, to make a satisfying travel companion it must be reasonably short, long enough, and substantial.

When I travel, it seems my reading is constantly interrupted: the flight ends; we are going back to the terminal; a drink is being served; bathroom breaks are needed; spouses, children, or Houyhnhnms sitting next to me want to interact. A good airplane read must have a short refractory period. Have you ever tried to put down and pick up a Dickens novel? "Let's see, exactly who was Mr. Snodgrass again?" I remember coating the flyleaves of my Dickens or Tolstoy novels with the cast of characters. In The City of Thieves we are mostly concerned with just two main characters: Lev, an introverted young Jew, and Kolya, a scrappy, quick-witted Cossack. So it's easy to follow in addition to being the right length.

On top of this, we have an engaging story, the premise of which is that Lev and Kolya, who were condemned to die, have their lives spared on the condition that they find a dozen eggs for a Soviet colonel. The only problem is that they start their quest during the winter of the Nazi siege of Leningrad. The story's germ is interesting, funny, and a bit ironic. The quest, of course, brings these two closer and closer together as the tale progresses. The situations are wildly imaginative, almost the kind that are so odd that one thinks they must be based on truth. In no particular order we have several of ingredients for a good story: Nazis; a foray through enemy lines; cannibalism; a romance; a sharing of confidences between Lev and Kolya; moments of courage; and moments of pathos.

This is a very pleasant read. I am certain that it will be a Hollywood movie, and probably a pretty good one, within a year or two. Beyond that, City of Thieves is a perfect airplane read.

W.A. Frost Finally Got It Right!

2010-05-14T22:38:00.003-05:00

I have been going to W.A. Frost's, a St. Paul restaurant, for over thirty years. Never impressed. The building is interesting--it was a drugstore in the 1930's when my father roamed the neighborhood--but the food has always been insipid. I would estimate that I've been there 30 times or so over the years. At times the service has been some of the worst imaginable. At other times the attitude of the restaurant has been alienating. For instance, I recall an incident about ten years ago when the restaurant rejected my wife's request for the tiniest of deviations from the printed menu--like "could we get this with sauce?"

And then there was tonight. I tried executive chef Wyatt Evans' six-course tasting menu. Fantastic!

The first course was a Cold Smoked Norwegian Salmon "Tartare"--essentially gravlax in an English Cucumber. Stunning.

Then bunny. In particular a "Singerhouse Farm Rabbit Confit Risotto." Unusual and tasty.

The "Grilled All Natural New York Strip" was the best steak I have ever tasted, though there were only three small strips. But they were perfectly cooked. The accompanying fixings were impressive.

This was followed by a cheese course, which featured a delicious local cheese, Upland Farm Pleasant Ridge Reserve, an artisinal non-pasteurized cheese.

Beyond the spectacular food, the service was great.

I am flummoxed.

The Ethereal Glenn Gould

2010-04-28T22:04:00.006-05:00

Genius Within: The Inner Life of Glenn Gould was a wonderful Monday offering at the Minneapolis/St. Paul International Film Festival. I have been a Glenn Gould fan for many decades and appreciated the opportunity to consider him from another angle.

My introduction to Gould, like most, was through his Bach recordings. The piano repertoire was an early love and my first recordings of Bach's keyboard works were of Gould's performance of the Well-Tempered Clavier, Book I. I savored them. I transferred them from records to cassettes and played them until the cassettes wore out. Later I purchased a wide variety of Gould recordings when a local record chain went out of business and was selling them for a couple of dollars a piece. Among these were discs of Gould playing the harpsichord, Bach keyboard concerti, the Art of Fugue, Inventions, Partitas--and anything else I could find. When I heard Gould's 1955 recording of the Goldberg Variations, it became a touchstone.

Later I fell for Gould's wit. Tim Page's A Glenn Gould Reader, a collection of Gould's writings, had me laughing out loud. I particularly enjoyed the pieces where Glenn Gould interviewed Glenn Gould about Glenn Gould. At one point in such an interview, Gould the interviewee announced that his favorite Mozart piece was a piece that although once assigned a Kochel number, had later proved to be written by someone other than Mozart. His parody of Arthur Rubinstein, also included in Page's book, was fetching.

And through the years I always watched with chagrin as the Gould recordings disappeared from the record and CD guides, to be replaced by the recordings of Bach newcomers. Did anybody ever really "own" Bach the way that Gould did, though? Could any other pianist play with the contrapuntal tenacity and clarity of Gould. I have never thought so.

So I was excited to see the movie. The most interesting revelation for me was the fact that Gould had an intense love affair with Cornelia Foss, the wife of a prominent composer of the 1950's and 1960's, Lukas Foss. Cornelia Foss and her children described their years living with Gould and hit upon his eccentricities. I had always ascribed Gould's summertime coat-wearing behavior to schizophrenia, but it appears that Gould was taking dozens of prescribed drugs and this no doubt contributed to both his bizarre behavior and the decline of his health. The film also presented colleagues who worked with him on Canadian radio. They explained that Gould was a perfectionist who was consumed by his work and detailed how those who worked with him were soon caught up in his passionate pursuit of his endeavors of the moment.

Much of the movie, though, was film I had seen before. In particular, the footage from his time as a young recording artist in New York and the clips of his Russian visit were known to me. Also, some of the Canadian television interviews at his lake home have circulated quite a bit lately. But despite the fact that not everything was new, the film really was an interesting try at plumbing the depths of Gould's fascinating genius.

By odd coincidence, when I left the theater and got in my car there was one song left on the disc I was listening to and then--this was not planned--the next disc was Gould's 1955 Goldberg Variations, a disc I had put in a few months ago, but not listened to recently. I decided to find out why this disc, one of the most famous classical recordings of all time, is not considered the best recording of the Goldberg Variations. As I spent time with it, and particularly as I compared it to another recording of the Goldberg Variations by Simone Dinnerstein, I began to understand the problem that many have with Gould's conception: his tempi are idiosyncratic, often insanely (and I think humorously) fast, occasionally torturously slow. While Dinnerstein's recording was moving, measured, and lyrical, Gould's was savage--an assault on the piano.

Later the next evening I went in search of Gould's 1981 recording of the Goldbergs, which I had purchased when in law school. Unfortunately, it was vinyl, so I could not play it. But then I stumbled on the You Tube videos of Gould playing the Goldbergs in 1981. What a treat! Although some oddities remain, some of the supercharged tempi seemed moderated a bit. But in watching Gould perform these pieces I wondered at his total commitment, brilliant execution, and utter mastery of his craft.

I am fairly confident that my children's generation will find little here to warrant their attention. But to me there are few things as meritorious as these videos of a homely, myopic, fifty-year-old man sitting on a tiny chair, eyes just above the keyboard, back hunched, performing a 300-year-old piece of music. In fact, Gould's famous 1981 recording of the Goldberg Variations was released only weeks before he died. Of course, this was the same piece that had catapulted him to fame in 1955. I've always thought it fitting that Gould's career ended where it began, just as the variations end with the reprise of the opening aria. Gould always said that he would die at age 50 and I wonder if there was not some belief or knowledge on his part that he would soon die when the 1981 recording was made.

Because the movie reminded me of this old friend of mine, someone I never knew, I have to count it, or at least my attendance, a brilliant success.

International Film Festival: Suddenly Sami

2010-04-25T22:15:00.004-05:00

The Minneapolis-St. Paul International Film Festival is now in its 28th year and this year sports what I counted to be 143 full-length films. The films show at the St. Anthony Main Theaters, a collection of smallish theaters on the river in the mill district.

We saw "Suddenly Sami," by Norwegian director Ellen Astri-Lundby, who was in attendance. The film revolves around Astri-Lundby's exploration of her family roots, particularly the fact that her mother was a "Sami," a member of an ethnic group from the northern reaches of Scandinavia. The film details the discrimination and scorn encountered by the Sami peoples in Norway, at one point comparing this racism to that of the United States or South Africa.

The film starts with a focus on her mother's life and includes reminiscences of childhood, visits with relatives, and forays to the fjords of northern Norway. At one point Astri-Lundby finds herself in the midst of a reindeer roundup, a moment that best captured her exploration of her family heritage.

In my view, the best aspect of the film was its humor. The Sami relatives and friends that the director encounters are coy about being Sami and usually people of subtle humor and wit.

There was a detailed Q and A session with Astri-Lundby following the film, the highlight of which was a man with Sami ancestry shocking the whole audience by using the n-word while quoting his Sami mother regarding what happened to the color of her skin if she went outside too much.

The festival runs through April 30.

Maurizio Pollini's Carnegie Hall Chopin Recital

2010-04-18T22:38:00.007-05:00

I had not seen Maurizio Pollini in recital since he performed the Beethoven piano sonatas in a cycle at Carnegie Hall in 1995-96. I am a long-time Pollini adherent, having attended my first Pollini recital, an all-Brahms affair, in London in 1979. Because he had won the International Chopin Competition in Warsaw in 1960 at age eighteen, and because of his luscious 1970’s Chopin recordings for Deustche Grammophon, I had always regretted that I had never heard him play Chopin in concert. Thus, it was with great interest that a week ago I spied a notice of a Pollini recital at Carnegie Hall on the very day of a scheduled trip to New York. The only problem was that my flight was to land at Newark Airport only 62 minutes before Pollini would take the stage.

I therefore decided to pass on tickets. But my dear brother came to the rescue. He bought two tickets and told me that if I got to Carnegie Hall on time we would go; he was also willing to wait and enter at intermission if need be. But my Delta flight landed twenty minutes early and I arrived at the concert hall with thirty minutes to spare. As it turned out, it was my brother who almost missed the recital because of Midtown traffic. The seats were the best in the house: eight rows back, keyboard side, on the aisle. We were so close that I could hear Pollini breathe.

The program Pollini selected was a Chopin aficionado’s dream: two Nocturnes; the 24 Préludes; the G-minor Ballade; the B-minor Scherzo, and a selection of eight opus 25 Études.

I had trouble enjoying the two Nocturnes, opus 27, nos. 1 and 2, that started the program because the audience was still not really settled when Pollini began. To me, Chopin’s Nocturnes are as much about silence and quiet as they are about the wrenching notes, so the rustles caused by late arrivers that were just sitting down as Pollini sat down and the cannonades of coughs that accompanied his playing of these pieces were a bit of a distraction. But Pollini seems to pay the audience’s indiscretions little mind—even during the couple of incidents involving premature clapping—and he simply proceeded through his program in unhesitating fashion. Eventually, the audience quieted down.

The Préludes as a group were not in my view the strength of the program. It seemed that there was a pedal problem during no. 4 and a small slip during no. 8, and perhaps a few other minor imperfections in other numbers. The fast Préludes were generally played with panache, though the slower ones, such as the A-flat allegretto, no. 17, a particular favorite of mine, seemed more solid.

Pollini is not a showman. He is not extravagant with his gestures. In fact, both at the piano and while taking his bows, his movements are parsimonious. He does not raise his hands high before pounding home a loud chord, like Rubinstein, or swoon at his own playing, like Lang Lang, but simply plays the notes. I had forgotten this aspect of his live performances. But he is like a great gunfighter: he is not intentionally flashy and may not speak much at all, but his ability is something that is unquestionable and should not be doubted.

The second half of the program wowed the crowd. It started with the big G-minor Ballade, a piece made popular several years ago by “The Pianist,” Roman Polanski’s movie about a Polish Jew who emerges from hiding in the Warsaw ghetto. In the movie, the desultory, starving pianist comes out of his lengthy silence by playing this piece in a scene that succeeds in leaving movie audiences awestruck. Pollini’s performance was at least inspiring enough to gain more quiet from the Carnegie Hall audience.

The B-minor Scherzo was a highlight of the program. Impeccable virtuosity was welded to masterful control of the instrument’s sonorities. The performance of this piece was beyond criticism; it was a joy. And then, with the opus 25 Études, Pollini really took control of the audience, particularly with the last three—all showpieces of the top order. After the B minor Étude, no. 10, an audience member or two tried to break through with applause, but Pollini would have none of that. He dove right into no. 11, known as “the Winter Wind,” and reminded everyone of the reason for his long-held reputation for precision and speed. And then no. 12, the C minor Étude, was driven home furiously. At this point, all around me were shaking their heads in disbelief.

He performed three encores. While the middle of these three pieces was a gentle Mazurka, two of the encores, one the “Revolutionary” etude, and the other the big C#-minor scherzo, played last, were exceedingly generous offerings. I am not accustomed to hearing such weighty encore fare. These two were simply stupendous.

This was the most memorable piano recital of my life. I’ve heard many great pianists through the years—Arrau, Brendel, Kempff, Bolet, Ashkenazy, Gilels, Horowitz, Barenboim, and Lang Lang for starters—but the combination of the kind gift from my brother, a recital by my favorite pianist, perfect seats, and an ideal program, had me exiting onto the sidewalk on 57th Street on this sunny Sunday afternoon with a smile as wide as a long block.

Is Pollini in the Offing?

2010-04-17T11:42:00.003-05:00

I will be visiting New York tomorrow. Last weekend I noted that there is an amazing piano recital scheduled: Pollini will be playing an all-Chopin concert at Carnegie Hall. Only glitch is that my flight arrives in Newark at 1:58 p.m. and the concert begins at 3:00 p.m. Changing flights would have been prohibitively expensive, so I decided not to buy tickets to the recital. Disappointed. I have attended several Pollini recitals over the years, but never heard him play what I most wanted to hear him play: Chopin.

(For those who don't know how I really feel about Pollini, here's a link.)

But then my dear brother stepped forward and bought tickets anyway, figuring that the traffic on Sunday will not be bad and that I might be able to make it. I hope so. The first half of the concert includes Chopin's 24 Preludes, a work I have dreamt of hearing Pollini play since I first heard his 1975 Deutsche Grammophon recording of the Preludes in the late 1970's. The recording won the prestigious Grand Prix du Disc award and the alternating power and delicacy of his playing is jaw dropping.

So we'll see if I can make it to Carnegie Hall by 3:oo! If not, I should be in time for the second half of the program, which will be joy enough.

Nabokov's Lolita

2010-04-13T22:34:00.002-05:00

Just finished Lolita yesterday. An amazing and disturbing book. I think I should let my thoughts ferment a bit before blogging about it.

A Brush with Fame: Meeting the Challenge

2010-04-11T15:51:00.016-05:00

Like other states, Minnesota is experiencing a budget crunch. State park budgets have been hit hard. Services and staffing have been cut. Given this, how do the state parks find the funds to hire celebrities to staff the park offices?

Here's what happened. I was looking to photograph wildflowers and called ahead to the park office, asking, "Are there any spring ephemerals out yet?"

"What?," a gruff female voice grunted.

"Are there any spring ephemerals, any early wildflowers out yet?"

"No. It's too early."

This seemed odd to me given the recent warm weather. So I drove to the park and stopped at the park office. And who should I see, but Roz, the star of Monsters, Inc.!, live and in the flesh.

"I called earlier to see if you have any wildflowers out. I've seen them elsewhere."

"Well we don't have any. We just had a flood through much of our park," barked Roz.

"Besides," she continued, oozing her natural charm, "there aren't many wildflowers in this park anyways."

I was shocked to see that the State of Minnesota could afford to pay Pixar the huge royalties necessary to put this star power in the front office. But I went for a hike anyways.

Roz had apparently been spending too much time indoors because I did manage to see a number of spring ephemerals: Bloodroot; Dutchman's Breeches; Wild Ginger; and Marsh Marigolds--as evidenced by the photos above.

B. Traven: The Bridge in the Jungle

2010-04-03T18:24:00.008-05:00

While on my recent Nabokov foray, after hacking my way through his sesquipedalian tangles, and then wrestling with the fantasy of some of his short stories, I saw a clear, easy path ahead and decided to follow it for a while: B. Traven’s “The Bridge in the Jungle.” I found it in a second-hand bookstore in Tacoma and snatched it up for $3.50. It was a quick, easy read, everything that the Nabokov I had been reading was not: direct, unpretentious, and seemingly more concerned with the world than with its own creativity.

The narrator, Gales, is hunting alligators somewhere in the South American jungle. He visits a loose acquaintance, Sleigh, who lives in a hut in a primitive Indian village. The village is feeling the encroachments of industrialization, including railroads and oil exploration. The oil interests had some time ago built a bridge across a narrow river at the village, but without railings. During an evening celebration, a young boy, Carlosito, vanishes. His mother rouses the villagers to search for him. Some believe that he slipped off the bridge because he was wearing new shoes, shoes which had just been given to him by his brother, Manuel, who had recently returned from the Texas oil fields. As the search progresses, Gales silently regrets that he said nothing when he earlier had heard a splash in the river. Eventually, Carlosito’s body is found stuck in some brush in the water beneath the bridge.

Thereafter, this short novel consists of a straight-forward description of the funeral rites in this small village: the grief of the mother; the preparation of the body; the community’s offering of gifts to the mother for the adornment of her son at burial; the preparation of the coffin, fashioned from unmatched scraps of wood; the funeral procession; the graveside speech; and the burial.

Traven’s language never gets in the way of his story. He leaves the descriptive mode only occasionally, and usually not for long. The work captures perfectly a universal human experience, something that connects us all: the community’s response to death of a young child. The villagers, who have few worldly possessions, still find ways to show their concern for the dead boy and his family. Some make coverings for the body; some make decorated crowns for his head; others bring candles.

The narrator is at times maudlin—a trait I perhaps share and therefore can tolerate. And sometimes he seems too proud of the fact that he sees all humanity in the simple dignity of these primitive people. But his measured description of the funeral rites is a dissection of grief, one that expresses humanity’s commonality. The narrator’s open assertions of the impressiveness of the villagers is hardly needed, though was perhaps warranted given the time of the work’s publication, 1929, and the date of its republication in English, 1938. In fact, given the brewing world storm and the intolerance and bigotry that came with it, it is hard to imagine any message that was more needed in 1938 than the one delivered by this story. This is a noble work.

Speak, Memory: A Polished Gem

2010-03-23T22:42:00.009-05:00

On February 12, 1997, according to the unblemished College of St. Benedict's/College of St. John's price sticker on the back of the book, $13.00 bought one a copy of Vladimir Nabokov's autobiography, "Speak, Memory." I picked it up for $6.98 (not quite half price) at my neighborhood Half Price Books store. Anne Fadiman's essays, discussed below, led me to search out some Nabokov, and the front cover quote suggesting that a prominent magazine considered this "The finest autobiography written in our time" intrigued me.

Let me just say that I'm chagrined lately. In my younger days I wrote bitter reviews and critiques and savaged most everything I read. But lately I seem to be more impressed with the books I read, less critical, and frankly awestruck by the ability of our species to create things of beauty. (See, e.g., my fawning opera reviews on this blog.) But it could also just be that I'm just growing up.

[The theory that I am finally growing up is supported by a recent incident at work. Twenty-some years ago I worked with a young woman, my age, who was edgy and probably--no, definitely--more mature than I was. We worked together for a few months. One day after work, within a few blocks of the office, she pulled up next to me at a stop light. For some reason, mostly puckishness, perhaps some dislike, I looked at her and gave her the finger. We never really talked much again, though we never worked together much after that either. Fast forward twenty-four years. In the course of my work I am visiting an office building in the downtown area. And the "fingered" woman is there in the reception area. When others were off talking about something I took her aside and told her that I did something many years ago that I regretted. She knew exactly what I meant--and then announced to the nearby receptionist: "After all these years, Vercingetorix is finally growing up!"]

But apart from just growing up, I'm also reading better stuff. Better variety.

Well, how does one begin to recount the brilliance of "Speak, Memory"?

It's probably worth starting with the process of its creation, because this helps explain its impressiveness. The work, though claimed to have been planned in structure, is a collection of fifteen autobiographical essays, originally written in no particular order, concerning Nabokov's life from 1903 to 1940. Individual chapters of this autobiography appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly, Harper's Monthly and other literary magazines over a period of many years. They were thus surely edited and presumably re-edited. Once the work was assembled by combining the chapters, it was polished further by Nabokov for a later edition, next translated into Russian by his wife, and then translated back into English--this last something that Nabokov states was an arduous task.

I have never read anything that contains the density of beautiful words that this work contains. I would like to analyze it with a computer, because the variety of different words used is simply overwhelming. And every word is apt.

Nabokov's relationship to English is interesting. He was raised as a member of the privileged Russian nobility in pre-revolutionary Russia and was therefore a polyglot (Russian, English, French for starters) of the first order. At one point he bemoans that his English is not as good as his Russian (at another turn he suggests it's his Russian that's a bit weak, which is more believable), but I think that he is one of the very best English writers. Those words he uses that I know are used perfectly and wonderfully. And then there are the many that I don't know: "coeval," "fatidic," "palpebral," "frass," "ophyron," "susurrous," "fulvous," and on and on.

So, what else? Well, he writes some of the most wondrous sentences. And his mind is so engaging. For me, because of my hobbies and interests, the bits on chess problems and Cambridge were interesting. Others will enjoy the portraits of Russian life and the various characters of his youth.

In summary: Great words, placed with care in splendid sentences, surrounded by important ideas--all illumined by Nabokov's undeniable brilliance. What are you waiting for?

Anne Fadiman's At Large and At Small: Brillant Essays

2010-03-07T21:54:00.013-06:00

After finishing Anne Fadiman's Ex Libris recently, I picked up a copy of her 2007 collection of essays, At Large and At Small. Fadiman pleases in so many ways.

This collection is more diverse than Ex Libris, because it is not unified by a single subject. Three of the essays concern the greatest pleasures of life: ice cream, the mail, and coffee. Some are biographical, as with the essays on the lives of Charles Lamb, Samuel Coleridge, and arctic explorer Vilhjalmur Steffanson. A few were autobiographical musings about family matters, such as moving, her family's response to 9-11, and the collections of childhood. All are well written and interesting.

But the thing that I discovered about her in reading these essays and something that impressed me greatly was her common sense. This became apparent to me when reading the essay Procrustes and the Culture Wars. In it she oozes reason and calm while discussing some of the great literary questions: Why should we read?; Should the life of the writer affect our evaluation of the work?; Should a book be demoted for failing to meet current standards of behavior?; How should we react to language that does not include us? Rarely are these subjects touched so sensibly. Her explication of the legend of Procrustes was enjoyable because it has always intrigued me--ever since I first stumbled on the word "Procrustes" in my first year of law school.

And then there is my secret reason for liking the book: Fadiman's verbal menagerie. She trots out "omphalous," "polysemous," "oriflamme," "vexillology," "souseholes," and the like.

I bought this book for $6.00 from a vendor on amazon.com; it gave me far more enjoyment than this weekend's $13.00 ticket to Alice in Wonderland, the latest Hollywood 3-D blockbuster.

And now I'm on to a recommendation of Fadiman's, Nabokov's autobiography, Speak, Memory. Here's a work that will have you running for your dictionary!

Fadmian's Ex Libris: Cure for a Funk

2010-01-31T11:19:00.005-06:00

Maybe Anne Fadiman’s Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader has saved this blog. It took this charming collection of eighteen essays about books to pull me out of a slump and prod me to post again. Again proving myself to be far removed from the cutting edge of the literary world, I comment on a work that has been available since 1998.

Every educated person has a relationship with books. Apart from the content of the writings, we have relationships with books, the physical vessels of the knowledge we absorb. Fadiman explores her bibliophilia in a collection of taut and varied essays that constantly reminds us that our connection with books reflects our connection with the world. She moves from toddlers’ using books as teething objects to the troublesome ground of marital library mergers; from the use of books as children’s building blocks to the dispersal of our libraries on death.

The work is impeccable on every level. It coheres beautifully as a collection of essays. The writing is always original, deft, and cocksure—something one expects from a writer whose father was Clifton Fadiman. Her anecdotes are interesting. The individual subjects of the essays are well chosen.

Humor abounds. I had to laugh when I picked the book up off my bedstand—it was splayed face down—and started to read the essay Never Do that to a Book, which started with an anecdote about her brother leaving a volume facedown on a table and having the maid insert a note that said: “SIR, YOU MUST NEVER DO THAT TO A BOOK.” Her subsequent exegesis of our physical relationship with books—including the likes of mutilation by cover removal, marginalia, and kitchen spatterings on cookbooks—is enchanting.

In reading the book I was reminded of some of my own odd book habits: listing the words I don't know on the back flyleaf; excessive annotation and injudicious underlining; and my Dickens-induced habit of computing how long a book is by counting individual letters (based on the formula: pages x times lines per page x times letters per line).

Her essay on sonnets I found particularly reassuring. She gives Willam Kunstler a pass for writing bad sonnets, confesses to writing bad sonnets herself, and otherwise absolves all of us who have ever committed the sin of writing bad sonnets.

This book is a joy.

DFW: A Belated Acknowledgement of Genius

2009-06-07T23:38:00.013-05:00

I somehow managed to pass the last ten years without reading anything written by David Foster Wallace. While it was impossible to avoid the encomiums and panegyrics following his September 2008 suicide, his work was until then unknown to me. DFW was mentioned and a video clip of him played at an April 2009 legal writing seminar I attended. The seminar was put on by Bryan Garner, a legal writing guru and usage expert. I have followed Garner for some years and find his works on legal usage, legal writing, and writing in general to be top notch. In addition to playing the DFW video clip during his seminar, Garner spoke of him on at least a couple of occasions.

A month later, while I was browsing the shelves of a Minneapolis bookseller plugged by Garner, Magers and Quinn, I sighted Consider the Lobster, a collection of DFW essays. I opened to a random page and saw that I was looking at a review of Garner’s A Dictionary of Modern American Usage (ADMAU). I was intrigued by the logrolling and read a bit.

There are moments in one’s life when one remembers being exposed to something remarkable for the first time. I recall that in 1977, while a freshman at college, I heard Mozart being played at orchestral volume on a good stereo. It transfixed me. Thirty-two years later I still recall the wonder and thrill of this moment I recognized the beauty and genius of Mozart (and classical music in general) while standing in the doorway of a college dorm room. A similar feeling came over me as I began turning the pages of DFW’s essay on Garner’s ADMAU. The writing was distinctive: DFW uses footnotes that are sometimes pages long and sometimes contain their own footnotes; he uses acronyms and abbreviations frequently and in unusual ways; he employs sesquipedalian and obscure words with beauty, because he—in the way that Picasso mastered realism before proceeding to abstraction—earns the right to use uncommon words and does so with taste, purpose, and flair. I bought the book.

What a joy! I started in the middle of the book with "Authority and American Usage," DFW’s 60-page book review of ADMAU. Of course this is unlike any book review I had ever read. Besides its length, the review is a sprawling tour: the “language wars;” DFW’s youthful fascination with language; wedgies; language and race relations; and Garner’s ethos. And whatever role he fulfills at any particular moment—whether humorist, instructor, or rhetorician—DFW shows that he has mastered it.

His writing is funny. I was particularly taken by his reference to his father’s misspelling of “meringue,” which he dates to precisely September 14, 1978. You must love someone who has preserved the date of a parent’s spelling error and put it before a national audience twenty years on. And then, a couple of pages later, while talking about the arbitrary nature of spelling, in searching for a word to use as an example, he circles back and just happens to use “meringue.” At times the essay is funny enough to make one roar out loud, which I did as I read the section on Academic English and two given examples of obscurantism. The first example was one unearthed by Garner, an excerpt from a Sacramento Bee article:

If such a sublime cyborg would insinuate the future as post-Fordist subject, his palpably masochistic locations as ecstatic agent of the sublime superstate need to be decoded as the “now all-but-unreadable DNA” of the fast industrializing Detroit, just as his Robocop-like strategy of carceral negotiation and street control remains the tirelessly American one of inflicting regeneration through violence upon the racially heteroglassic wilds and others of the city.

The next example was taken from the Village Voice:

At first encounter, the poems’ distanced cerebral surfaces can be daunting, evading physical location or straightforward emotional arc. But this seeming remoteness quickly reveals a very real passion, centered in the speaker’s struggle to define his evolving self-construction.

The piece is amusing throughout.

It’s also informative and very scholarly. First DFW demonstrates that he possesses the necessary credentials. He introduces his concept of the “SNOOT,” someone who pays close attention to words and language. Once his credentials are established—and they are beyond question—he then embarks on an explanation of the battle between the prescriptivists (those supporting rule-based use) and the descriptivists (those supporting use that is merely consistent with societal norms and not primarily rule based). His explanation of the concepts and rationales advanced by these competing camps is thoughtful, precise, and presented clearly. DFW sees the language landscape, understands it, and is able to explain it well.

But beyond this, his work is one of persuasion. Cicero would be proud. (In fact, having read at least some Cicero, I can say that Cicero likely never approached the level of persuasion found in this piece.) Like a spectacular trial lawyer, one who is humorous, thoughtful, and engaging, DFW convinces us of the need for a kinder and gentler view of usage, one that is grounded not just in rules, but also in community and love for one’s fellow man. The ethical nature of his appeal is at first hidden, but eventually, as the authority of the essay takes hold, bared:

Progressive liberals seem incapable of stating the obvious truth: that we who are well off should be willing to share more of what we have with poor people not for the poor people’s sake but for our own: i.e., we should share what we have in order to become less narrow and frightened and lonely and self-centered people.

Whether we agree with this particular statement or not, it is clear that DFW’s essay is genuinely concerned with public virtue, including the way that we conduct the “language wars.” In short, any prescriptivist reading the essay would have to have a heart of stone not to be moved to begin searching for accommodation on some usage issues. And any descriptivist would have to have an empty head not to understand the importance of at least some fixed usage rules.

The essay on Garner’s work is stunningly beautiful, unique, and profound. But Consider the Lobster also contains nine other amusing and penetrating essays. The subjects range from the vapidity of sports autobiographies and the interesting phenomenon of a porn convention, to a see-everything tour with the 2000 McCain campaign and the manner in which “mainstream America” reacted to the 9-11 attacks on the day they occurred.

Here I stand, more than ten years after the first of these essays appeared in print, long after his works have been pronounced genius by many in the literary establishment, to tell you that this is a man of great genius. Of course, I am also not afraid to share with you my opinion that Mozart is a genius—as demonstrated by other posts on this blog—so being ten years late is not perhaps my greatest impertinence.

A Belated Valentine

2009-02-24T14:21:00.002-06:00

Because my Miele vacuum was spitting instead of sucking, I took it to the A-1 vacuum shop in my fair city. It was a bright morning with deep, fresh snow and I entered a dingy business not much changed since the 1960's. Business was good. There were scattered forests of upright vacuums here and there.

I was second at the repair desk, behind two old ladies. A tiny, vibrant woman in her 70's wearing a light blue coat stood at the counter talking to the vacuum repairman, a man of Mexican extraction, while her friend, who was accompanying her on this important errand, sat in a chair and offered support.

The tiny woman placed her 1930's Electrolux canister vacuum on the repairman's examining table. She asked his opinion about what it needed. She had always loved this vacuum and wanted to keep it. She stated its exact age: it was seventy-three years old. It was metal gray and the finish was worn. The hose--dating to before the age of plastics--was dense woven fiber, discolored and frayed. She opened one end and exposed an ancient removable filter. "I would really like to save this machine. How much would it cost to spruce it up?"

"That depends mostly on if the motor's in good shape. If the motor's in good shape a tune-up would be eighty dollars. If the motor's bad, it's not worth replacing."

Then he plugged in the vacuum and listened to the loud, high-pitched whining.

"No, you don't want to repair this, the motor's shot."

"It sounds like it always has."

"No, it's no good."

"I really can't hear any difference from what it has always sounded like."

"Well, the bearings are shot. It's not supposed to sound like that."

But like a vet explaining that the family pet had to be put down, the man continued to console her. He went to the back room to find a similar antique to show her how the motor was supposed to sound.

I thought about my shortcomings. How would this have gone if I were the repairman? Perhaps, "Look, lady, I'm the professional vacuum repairman, not you. If I say the motor's bearings are shot they're shot," or "Why do you come here if you won't listen to my opinion," or "Maybe the motor sounds like it has since your youth, but it's been worn out that long."

He was still helping her deal with the loss of this vacuum when I left.

As I exited the musty repairshop and was hit by the punishing brightness, I thought about the merits of this gentle repairman who had the heart to take time to help this aged woman deal with the loss of a vacuum that was purchased about the time of her birth and was surely a beloved reminder of her mother.

Confessions of an Opera Whore: Lucia di Lammermoor -- Artistic Nirvana

2009-02-08T17:00:00.003-06:00

It is really quite difficult to imagine any artistic performance better or more enjoyable than the February 7, 2009 Met Opera HD broadcast of Lucia di Lammermoor. This was by far the most impressive of the productions in the last season and a half. Every aspect of every number of the opera was compelling and brilliant. Before attending this performance the thought had never crossed my mind that there might be a limit to the amount of beauty that one can comfortably absorb in an afternoon, but the cumulative weight of the gems strewn on the audience was crushing by the end. If I smoked, I would have definitely felt the need for a cigarette after being bombarded with huge runs of ethereal numbers, masterfully staged and performed. When brought to disc this will be the iconic DVD production of Lucia di Lammermoor and will not be surpassed for a long time. It may be one of the best recorded opera performances in history. The live HD Broadcast may have claim to the best opera “experience” in history.

The ballyhooed Anna Netrebko’s Lucia exceeded all expectations. One often hears of Netrebko’s great beauty, even her “sexiness,” before one hears praise of her singing or performance. From the way she is often spoken of one would think that she is the opera equivalent of another Russian Anna: Kournikova. But this performance removed any doubt that she is an impeccable, intelligent, controlled, and most gifted performer, a prima donna in the best senses of that expression. Her performance, which occurred only five months after she gave birth to her first child, was nothing short of astonishing. Her singing was ravishingly beautiful. She perhaps took no extreme risks and made few bel canto embellishments during the performance, but came through with exquisite high and sustained notes. Lucia’s first act aria “Regnava nel silenzio,” was convincingly delivered. She hit the mark during her duet with Edgardo, “Ah! Verranno a te sull’aure,” and her acting was captivating not just during the famous mad scene, but at every other time that she took the stage. Her mad scene will be difficult for anyone to surpass. Brava!

The singing in this performance was of a very high quality. Beyond Netrebko’s impressive vocal performance, each of the main parts was well sung. Polish tenor Piotr Beczala, a last-minute stand in for the ill Rolando Villazon, was vocally supreme. His strong and clear voice was a pleasure to listen to and in good form. I have recently wondered, particularly after attending Marcello Giordani’s weak performance in La Damnation de Faust, where the great Met tenors will come from. Beczala may provide the answer. His impressive stand-in performance in this soon to be iconic performance will place him in high demand. Similarly, Beczala’s countryman, baritone Mariusz Kwiecien, delivered a top-shelf vocal performance in the role of Enrico Ashton, Lucia’s wicked brother. His acting was also exceptional. Bass Ildar Abdrazakov, who sang the role of the Calvinist chaplain Raimondo, met the challenge laid down by the three main voices and was every bit as good. Colin Lee’s Arturo was wonderful too, as was Michaela Martens’ Alicia. Michael Meyer’s performance as Normanno seemed not to match the quality of the others, but his role is so minor that it could not detract from the otherwise nearly faultless performance of the rest of the cast. This cast proved that the Met has plenty of memorable voices at its disposal and that audiences can continue to expect and should demand the very best from Met vocal performances.

The use of a glass harmonica—a musical instrument invented by Benjamin Franklin that produces sounds that sound like the ringing sound made by a wine glass when a finger is drawn about its rim—was brilliant and effective. Its eerie resonances fit perfectly with the themes of specters and the afterlife.

I earlier asserted that this may have been the best opera “experience” in history. I say that after having sat on that thought for a day. This performance, like no other that I have seen in the last two seasons, showed that the experience of attending the opera live simply cannot compete with HD broadcasts. It was often obvious that the HD transmission format was increasing audience enjoyment. For instance, there is a harp solo that precedes Lucia’s first entrance. In the house one would probably not hear the harp particularly well—and one would not see Mariko Anraku Armonica performing this solo at all if one were there live, since the harp would be down in the pit. As it was, the Met cameras had tight close-ups of the exquisite fingerwork required by this piece. This greatly increased the enjoyment of this number. Then again, as Enrico rages against a reluctant Lucia during “Se tradirmi tu potrai,” he strongarms her and forces her to the floor, where she remains long enough to deliver a number of her own. One in the house would have seen a small heap on the stage. Instead, the remote audience saw Anna Netrebko from a perspective that was as if we were lying on the floor right next to her, within two feet, with our chin on the floor next to her face. Later, during the mad scene, Lucia’s actions are performed with detailed precision. The blood on the veil, the manner in which the veil is caught by the knife as Netrebko brings the knife to her own throat—the impact of these details and gestures was greatly increased by the close-ups and framing that the cameras provide. And at many points during the mad scene it was as if we were permitted to sit on a chair placed on the stage right in the middle of the action. Then again, during the two specter scenes, the first where a ghost appears during “Regnava nel silenzio,” and the other at the very end of the opera when the ghost of Lucia comes to Edgardo as he lays dying, the close-ups added great impact. The approach of a brilliant, white specter in both instances led to graceful caresses that few would be able to see from the audience. These intimate little extras greatly amplified the performance and made it clear that this new medium of camera-aided opera viewing has something on live attendance.

When records switched from mono to stereo there were those who continued to maintain that mono was the truer and superior sound. Then when compact discs were created there were those who said they could not compare to phonograph records. And now, when these HD broadcasts exist there are still no doubt those purists who will say that they cannot compare to the live experience. But I just don’t see how that can logically be the case. The purists who hold out for the superiority of live attendance are superstitious and wrong. Why would we not want to see what is going on? Why would we want to sit in the twenty-second row, instead of seemingly on stage amidst the performers?

So this is my basis for contending that this may have been the best opera “experience” in history. For these reasons, I believe the best opera “experience” must be an HD performance—and this was to me the best of the HD performances in the last season and a half.

Girded Against the Met's Charms

2009-02-07T09:41:00.006-06:00

This blog is taking a terrible turn for the worse. It is perhaps forgivable that when the blog started last year it had no focus. It was a glorified typing drill. I wrote about hikes, flowers, and weekend peregrinations. Harmless and uninteresting. Next the blog gravitated towards a trollish discussion of classical music and made the novel point that Mozart wrote beautiful music. All this was vacuous fun. Lately, however, cloying opera boosterism has hijacked this blog. Time after time my reviews of the Met Opera's HD broadcasts have been saccharine and uncritical. Or, even if initially somewhat critical, they suddenly do a full turn at the end to conclude that the performance was nonetheless unbelievably successful.

And today I am about to leave for the Met's Lucia di Lammermoor, with Anna Netrebko singing Lucia. I am like the whore applying lipstick or the gigolo checking his hair in the mirror on a Saturday night. I've been easy each of the last fifteen nights out, but wouldn't it be nice to prove that I'm hard to get just this one time? I really want to prove that I'm not an "easy date." But can I resist the charms of Netrebko and the Met?

Orfeo ed Euridice: Balm for Hard Times

2009-01-24T22:03:00.005-06:00

Despite the Jeremiahs trumpeting the world’s imminent demise, those attending the January 24, 2009 Metropolitan Opera HD Broadcast of Gluck’s Orfeo ed Euridice could not help being uplifted by a performance that showed us all why we have reasons to feel good. This production and performance were exceptional entertainment and so, on the most basic level, provided escape from the travails of life. But beyond simple escapism, the uniform high quality of every aspect of the opera—dance, costume, music and staging—and the obvious devotion of the scores of people involved in the performance and the creation of the work, gave even greater cause for optimism: mankind has groups of people that lavish great attention and care on projects of beauty and imagination.

When the Metropolitan Opera announced its scheduled broadcasts for this season I considered Orfeo ed Euridice an outlier. The operas by Rossini, Puccini, Bellini, Berlioz, Donizetti and Strauss were all likely home runs. But Orfeo, dating to 1762, is the earliest of the scheduled operas this year. Well, no worries. It is a pre-Mozartian gem and is one of the earliest operas in the ordinary repertoire of most companies. Christoph Willibald Gluck wrote over thirty operas and lived to within four years of Mozart’s death. This opera, performed in its original Italian version, dates to 1762. Its music obviously owes much to the early musical traditions of Vienna. Some of the numbers of this through-composed opera bear strong resemblance to the music of Mozart. The famous aria “Che farò senza Euridice,” the choral and orchestral tour de force “Chi mai dell’Erebo,” and the orchestral piece “Ballo delle furie,” are among the numbers that demonstrate that the musical writing in this opera is of the very highest caliber. This is a luscious and beautiful work.

Stephanie Blythe’s performance in the lead as Orfeo was stunning. This was one of those rare occasions where early in the performance one realizes that there will be perfection throughout. The role, originally written for a castrato and hence a “pants” role, is demanding. Orfeo sings in almost every vocal number of the opera. Blythe’s bright and clear mezzo voice never erred. From her plaintive repeated cries of “Euridice” in her opening number, through her stunning “Che farò senza Euridice,” her live performance surpassed studio recordings made by some of opera’s greats. Perfection warrants little comment, so not much more can be added with respect to Blythe’s amazing performance.

Apart from Orfeo, the opera has only two other singing parts: Amor (Cupid) and Euridice. The entrance of Cupid was dramatic. Heidi Grant Murphy, a passable Amor, was lowered from the full height of the Met stage to a point a few inches off the ground, where she appeared to whisper in Orfeo’s ear. After telling Orfeo that he can gain back Euridice, Amor then sings the aria “Gli sguardi trattieni,” which Murphy sang well, but not with solidity. Murphy interjected an air of humor throughout, which was in part aided by her unusual costume: white tennis shoes, khakis, a pink golf shirt sprinkled with some sequins, and fakey little wings. Her performance was good, but was eclipsed by that of Blythe. Euridice was played by the stunning Danielle de Niese, who sang her few numbers beautifully.

Tiered staging is now de rigueur at the Met. The wonderful, gifted Met chorus appeared in a three-tiered semicircle at the back of the stage. Approximately 90 members of the chorus were included and each was dressed in an Isaac Mizrahi-designed costume of a different historical figure, including such notables as Lincoln, Moses, Maria Callas, Stalin, Jimi Hendrix, Susan Sontag, and even Gluck himself. The costumes worn by this chorus of the dead were visually interesting even from a distance.

Operas written in the 1700’s often respected the French tradition of including several dance interludes. Mark Morris’ contemporary dance sequences were pleasing and well fit the mood of the opera. There was no pretence as to any particular date or age for the costumes or the staging, so neither the contemporary nature of the dance nor the fact that the dancers were dressed in such getup as printed T-shirts detracted from the enjoyment of the performance.

That such care was lavished on the performance of an opera that is nearly 250 years old was touching. The composer, the librettist, the orchestra, the vocal soloists, the chorus, the costume designers, the set designers, the dancers—all came together in perfect harmony to hold forth for the audience’s consideration an ancient story: the story of Orpheus’ trip to the underworld to reclaim his love, only to lose her when he turns around to gaze upon her, killing her instantly. But in this version of the story Orpheus is given another chance. Even after Euridice dies, history’s dead take pity on him and revive Euridice a second time. The opera thus ends on a note of hope: "Trionfi Amore, e il mondo intero serva all’impero della beltà." (May love triumph, and let the whole world be in thrall to beauty’s empire.) The escape to the opera was not the only gift of this afternoon; more precious was the lesson that through devotion to excellence and the pursuit of the things we love we can accomplish beautiful and important works.

A List: Recommendations for Those Just Getting Interested in Classical Music

2009-01-17T12:46:00.003-06:00

I created this list some time ago as a list of recordings that might be recommended to someone who approaches you and asks how to venture into the waters of classical music. It is intended to be a list that offers a variety of classical genres: opera, symphonies, keyboard, violin concerto, solo cello, piano concerto, and oratorio. Though it is mostly mainstream with respect to the represented composers, it reflects a variety of interesting sounds.

Because the list is intended for someone who is starting to explore classical music, many of the recordings are budget issues. If you have thoughts on the list or would like to pipe in with your own, please do!

List-making is always a personal, subjective, and possibly silly thing to do, but I would be interested in others' lists.

1. Mozart: The Magic Flute; Sir Colin Davis, conductor, Staatskapelle Dresden, orchestra; Rundfunkchor Leipzig, choir; Moll, Schreier, Price, Serra, Melbye, Venuti; Philips Duo, recorded in 1985, released on CD in 1994.

2. Beethoven: Symphonies No. 5 and 7, Carlos Kleiber, Wiener Philharmoniker; Deutsche Grammophon, recorded in 1975 and 1976, released on CD in 1996.

3. Bach: Keyboard Pieces, Toccata, BWV 911; Partita BWV 826; English Suite No. 2, BWV 807; Argerich; Deutsche Grammophon, recorded in 1980, released on CD in 2000.

4. Tchaikovsky: Violin Concerto in D; Brahms: Violin Concerto in D; Jascha Heifetz; Fritz Reiner, Chicago Symphony Orchestra; RCA, recorded in 1957, released on SACD in 2005.

5. Panorama—Edvard Grieg, two discs of various piano and orchestral works; Deutsche Grammophon Panorama, recorded on various dates, released on CD in 2000.

6. Bach: Six Unaccompanied Suites for Cello; Yo-Yo Ma; Sony, recorded in 1983, released on CD in 1990.

7. Mozart: The Great Piano Concertos, Vol. I—Brendel; Sir Neville Mariner, The Academy of St. Martin in the Fields; Philips Duo, recorded in 1972-82, released on CD in 1994.

8. Handel: The Messiah; Sir Colin Davis, London Philharmonic Orchestra; Philips Duo, recorded in 1966, released on CD in 1994.

9. Rachmaninoff: Piano Concerto No. 3 and Tchaikovsky: Piano Concerto No. 1; Martha Argerich, Philips, recorded 1982 and 1980, released on CD in 1995.

10. Bach: The Brandenburg Concertos Nos. 1-4 (separate disc one); and Brandenburg Concertos Nos. 5-6 and Orchestral Suite No. 1 (separate disc two), Neville Marriner, The Academy of St. Martin in the Fields; EMI, recorded in 1985, released on CD in 2004.

La Rondine: Where Have You Been?

2009-01-11T11:40:00.006-06:00

Puccini is a champion of popular opera. While meaning no disrespect to Verdi, Mozart or Rossini, Puccini holds the top of the popular opera charts. According to the Opera America ranking of the 20 most-performed operas, Puccini’s Madama Butterfly and La Bohème are the first and second most frequently performed operas in the United States. Tosca and Turnadot then come in at numbers eight and twelve. Together these four Puccini operas have been performed at the Met thousands of times. But where has La Rondine been? Nowhere to be found. Until this season it had not been performed at the Met since 1936. This opera, a treasure, has been hidden in plain view. Its reemergence at the Met this year and the HD Broadcast of it are wonderful gifts to Puccini fans everywhere.

The story is simple: Magda, a young woman of Paris high society, leaves her protector for a younger man, Ruggero. Magda and Ruggero then live a carefree life but must part because they run out of money and because she never disclosed her true identity. Unlike most Puccini heroines, however, she does not die—she simply returns to her protected, less romantic world.

Angela Gheorgiu, playing Marta, and her husband, Roberto Alagna, playing Ruggero, both gave excellent performances. Things seemed in doubt for a time. At the beginning of the transmission, Met Director Peter Gelb came out with a microphone. I was thinking, “Uh, oh, substitution.” But instead, he simply explained that Gheorgiu was suffering from a bad cold. Gelb’s apology was not required because her performance was stunning. The signature piece of the opera, “Chi il bel sogno di Doretta,” comes early in the first act and the audience was in suspense wondering if the ill Gheorgiu could pull it off; she did it without a hitch. And it is a spectacular aria:

Lately I have had the feeling that some of the Met’s tenors have not been quite up to snuff. Marcello Giordani’s recent performance in The Damnation of Faust seemed lacking, particularly at one key point of an important aria. Ramon Vargas does craftsman-like work, but does not excite. Alagna’s was to me the best tenor performance I have seen recently. He was singing a role that he knows well. The 1997 EMI recording of this opera that he made with Gheorgiu and the London Symphony Orchestra is certainly one of the best available. But whatever his familiarity with the work, he was in fine voice and demonstrated that he is one of the very best tenors around. It seems a bit odd watching a husband and wife perform together in lead roles, though it adds an interesting dimension.

Marta’s maid Lisette was, appropriately enough, sung by Lisette Oropesa, whose comic acting was superb. The poet Prunier was sung by Marius Brenciu, who, like Gheorgiu, hails from Romania. Both Oropresa and Brenciu were exceptional, as was Samuel Ramey’s Rambaldo.

The Met staging was pleasing in that it contained no gimmicks this time: the staging for each of the three acts was attractive, fitting and realistic. The first Act was set in Rambaldo’s mansion; the second at a Parisian nightspot, Bulliers; and the last at a villa on the Mediterranean.

Puccini’s operas connect with people in ways that are deep and unique. It is a shame that this opera has been kept out of the rotation.

Deborah Voigt: Long-Awaited Schubert Club Recital a Success

2009-01-09T23:52:00.004-06:00

The road to a Deborah Voigt’s January 6, 2008 recital at St. Paul’s Schubert Club was not a smooth one. A planned recital in November 2005 failed when the Minnesota Orchestra, which had engaged Voigt for a concert performance of Tosca later that season, invoked a clause in its contract which gave it the right to refuse an artist permission to perform at other venues within 50 miles of downtown Minneapolis in the same season. This ungracious action forced Voigt to cancel her planned 2005 recital. This year the Schubert Club rebooked her, avoided contract pitfalls and brought her brilliant soprano voice to St. Paul’s Ordway Center for the Performing Arts for a mid-winter recital.

Voigt is one of the most gifted dramatic sopranos of the decade. In a notorious 2004 episode she was fired by the Royal Covent Garden Opera House because she could not fit into a little black dress that the lead character was supposed to wear.

Later she had gastric bypass surgery, which led to a dramatic weight loss. The story of her weight struggles was the subject of a poignant 60 Minutes profile. Then last season, her appearances as Isolde in the Met’s already snake-bit production of Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde—performers and their substitutes were dropping like flies—was interrupted by a bad cold, which forced her to cancel performances. It seems that there is often uncertainty as to whether her performance will actually occur as planned.

But the Ordway recital was a great success. In the first half of the program she sang in English, Italian, and German in songs by Beach, Verdi, and Strauss. Her beautiful voice projected well in the hall. She entered wearing a luxuriant, structured red dress and made occasional under-the-breath quips that got the audience laughing.

The second part of the program, songs by Respihgi, Ben Moore, and Bernstein was by far the more engaging half and one got the sense that the recital was building as the evening progressed. The pieces by New York composer Moore were quite remarkable. Very distinctive, interesting and stunningly performed. The regular program then concluded with Bernstein, ending with the West Side Story favorite “Somewhere.” The performance of Broadway show tunes by operatic sopranos is always an iffy thing, but Voigt did a marvelous job of retaining the song’s essence and beauty.

The encores were the most successful part of the program. The audience’s sustained enthusiasm was rewarded with three. The first in German (unknown to me, but including the refrain “aber dank”) and the last two well-known numbers in English, including Berlin’s sassy “I Love a Piano,” and Jerome Kern’s famous “Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man.” “I Love a Piano” was humorously acted out, with Voigt stroking and caressing the piano and then at the end sitting down on the piano bench with the pianist and throwing out a pretty nasty keyboard riff. The last song, with its famous “Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly, I gotta love one man ‘til I die” lyric was the perfect end to a pleasing recital.

Voigt’s voice seemed in fine form the entire evening and it was easy to see why she is considered one of the best dramatic sopranos in the world.

The 60 Minutes profile on Deborah Voigt is easy to find on the internet. A humorous You Tube video referencing the “little black dress” incident is found above.

Thaïs: Triomphe

2008-12-21T21:47:00.002-06:00

Renée Fleming, who in two months enters her sixth decade of life, stole the show in the title role as the young Egyptian courtesan during the December 20 Metropolitan Opera HD broadcast of Jules Massenet’s Thaïs. Fleming’s angelic face and a svelte figure accentuated by the stunning costumes of Christian Lacroix were perfect for the role. In this regard, her appearance as a lithesome temptress was much more satisfactory than another we saw at the Met earlier this year. Karita Mattila, in her appearance as Salome, looked like a middle-aged woman unsuccessfully parading around as a youngster in sometimes ungainly fashion.

As in the Met’s production of Salome, I was disappointed by pointless, intentional, gratuitous anachronisms. The story is set in ancient Egypt, but at the beginning of the second scene of the opera Athanaël, a Cenobite monk, travels to Alexandria to convert Thaïs and is confronted with someone wielding a rifle. Hmmmm. Up until that point things looked chronologically coherent. And then Athanaël’s childhood friend Nicias, now the lover of Thaïs, wears a tuxedo shirt and bowtie. One almost gets the impression that this is done because it is easier to find tuxedo shirts than create costumes appropriate to the era. Or maybe it’s just a way of avoiding any criticism of the production for being anachronistic: if you’re obviously not trying to have things make sense—because major details are out of place—then nobody will notice or criticize the minor details that are inappropriate. Of course, wild anachronism is all the rage in the arts. But one wishes producers would not just toss it in for no apparent reason. Anachronism can be an interesting dish, but it makes a horrible spice.

Another odd element of this production borrowed from the Chicago Lyric Opera was the set for the final scene. It had the dying Thaïs sitting upright on an elevated platform placed atop the desert scenery from the preceding scene. This seemed awkward. The death scene also seemed troublesome in that Fleming looked fit, well, even radiant, and then suddenly drops dead. Nobody ever looked more well than Thaïs at the moment that she dies.

Thomas Hampson’s Athanaël was magnificent. His powerful baritone voice conveyed the unshakeable strength of his character’s convictions. The role seemed very demanding and his voice stood up well. Fleming’s singing was wonderful, particularly her ability to sing pianissimo during some high, sustained notes. One had the impression that the very highest notes of the performance brought her out of her comfort zone, but she hit them, and this is a trivial concern given the excellence of every other aspect of her performance.

This opera boasts the famous and beautiful Méditation for violin as a transition between scenes during Act II. The piece was performed with great feeling by Met concertmaster David Chan. The reprise of this melody in Act III adds much to the beauty of the opera.

The courtesans Crobyle and Myrtale were ably portrayed by Alyson Cambridge and Ginger Costa-Jackson. Michael Schade’s Nicias was well sung, as were the roles of Palémon, by Alain Vernhes and Albine, by Maria Zifchak.

Fleming and Hampson teamed up on the Decca recording of Thaïs from 2000. That performance is the standard for recordings of this opera on CD. This HD performance will no doubt soon be available on DVD and when it is this performance will also be the standard.

A Defense of Mozart in the Form of a Monty Python Scene: Redux

2008-12-03T22:33:00.007-06:00

I visited with a friend last summer and we were talking about Mozart when he stated that “all his music sounds the same.” He then expressed the opinion that he did not consider Mozart one of the truly great composers. The remark left me speechless. After some time has passed, I think a response is appropriate.

When walking down a shore covered with small rocks some may see them and maintain that “all the rocks look the same.” But even the amateur rock hound knows that the rocks are in fact very different. He inspects carefully and finds great variety. Some of the rocks turn out to be quartz, others granite, others perhaps agates. So too it is with Mozart. He wrote music that was loud and furious; he also wrote music that was soft and tender. He wrote music for solo instruments, such as the piano and violin. He wrote pieces for the human voice. He wrote pieces for string quartets, and for quintets, and octets. He wrote for the symphony orchestra. He wrote for piano and orchestra. His works reveal incredible variety.

Compare these two works. The first is the last movement of his Symphony No. 35, the “Haffner” Symphony, K. 385. The second is a trio from Così Fan Tutte, one of his last and greatest operas. Here's the last movement of the Haffner Symphony.

Now the trio “Soave sia il vento,” from the opera Così Fan Tutte.

Those pieces are obviously quite different and sound not at all alike. The variety of Mozart’s work is amazing. He wrote concerti—pieces for orchestra and soloist—not only for the piano, but also for clarinet, oboe, French horn, bassoon, flute, and flute and harp together. But that’s not even the full extent of his variety. Marches, songs, sets of theme and variations on songs, choral music, even two pieces for the glass harmonica (an odd invention of Benjamin Franklin that mechanically creates sounds in a manner similar to circling one’s finger on a wine glass).

But it’s not just the variety that makes Mozart’s music so special; it’s the quality. To continue the rocks on the shore analogy, you are walking down the beach and you find something of seeming unpromising provenance. It’s one-fourth of one of Mozart’s thirteen serenades. Let’s bend over, pick it up, and see if it has any merit or interest.

Then there is the sheer volume of work. Some 40 symphonies. 27 piano concerti. Five violin concerti. He wrote 18 masses, 20 operas and 17 piano sonatas. His musical catalog contains more than 600 works—and he lived only to 35. And the Marriage of Figaro, about 3 hours of music, like his nineteen other operas, counts as only one work.

Okay, so he’s versatile and incredibly productive, but what beyond that?

Well first of all he was a guy with a great sense of humor. One of the pieces in his catalog of works is called Ein Musikalisher Wurfelspiel—A Musical Dice Game. In this odd musical dice game/musical piece one can build their own minuet by rolling dice. Each of 16 bars has 11 possibilities based on the roll of two dice. The minuet is written so that no matter what combinations occur, the minuet fits together to make a passable piece of music. Mozart also engaged in musical parody in a piece called Ein Musikalischer Spass—“A musical joke”—by demonstrating basic compositional errors—and this was two centuries before P.D.Q. Bach.

One of the raps against classical composers is that they are not spontaneous. They write great music, but it’s stuffy and staid because their music is too calculated. But Mozart was an incredible improviser. Before he was ten someone could give him any tune and he would gladly improvise on it, sometimes at very great length. Of course there was no audio tape or film back then, so all that survives is what is written down. The closest we can come to recreating his improvisational efforts is to play some of his themes and variations. One example for solo piano was heard in the soundtrack of Out of Africa, when the Isak Dinesen character and her love interest camped on the African plain and played a record while resting by the fire.

But the most important thing about Mozart’s music is its beauty.

Consider these tunes and ask yourself if these could be improved on:

First another Hollywood favorite from what I felt was the key moment in the movie The Shawshank Redemption, a piece from The Marriage of Figaro: Sull’aria.

Now another movie favorite, the middle movement of a piano concerto, whose theme is now called the “Elvira Madigan theme” because it was used in a 1967 movie about Elvira Madigan, a 19th century Danish tightrope walker.

Next two tunes from his singspiel, The Magic Flute: “Der Vogelfänger bin ich ja” and “Wie stark ist nicht dein Zauberton.”

Okay, so Mozart wrote many different kinds of music for many instruments; he was prolific; he had a sense of humor; and the music he wrote was very beautiful—but still I hear that it all sounds the same because the harmonics of the music are all based on a common musical language.Well between 1782 and 1785 Mozart composed six string quartets for Joseph Haydn. Here’s the first movement of the last of these six string quartets. I think it is possible to agree that the first two minutes of this movement, the introduction, were written by someone who is pushing the boundaries of the Viennese classical tradition. When I first heard it I thought it might be Samuel Barber or one of his cronies.

But apart from writing music of differing styles, writing for a wide range of instruments, writing some of music’s most famous pieces, writing incredible volumes of music, having a good sense of humor, being spontaneous, writing beautiful gems, and pushing the tonal boundaries of music, what did Mozart ever do for us?

The Cirque de Soleil at the Met: La Damnation de Faust

2008-11-23T00:48:00.006-06:00

In the early 1800’s the closest you could come to an experience like going to see Raiders of the Lost Ark would have been to go the opera. The opera offered wonders for audiences of a time that had no television, no movies, no electric lights, no phonographs, and no digital dinosaurs: beautiful music played by an expert orchestra; singing of the highest caliber; and, importantly, amazing technology. It offered characters that would appear from clouds of smoke, actors that could fly across the stage, and perhaps cherubim floating across the top of the stage. There was a time when the opera was a place where people went to be awed.

But we now live in a different age. Digital imagery allows us to create any illusion we set our minds to. Today children are not impressed by someone appearing out of a trap door or flying across the stage. The same is true of adults. Our jaded natures raise the production stakes and ask producers to do more and more to impress us. But just because we can do something does not mean that we should do it. With respect to contemporary stage effects there comes a point at which enough is simply enough. And Robert LePage’s production of La Damnation de Faust is at times simply too much. LePage is known for a particularly stunning Las Vegas Cirque to Soleil show, KÀ. Now he has brought the Cirque de Soleil feel to the Met.

The only thing that makes the busyness of the LePage production tolerable is that it is imposed over a piece that is not a true opera. Berlioz’s La Damnation de Faust was created as a concert work to be performed by four soloists and chorus. It is a masterpiece. The libretto, however, is not operatic in scope, so it would seem that an enhanced production might be just the thing to fill the voids in the text: this might be just the work that could tolerate an intrusive production.

The production is certainly a feast for the eyes: uniformed soldiers slowly marching up walls and then dropping to the laps of women; beautiful sets accomplished by projection; demons dancing on the ceilings of cells in the tiered stage and crawling on the walls; 40-foot ladders from which the leads enter and depart the stage; actors hanging à la crucifixion from five giant crosses; real actors riding projected horses. At times the performance was the gastronomic equivalent of a deep-fried candy bar dipped in honey—with whipped cream—and a cherry on top—covered with chocolate sauce.

There were several distractions created by all of this technology. At times the masses getting ready behind the set were making all kinds of obtrusive noises. At one point you could see some odd laser pointer type dots on the set. (I thought there was a sniper in the audience.) Towards the very end of the opera the reflective screens at the back of the set were picking up maestro Levine’s white tux as lit by the lights down in the pit. This created an inexplicable moving image at the back of the set that was quite distracting. Most problematic were the safety harnesses used whenever anyone dangled or climbed, which was often. Perhaps they would not be too distracting if one was attending the performance at the Met, but the zoom of the HD cameras made them more obvious. During the horse riding scene the riders looked like they were dangling from nooses. The magic of opera depends upon illusion and the clear visibility of these devices was a constant reminder of the artificiality of the production.

Musically, the performance was very good. Levine took the First Act’s Rákóczi March at a very fast pace. This worked until just before the end of the number when the orchestra seemed to struggle a bit. Also, in the stunning gibberish number at the end of the work, "Has! Irimiru Karabrao!” it at times seemed that there was some disconnect between the chorus and the orchestra. Marcello Giordani’s Faust seemed excellent in the first acts, but lagged significantly after intermission. In particular, he seemed to struggle during the duet “Ange adoré”—particularly at the high notes about forty-five seconds after his entrance. The confidence he brought to the early part of the piece evaporated by the end. On the other hand, Susan Graham’s Marguerite was outstanding. She sang the role with apparent ease, even after conducting interviews before the performance and having cameras follow her around backstage during it. Her voice was spot on. John Relyea’s Mephistopheles was impressively wicked. His rich voice seemed in good form. The presence of his character was definitely enhanced by the HD close-ups.

This was one performance that made me wonder whether attending live at the Met might not be an improvement over the HD viewing. At times the most impressive part of the tiered staging was its size and scope. Sometimes the cameras would focus on a small part of the stage when I wanted to see the broader view. And of course this was true when the harnesses and rigging were prominent.

Despite these criticisms, all in all the performance worked. The music is brilliant. The production was impressive. The singers were, overall, spectacular. Any deficiency in the production probably flows from the fact that this was not written as an opera. The next Met HD Broadcast is Massenet’s Thaïs. It is a new production. Let’s just hope that the Egyptians don’t dance on the ceiling.

The Pathetic Gray Lady and Her Sorry Minions

2008-11-19T00:49:00.005-06:00

While visiting wellsung.blogspot last night I noted a review of a recent Maurizio Pollini piano recital by Alex. The post was short and thoughtful. But it got my blood boiling because it directed me to a review of the recital by NYT critic Allan Kozinn.

Some background. Pollini is one of the giants of the piano world and has been so for almost 50 years. He won first prize at the International Chopin Piano Competition in 1960 at age 18. By the 1970's he was a dominant figure in the piano world. He toured extensively and recorded some amazing discs for Deutsche Grammophon. (Here are three of the best: Beethoven: Die späten Klaviersonaten, op. 101, 106 ("Der Hammerklavier"), 109-111 (1977); Chopin: Etudes, op. 10 and 25 (1972); Chopin: Préludes, op. 28 (1975).) In the 1970's he was generally hailed as a pianistic marvel. His technique was reputed to be flawless. His concert performances were attended by critics who would just salivate at the thought of him missing a note--but he rarely did. I recall a recital in London where a large percentage of the audience had brought their scores so that they could better detect error. Speed, power, consistency and discipline were his trademarks.

But unlike timing the 100 meter dash, the critique of musical performances is not a purely objective activity. Some critics disliked Pollini--for many different reasons. Some already had a favorite pianist and had no room for another. Others protested that his playing "lacked spirit" because it was too precise. Eventually, this man, one of the most gifted pianists ever to have lived, was frequently dismissed--and sometimes by NYT critics--with a "well, if you like that kind of pianism" give away. Furthermore, while it's always nice to sell old records, many companies seem to be more interested in pushing what is new this year rather than what is truly the best recording of some of these pieces. Well the subjective nature of criticism makes for quite a muddle. Luckily other endeavors are more objective. Were it not so, I am confident that Usain Bolt never would have won the gold medal. His form was not too good! He stood up too early! Did his performance really have the grace or poise or that "certain something" found in the speedy performances of Richard Thompson or Walter Dix? If Pollini were a sprinter this is the type of questions that his critics would ask.

So now to the review at hand. My first problem is that the review, found here: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/10/28/arts/music/28poll.html is simply too short. I doubt that this is Kozinn's fault. It's 424 words long. I'm sure that either the editor cut the hell out of it, or Kozinn knew that he has some tiny limit. Such are the limitations of the old media.

The review starts with a huge waffle that could have been written before the concert and takes up almost 15% of his precious 424 words:

Both fans and detractors of the pianist Maurizio Pollini agree that his playing is powerful and precise, driven by a probing intellect and executed with steely, virtually infallible fingers. But where Mr. Pollini’s supporters argue that these qualities are at the service of warm-hued, impassioned performances, less impressed listeners hear his readings as icy and calculated, even when the surfaces are incendiary.

Okay, now this already looks like a bad Freshman English essay. Everybody apparently agrees Pollini is a thoughtful and technically stunning pianistic genius, but. . . . Well, then there are those naysayers that hear his readings as "icy and calculated." What exactly does that mean? Does that mean that his playing is "too correct"? Is it too slow--nope. Is it too fast--nope. It's at just the right tempo. Are the dynamics incorrect? Nope. They're perfect. Are the notes wrong? Apparently not. The writer seems to suggest that the playing is too correct. But is there such a thing? And next, though we have those nice "incendiary surfaces," it is implied that there's something deeper that is missing. I'd like to know exactly what that missing something is. That "je ne sais qua." Because just as I don't know what it is, I don't think Kozinn can tell us either. If the composer tells the pianist to play with a loose tempo and he does not, then fine, say so. If the pianist ignores accepted conventions with respect to the use of rubato that the reviewer thinks are compulsory, say so. But don't tell us that the performance is missing "depth" without telling us what you mean.

And then we find out that both sides in the Pollini debate may be correct. Way to take a stand!

At the end of the review Pollini is congratulated for his graceful touch and gentle rocking quality during his performance of Chopin Mazurkas, but Kozinn then clownishly implies that the performance of Chopin's “Revolutionary Etude” was impetuous and hard driven! This is simply laughable. The “Revolutionary Etude” is the exemplar of hard-driven pianistic impetuosity. And the Chopin Scherzo is not far behind in this category. Of course, god forbid that we should have an impetuous and hard-driven Beethoven “Tempest” or “Appassionata” Sonata. What else was he expecting to see? Presumably the program was available for review before the concert and Kozinn could have decided to skip this scary and treacherous aggregation of hard-driven impetuosity if it was just too much for him.

But there’s another way in which the review fails: lack of humanity. Pollini has been an incredible talent for a long time. He turns 67 in January. While we all age differently, let's face it, the rules of nature assure that this is not the Maurizio Pollini of the Deutsche Grammophon glory years of the 1970's and 1980's. But according to Kozinn, Pollini still has “virtually infallible fingers”—so I guess age maybe has nothing to do with it. While I last heard Pollini play in recital about ten years ago, I know that he is one of the most exceptional pianists that has walked the earth and his playing must still have much to offer—particularly if, as the reviewer suggests, his technique has not deteriorated. A critic who offers vague and insubstantial criticism of this kind in the face of a mature and intelligent pianistic genius of Pollini’s stature lacks heart and soul and deserves to be relegated to a job where they only dole out 424 words of space for his criticisms.

I can just see the title of the review that Kozinn will write when Liszt's ghost incarnate gives a recital at Carneige Hall: Startling Perfection--If You Like That Kind of Stuff.

Doctor Atomic: Not Much For The Ears

2008-11-08T18:49:00.007-06:00

A Review of the November 8, 2008 HD Broadcast of the Metropolitan Opera’s Performance of Doctor Atomic

J. Robert Oppenheimer proved that dreadful things can be produced if the best and the brightest are provided enough resources. Saturday’s performance of John Adams’ Doctor Atomic proved that when the best and brightest of our artistic world are put to the task they can make even the dreadful music of Adams bearable. There is no doubt that the Met could provide a compelling performance of The Three Little Pigs if it wished—perhaps it already has—but here the Met’s elaborate and intelligent production was thrown against a backdrop of tuneless anti-musicality.

The performance offered much for the mind and much for the eye. The story is set in and near Los Alamos at the time of the first nuclear detonation. The subject is a compelling one for an opera: man wrestling with science and becoming master of his world. The libretto is ingenious. It juxtaposes some of Oppenheimer’s favorite works, the Bhagavad Gita and the metaphysical poetry of John Donne, with the actual written words of participants in the Manhattan project, including Oppenheimer and Edward Teller. The topic certainly lends itself to thoughtful examination. The intellectual and moral difficulties associated with the decision to create and use the first atomic weapons are among the deepest subjects we can examine.

The staging provided an ominous feeling that well served the opera’s weighty subject. Using a backstage wall that incorporated a huge fourteen by three cell structure, as was used in last year’s production of Peter Grimes, members of the chorus and occasionally principal singers were stacked on top of each other and alongside each other like curios in a giant shadow box. These cells were at times filled with contorted bodies. At other times they were filled with half-lit “ghosts” dressed in American Indian costumes, replete with furs and antler headdresses. The ominous, ugly, threatening bomb dangled above the stage for much of the performance.

The performance succeeded when it examined the psychological aspects of our nuclear quest. Gerald Finley's impeccable acting conveyed the weight Oppenheimer must have felt at the time. Kitty Oppenheimer’s part was sung by Sasha Cooke. Initially she sings of her personal pain at Oppenheimer’s disassociation from her. By the end of the work her voice serves to remind us of humanity’s fears—as does the singer in the role of Pasqualita, the Oppenheimers’ Native American maid who sings of olden tribal times. The juxtaposition of these many psychological elements is thought provoking, though not always satisfying. Occasionally it seemed that too many layers of association were being applied at the same time. But while sometimes overbearing, the work was for the most part a success on the psychological level.

But this is supposed to be the “Metropolitan Opera,” not a Broadway play. While it is easy to admire most aspects of the performance, it fails as opera. And this is not due to the vocal performances. They were impeccable. Finley's Oppenheimer was first rate. Cooke was also unimpeachable. All the vocal performances were excellent. But what were they performing? Much of the opera was slightly-elevated recitative drawn from a drab, unattractive and uninteresting musical palette. An aria sung by Finley at the end of Act One, “Batter My Heart Three Person’d God,” with words from the famous Donne sonnet, provides the opera’s one successful aria and perhaps its only compelling musical moment. Other moments, particularly those involving the chorus, threaten to become musically interesting, but it is hard to give Adams credit just because the Metropolitan Opera chorus is blazing full tilt.

The opera concludes with a scene that has the entire cast awaiting the detonation at the Trinity site while it stares at the audience. No doubt the performers create tension as they cover their eyes with sunglasses and pieces of tinted glass and we wait—in Hollywood fashion—four minutes of real time for an explosion that is supposed to be just two minutes off. Of course, while we wait for the explosion the orchestra ticks away the seconds. But here the piped in sound of a clock would have been just as effective as Adams’ banal offering.

In some ways this work represents a lengthy act of self-flagellation, since it focuses on our guilt in creating and using the first atomic weapons. The post-blast conclusion, with the voice of a Japanese woman asking for water for her children—as the final curtain falls—helps accent this theme in lead-fisted fashion.

As a whole, the work succeeds. The libretto, the production and the skill of the performers make this worth seeing. But if you are looking for a musical performance of merit that concerns a depressing and weighty subject, purchase or rent the DVD of last year’s Met performance of Peter Grimes instead.

The Miracle of Metropolitan Opera HD Broadcasts

2008-11-03T23:49:00.005-06:00

Any music lover that has not heard of the Metropolitan Opera HD broadcasts is living in a cave, a repressed police state, or is, as Ambrose Bierce put it, an ascetic: one who “gives in to the temptation of denying himself a pleasure.” The stunning and innovative Metropolitan HD broadcasts are among the most important developments in the history of the fine arts. Why? Because one can go to the cinema in any major urban area and see the Metropolitan Opera live.

While all elements may not all always come together at the same time, one who attends a Met production has the prospect of seeing the best singers in the world, playing with some of the best musicians in the world, under the baton of brilliant conductors, putting on some of the world’s most creative artistic productions. This is not to mention impeccable costuming, interesting staging, camerawork so close that you sometimes see spit and spray coming from singer’s mouths, the incredible sets, great writers (sometimes the Met modifies stodgy librettos, usually to good effect)—in short an artistic tour de force. When all these elements come together correctly they yield a performance that is unforgettable and exciting.

After I attended my first HD broadcast I never missed another—other than to attend the Met live during a performance of La Bohème that was itself broadcast in HD. Even then, I went back and saw the HD broadcast a few weeks later when it was offered as an encore performance. For those who are not aficionados, these broadcasts are a powerful introduction to opera. To those that already enjoy opera these broadcasts are musical heroin. In the 2007-08 season there were several performances that were artistic triumphs of the greatest order.

Of the performances I have seen, three have been particularly memorable. Though Puccini’s Manon Lescaut was the first HD broadcast I attended, Britten’s Peter Grimes was the first to forcibly grab me. I knew the general premise: an opera in English (strike one); with music by Benjamin Britten (strike two); exploring themes of child abuse and murder (strike three). But in fact, the performance was just fantastic. I did not know the music well, having listened to my recording of Jon Vickers in the lead only a couple of times. The staging was so visually interesting that my lack of familiarity simply did not matter. Everything clicked that day. Even the conductor, Donald Runnicles, someone I had not previously heard of, contributed to the feeling that one was experiencing one of those rare occasions on which all the artistic elements align. The work has six “Sea Interludes,” orchestral episodes that are sometimes performed as standalone pieces, and these were captivating. The second interlude, “The Storm,” was awe inspiring. I went to the performance believing that I would hate every minute of this opera, but left feeling elated, hopeful, captivated and enlightened.

And then there was Natalie Dessay’s performance at the end of the 2007-08 season. I prepared well for the HD performance of Donizetti’s La Fille du Régiment by purchasing what appeared to be the definitive studio recording with Pavarotti and Sutherland in the leads. The opera contains an aria, “Pour mon âme,” that helped make Pavarotti famous: he could hit the nine “high C’s” to incredible effect. Juan Diego Flórez sang this role of Tonio and while he sang beautifully he was eclipsed by the radiant Dessay. My recording had Sutherland singing the lead role of Marie. Marie’s most memorable tune is “The Song of the Regiment,” and Sutherland belts out the beginning of this number as if her voice were a powerful but totally clear trumpet. I went prepared to be taken with singing of the order of Sutherland’s performance on disc. Again the Met threw a curve ball. On this day it was not the quality of the voice that took hold, but the frenetic and wonderful acting of Dessay: singing while ironing; singing while washing; singing while she is on her back being carried across the stage; singing while standing on the piano bench. She grabbed the stage by the scruff of its neck and made it serve her ever purpose. Again everything was clicking at the Met—and all around the world at the theaters that were receiving the HD broadcasts.

The most shocking performance I have attended was this season’s performance of the Richard Strauss opera Salome. The story is well known: in exchange for a dance—not just any dance, but the “Dance of the Seven Veils”—Herod offers Salome anything she wishes, up to “half his kingdom.” But she chooses the head of John the Baptist. After trying to dissuade her, Herod gives in and delivers the head on a silver platter, as Salome had demanded. Then Salome takes the head, sings to it, kisses it, and starts rolling on the ground with it. The opera ends as Herod orders her death, apparently because of her perversity, perhaps because he has been jilted for a dead prophet’s head. Karita Matilla played the lead role in what is almost a one-woman show. Matilla ended up drenched in fake blood. She took her bows with the blood all over her face and costume, looking like a floozy vampire. Memorable indeed.

Each of these performances cost only about $20. I simply showed up at my local movie theater and grabbed a seat after purchasing my tickets on the internet. No need to fly to New York. Plenty of seats were to be had. Plus I still had my Saturday evenings for play, since the performances started around the noon hour and generally were out by about three o’clock.

One particularly interesting aspect of the HD broadcasts is that the cameras follow the performers off of the stage directly and then they are interviewed by other opera notables, such as Deborah Voigt, Renee Fleming, or Dessay. The behind the scenes look at the Met is a view of a mysterious, hidden world. From animal wranglers to costumers, producers, stage hands—all the varieties of supporting workers are interviewed or seen doing their work. I remember that when I attended the Met I was disappointed that I could not see the interviews that were taking place backstage—another disadvantage of attending in person at the Met! Actually, many who both attend in person and take in the HD broadcasts say that they prefer the HD broadcasts. I am one. Even if you have really good seats at the Met you will not see the singers as clearly as you do with the aid of a battery of video cameras run by expert cameramen and coordinated by a skilled producer.

I intend to go to every HD broadcast for the rest of my life. If I miss one I’ll be sure to attend the replays that sometimes take place the next day or within a week or two of the original broadcast.

A Defense of Mozart in the Form of a Scene from Monty Python's Life of Brian

2008-09-15T00:52:00.006-05:00

REG:
. . . And what have [the Romans] ever given us in return?!
XERXES:
The aqueduct?
REG:
What?
XERXES:
The aqueduct.
REG:
Oh. Yeah, yeah. They did give us that. Uh, that's true. Yeah.
COMMANDO #3:
And the sanitation.
LORETTA:
Oh, yeah, the sanitation, Reg. Remember what the city used to be like?
REG:
Yeah. All right. I'll grant you the aqueduct and the sanitation are two things that the Romans have done.
MATTHIAS:
And the roads.
REG:
Well, yeah. Obviously the roads. I mean, the roads go without saying, don't they? But apart from the sanitation, the aqueduct, and the roads--
COMMANDO:
Irrigation.
XERXES:
Medicine.
COMMANDOS:
Huh? Heh? Huh...
COMMANDO #2:
Education.
COMMANDOS:
Ohh...
REG:
Yeah, yeah. All right. Fair enough.
COMMANDO #1:
And the wine.
COMMANDOS:
Oh, yes. Yeah...
FRANCIS:
Yeah. Yeah, that's something we'd really miss, Reg, if the Romans left. Huh.
COMMANDO:
Public baths.
LORETTA:
And it's safe to walk in the streets at night now, Reg.
FRANCIS:
Yeah, they certainly know how to keep order. Let's face it. They're the only ones who could in a place like this.
COMMANDOS:
Hehh, heh. Heh heh heh heh heh heh heh.
REG:
All right, but apart from the sanitation, the medicine, education, wine, public order, irrigation, roads, a fresh water system, and public health, what have the Romans ever done for us?
XERXES:
Brought peace.

Note: this blog entry includes musical examples that can easily be found at your local emusic store. They are in brackets.

I visited with a friend last summer and we were talking about Mozart when he stated that “all his music sounds the same.” He then expressed the opinion that he did not consider Mozart one of the truly great composers. The remark left me speechless. After some time has passed, I think a response is appropriate.

When walking down a shore covered with small rocks some may see them and maintain that “all the rocks look the same.” But even the amateur rock hound knows that the rocks are in fact very different. He inspects carefully and finds great variety. Some of the rocks turn out to be quartz, others granite, others perhaps agates. So too it is with Mozart. He wrote music that was loud and furious; he also wrote music that was soft and tender. He wrote music for solo instruments, such as the piano and violin. He wrote pieces for the human voice. He wrote pieces for string quartets, and for quintets, and octets. He wrote for the symphony orchestra. He wrote for piano and orchestra. His works reveal incredible variety.

Compare these two works. The first is the last movement of his Symphony No. 35, the “Haffner” Symphony, K. 385. The second is a trio from Così Fan Tutte, one of his last and greatest operas.

[Last movement of Haffner Symphony]

Now the trio “Soave sia il vento,” from the opera Così Fan Tutte.

[Soave sia il vento]

Those pieces are obviously quite different and sound not at all alike. The variety of Mozart’s work is amazing. He wrote concerti—pieces for orchestra and soloist—not only for the piano, but also for clarinet, oboe, French horn, bassoon, flute, and flute and harp together. But that’s not even the full extent of his variety. Marches, songs, sets of theme and variations on songs, choral music, even two pieces for the glass harmonica (an odd invention of Benjamin Franklin that mechanically creates sounds in a manner similar to circling one’s finger on a wine glass).

But it’s not just the variety that makes Mozart’s music so special; it’s the quality. To continue the rocks on the shore analogy, you are walking down the beach and you find something of seeming unpromising provenance. It’s one-fourth of one of Mozart’s thirteen serenades. Let’s bend over, pick it up, and see if it has any merit or interest.

[First Movement, Serenade No. 13, “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik”]

Then there is the sheer volume of work. Some 40 symphonies. 27 piano concerti. Five violin concerti. He wrote 18 masses, 20 operas and 17 piano sonatas. His musical catalog contains more than 600 works—and he lived only to 35. And the Marriage of Figaro, about 3 hours of music, like his nineteen other operas, counts as only one work.

Okay, so he’s versatile and incredibly productive, but what beyond that?

Well first of all he was a guy with a great sense of humor. One of the pieces in his catalog of works is called Ein Musikalisher Wurfelspiel—A Musical Dice Game. In this odd musical dice game/musical piece one can build their own minuet by rolling dice. Each of 16 bars has 11 possibilities based on the roll of two dice. The minuet is written so that no matter what combinations occur, the minuet fits together to make a passable piece of music. Mozart also engaged in musical parody in a piece called Ein Musikalischer Spass—“A musical joke”—by demonstrating basic compositional errors—and this was two centuries before P.D.Q. Bach.

One of the raps against classical composers is that they are not spontaneous. They write great music, but it’s stuffy and staid because their music is too calculated. But Mozart was an incredible improviser. Before he was ten someone could give him any tune and he would gladly improvise on it, sometimes at very great length. Of course there was no audio tape or film back then, so all that survives is what is written down. The closest we can come to recreating his improvisational efforts is to play some of his themes and variations. One example for solo piano was heard in the soundtrack of Out of Africa, when the Isak Dinesen character and her love interest camped on the African plain and played a record while resting by the fire.

[Piano Sonata No. 11 in A, K.331, movement 1]

But the most important thing about Mozart’s music is its beauty.

Consider these tunes and ask yourself if these could be improved on:

First another Hollywood favorite from what I felt was the key moment in the movie The Shawshank Redemption, a piece from The Marriage of Figaro: Sull’aria.

[Canzonetta sull’aria: che soave zeffiretto]

Now another movie favorite, the middle movement of a piano concerto, whose theme is now called the “Elvira Madigan theme” because it was used in a 1967 movie about Elvira Madigan, a 19th century Danish tightrope walker.

[Second movement, Adagio, from Piano Concerto No. 21, K. 467]

Next two tunes from his singspiel, The Magic Flute: “Der Vogelfänger bin ich ja” and “Wie stark ist nicht dein Zauberton.”

[“Der Vogelfänger bin ich ja” and “Wie stark ist nicht dein Zauberton]

Okay, so Mozart wrote many different kinds of music for many instruments; he was prolific; he had a sense of humor; and the music he wrote was very beautiful—but still I hear that it all sounds the same because the harmonics of the music are all based on a common musical language.

Well between 1782 and 1785 Mozart composed six string quartets for Joseph Haydn. Here’s the first movement of the last of these six string quartets. I think it is possible to agree that the first two minutes of this movement, the introduction, were written by someone who is pushing the boundaries of the Viennese classical tradition. When I first heard it I thought it might be Samuel Barber or one of his cronies.

[First movement, String Quartet in C Major K. 465, “Dissonance Quartet”]

But apart from writing music of differing styles, writing for a wide range of instruments, writing some of music’s most famous pieces, writing incredible volumes of music, having a good sense of humor, being spontaneous, writing beautiful gems, and pushing the tonal boundaries of music, what did Mozart ever do for us?

Tamarack Nature Center

2008-09-08T22:35:00.008-05:00

Tamarack Nature Center is a small park located about 15 miles north of downtown St. Paul. In addition to being fairly small, 320 acres or so, it is bounded by an interstate highway on the west.

The constant hum of the interstate interfered with what is otherwise a very nice park. Several areas have been restored to native grasses. If you want to show your children what it was like to walk through tall native grasses, there is a great place to do this near the main interpretative center. There are varied landscapes. In addition to prairie, there are some areas dominated by mature oak forests, shallow lakes and ponds, boardwalks through dense thickets near wetlands, and conifer groves.

I enjoyed taking pictures of bees, wasps, and ants crawling on what I believe to be Solidago specisoa.

The Decimated Walnut Forest: Miesville Ravine County Park

2008-08-30T17:48:00.011-05:00

I have often canoed the Cannon River and have drifted right by the trailhead of this nifty county park. From the river I did not know that this park existed. The park is about five miles or so southwest of Miesville and you need to take some back roads to get there. The park has two hiking loops, one leading from the parking lot on the north side of 280th Street and the other from the south.

I decided to take the north loop first. The first thing that I noticed was devastation from a tornado that had passed through the area less than two months before. The damage to the forest was extreme. Mature trees were snapped off half way up, some were pushed over by other falling trees, and others were even totally uprooted. The county has done a nice job of clearing these trees in a very short period of time, but I'll bet it will be fifty to a hundred years before the damage will be undetectable. Opening the canopy like this always gives some non-dominant species opportunites. It will be interesting to see if there are any changes in the flora in the coming years.

The dense woods that line this ravine are dominated by black walnut, which seemed pervasive. I have never seen so much black walnut in my life. Many of them were dead and dying because of the tornado damage, but there is still an impressive aggregation of a species that I do not often see dominate a forest. Along the path to the north I spied Lobelia siphilitica, Great Blue Lobelia. Other than that, not much more than the usual suspects: White Snakeroot, Spotted Touch Me Not, Chickweed, and various species of Helianthus. I can tell that this would be fantastic spot to photograph woodland wildflowers in the spring.

The north loop is not particularly long, only about a mile and a half in length. It turns back on itself, though there are a couple of loops that assure the return is not wholly along the outgoing path. I saw and heard a wide variety of birds and a ran across a half dozen species of butterflies.

The southern loop is different in that whereas the northern loop proceeds up a ravine, the southern loop proceeds along the north bank of the Cannon River. After about a quarter mile the path turns to the north where one comes across an old abandoned stone building. It was quite large and I wondered about its use.

I liked this little county park. It will be interesting to see how the woods fill in after the devastating tornado damage.

Whence the Future of Classical Music

2008-08-28T20:57:00.007-05:00

The man that hath no music in himself,

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,

Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils,

The motions of his spirit are dull as night,

And his affections dark as Erebus,

Let no such man be trusted. . . .

The Merchant of Venice, Act V, Scene i

One night I was spending time listening to music from my iTunes collection. I sorted for my five star selections and played them straight through without shuffling. When I came to the middle movement of Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto, K. 622, I stopped everything else I was doing and just listened. Sublime. The clarinet enters right at the beginning of the movement and sings a plaintive, smooth line that melts my cares and grabs my heart.

I think about the music’s pedigree, the fact that it’s been preserved for more than two hundred years, and how much this music has to recommend it. It was composed by a great musical genius when at the height of his powers. It is highly melodic. There is nothing offensive or weird about the tune—except for a few occasional interesting dissonances. The composer was particularly gifted in the concerto form: an artist working in a favorite medium. The music contains repetition, a key ingredient of many likeable pieces; but there’s also plenty of variety. There’s even a bit of playfulness and if not humor, at least good humor. The particular performance was by a great clarinetist and a highly respected orchestra—not that this really has much to do with my enjoyment of the music, since I’d probably enjoy it if it were played by a high school orchestra—so the performers did nothing to interfere with the music’s original essence. The piece is in some way ubiquitous music in movie and television soundtracks. It’s been featured in four or five movies, including Greencard, American Gigolo, and Out of Africa. Once you know it you realize that it’s played pretty often during peaceful interludes in television programs.

On a whim, I Googled “K. 622” and “hate,” wanting to see if anyone really had expressed hatred of K. 622. The only relevant hit showed that the middle movement was a track on an old RCA Victor release: “Classical Music for People Who Hate Classical Music.” I guess the notion that K. 622 was not very worthy of hate had probably occurred to someone else then.
And this question occurred to me: Why is it that some do not care for this music? Why is it that some would greet the notion that this is good music with contempt? What is it that people say in opposition to Classical Music?

First let me disclose that I enjoy a wide variety of music. My music collection includes the entire works of the B-52’s. I enjoy listening to Counting Crows, The Eagles, The Beatles, R.E.M., Enya, Green Day, Dylan, The Cranberries, Fleetwood Mac, Talking Heads, Glen Campbell, James Taylor, The Beat, Joan Baez, Frank Sinatra, Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, Julie Andrews, Simon and Garfunkel, punk, new wave, and Joni Mitchell. And oddest of all perhaps, I really love trance music. So I’m not locked in to one style of music.

One frequent objection is that all classical music sounds alike. Well, I think this is a pretty dubious objection. If we consider “Classical Music” as a genre akin to “Country Music,” or “Bluegrass,” or “Rock,” one would think that Classical Music really has a totally unfair edge in diversity. It can sport, for instance, solo piano pieces, string ensembles, opera, orchestral music, songs for the male voice, songs for the female voice, songs for chorus, songs for duets, trios and quartets, solo cello, violin sonatas, pieces for piano, violin or cello and orchestra. And this list just goes on and on.

Beyond the diversity in the instrumentation is the diversity in the form of the piece: single movement overtures, multi-movement symphonies, sonata allegro movements, rondos, finicky fugues, nocturnes, ballads, preludes, variations, arias, lieder. And again the list just goes on and on.

Variety in length is also a hallmark of classical music. “Stairway to Heaven,” one of the prototypic ginormous rock songs, is about eight minutes long and some of the early short Beatles songs about two minutes or so—a ratio of about 4:1. But my iTunes shows a movement from a Shostakovich symphony coming in at almost a half hour, while a terse Eric Satie piece comes in at fifteen seconds—a 120:1 ratio. Even if we go with In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, the rock song lags.

But all of these differences pale in the face of stylistic differences: Haydn vs. Chopin; Beethoven vs. Debussy; Shostakovich vs. Bach—unique idioms all. There's no confusion who’s who in any of these couples. And the number of composers with their own distinctive sound is fantastic. If we just take the “B’s” we have Bach, Barber, Bartok, Beethoven, Bellini, Berlioz, Bizet, Brahms, Britten, and Bruckner—and that’s not even bringing in Bax, Buxtehude or the other second stringers. Variety and distinctive musical signatures abound in classical music.

How about variety in volume or loudness? Again, most of these other types of music are left in the dust. A full orchestra playing the finale of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony plays so loud that the European Union has considered regulatory action to protect the hearing of musicians playing it. Yet when the “Ode to Joy” theme is introduced it comes on quietly, barely audible over the road noise on your car stereo. And no other form of music can meet the disciplined crescendos of classical music, the gradual piling on of more and more sound: think Bolero; again, the “Ode to Joy” passage of Beethoven’s Ninth; Grieg’s “In the Hall of the Mountain King.”

So this stuff simply does not all sound the same. But how does it differ from the music that its objectors listen to? There are differences: 1) it often does not include the human voice; 2) the instrumentation is different—no electric guitars, no rock drumset; 3) voices often sing in foreign languages; 4) classical music often is quiet and reserved; and 5) contemporary pop music follows a known pattern that some find more pleasing.

In these times it is particularly dangerous to make sweeping generalizations and absolute statements about what music the majority of people prefer. If a teenager wished to focus on East African songs for solo voice, or sounds of the Australian Outback, no doubt such specializations could be entertained. But there is, nevertheless, a musical mainstream. Here’s what we can we say about the songs of the musical mainstream: 1) they include songs of approximately two minutes to five minutes in length; 2) the songs are sung in the listener’s native language; 3) the songs generally include electric guitars and a drum set or rhythm component; 4) the music is generally of a constant dynamic range; and 5) the structure of the pieces is highly predictable, usually AABA-or something like that.

Despite what on paper would seem to be some obvious advantages in favor of classical music, one must acknowledge that pop music reigns supreme (by definition?). To ignore this fact and to pretend otherwise would be to ignore basic realities, like gravity or the sun rising in the east. One possible explanation could be the whim of fad and fashion, which seem to have no rational explanation. In the late 1970’s fat ties were all the rage. Ties as wide as six inches passed muster. Was there any rational reason for this? No. Just as there was no rational reason for two-inch ties a couple of decades earlier or later. It was just a product of the popular culture. So, as the argument would go, the preference for pop music is an irrational preference for one thing over another and this preference should not much concern us, since it is simply dictated by fad or the whim of the moment.

Yet one wonders if there is not a substantial difference between the world of fashion and music. It seems to me that there is no objective answer to the question of whether a wide tie is better than a skinny tie or whether the fashion of wearing ties of any particular width is worthy of memorialization. But the same cannot be said about the great works of classical music. They have obvious merit and, like mankind’s best inventions, buildings, or societies, deserve to be remembered, recognized, and appreciated. How can we pass on these gifts?

Fort Snelling State Park

2008-08-27T21:27:00.008-05:00

Fort Snelling State Park is a park of contrasts. On the one hand, its location and the sounds one sometimes hears are the sounds of the city. The park is located on the stretch of the Mississippi River between Minneapolis and St. Paul. It is right under two major freeway bridges, is traversed by a major powerline, and is right under the primary landing path for the main Twin Cities airport. Besides the roar of planes, one hears speed boats buzzing by. Maybe you're saying "Not my style."

But wait. On the other hand, this is a park with much to offer. First of all, it has geography: it lies at the confluence of the Mississippi and Minnesota rivers. Then it has history: Fort Snelling, which lies up on the bluff, was an early military settlement. It is well preserved and offers historical tours. This park was the site of the negotiation of an 1802 treaty between Mdewakanton Dakota and Zebulon Pike that ceded nearby lands to the United States government. Sixty years later, following an "uprising," it was the site of the internment of hundreds of members of the Dakota tribe.

And the natural parts of the park are surprisingly satisfying. As one enters the lower part of the park one comes across Snelling Lake, a beautiful jewel that appears not to be as well known to Twin Citians as it deserves to be. There is a nice little swimming beach and a launch for canoes and boats with electric motors.

Past Picnic Island is Pike's Island, where I did most of my hiking during this visit. From the parking lot I went to the visitor center where there were some tame wild turkeys scrounging for seed near the center's bird feeders. From there it is a few hundred yards to a bridge that takes one to the west end of Pike's Island. The north shore of the island is the south shore of the Mississippi River and the south shore of the island is the north shore of the Minnesota River. From the island's west end I followed the Hiking Club signs down a trail that split the middle of the island. When you are on this trail it is really quite difficulty to believe that you are in the heart of the sixteenth largest metro area in the United States. While the ear knows otherwise, the eye tells you that you are in remote northern Minnesota woods. About 20 minutes up the trail I saw a whitetail fawn, which seemed a bit uncautious. She gave me time to set up my tripod and snap several pictures.

The woods were filled with common bottomland species of trees: Cottonwood, Silver Maple, and Ash. During my visit there was a profusion of Helianthus, though I was not sure which species. I frequently ran into Tall Bellflower, Campanula americana, but it seemed a bit past its prime in late August. Spotted Joe Pye Weed, Eupatorium maculatum, was also fairly common in the areas closest to the rivers.

Despite its proximity to the urban center of the Twin City metro area--or maybe because of it--this park has much to offer. The park is only about a two mile hike from Minnehaha Falls by paved path, so it offers much to anyone out for a stroll in natural setting.

Naked Beauty

2008-07-16T20:54:00.008-05:00

I stopped by Banning State Park on a Monday afternoon at about 5 p.m. I arrived at the landing at the head of the rapids to find a camper with Missouri plates parked in the turnaround near the boat launch. I then noticed that the camper's owners were demonstrating why Missouri is the "Show Me" State, because they were standing in about six inches of water totally naked.

After they left I returned to the landing and found this Turk's Cap Lily, Lilium superbum. I wish I could say that the bathers had superbums.

A Saturday Visit to Jay Cooke State Park

2008-07-12T21:03:00.004-05:00

I visited Jay Cooke State Park today to see if I could get some good photos of Pink Showy Ladyslippers, which were in bloom, but definitely on the way out. I suspect this will be the last weekend that they are in bloom. It was so windy that it was difficult to take any photos, but I did manage this one.

I hiked the Silver Creek Trail and saw a few plants of interest, including some beautiful bindweed and what appeared to be a mint of some kind. The wind kept the flies and mosquitos down a bit, but still managed to get bit pretty good.

I hiked back to Lost Lake and a remote backpack campsite. On the way saw some very large White Cedars. Next time I'll visit the Spruce and High Trails, but it was late too late in the day this time.

The highlight of the park is the St. Louis River, which bisects the park. You can only cross the river by using the Swinging Bridge, a pedestrian suspension bridge that must be 60 feet or so above the river. The crossing is at some steep, rocky rapids and is really a beautiful sight. It's amazing to think that this park is only about twelve miles from Duluth.

Explosions on the Prairie

2008-07-10T22:05:00.004-05:00

Minnesota's first scorcher of the year in the Twin Cities area came on July 6. I visited one of my favorite nature parks in the metro area, Crow Hassan Park Reserve. The park is part of the Three Rivers Park District and is bordered on the west by the Crow River. It is about 2600 acres and has many areas where prairie restoration has been underway for years.

Even though temperatures were in the low 90's, I decided to give the park a chance. When I got there I experienced one of the oddest things. I heard these loud popping noises. At first I could not figure out what they were. I eventually figured out that I was hearing Lupine seeds exploding from their pods. The sound was quite loud and pronounced. It sounded a bit like being in a popcorn popper!

The racket reached its peak about the time I noticed this cluster of Asclepias tuberosa, also known as Butterfly Weed.