B. went to the local No Kings protest on Saturday. I support the cause, but I stayed home and took a nap. I feel I've already had my say on this subject.
Instead, I went up to the City that evening for the Bay Area Rainbow Symphony's Pride celebratory concert. The music sounded interesting. Conducted by Martha Stoddard, known locally for the Oakland Civic Orchestra, it featured a timpani concerto by the Colombian/US composer Juan Sebastian Cardona Ospina, and Sibelius's Third Symphony. Both of them came across as busy and bustling.
Today I happened to be sitting in the living room when B. turned the tv on to continue watching Andor (which I persist in thinking of as "and/or" because I've been trained in Boolean logic). Although it's set in the Star Wars universe, it didn't feel to me like Star Wars at all, because the dialogue isn't stiff and inane like in all the Star Wars movies I've seen. (I haven't seen Rogue One.) But I couldn't follow what was going on, so I let it be.
Kalimac's corner: a journal by DB
Sunday, June 15, 2025
Saturday, June 14, 2025
catch-up
The reason for the posting gap between covering last week's San Francisco Symphony program and this week's is that I've been buried - and still am - in my part of copy-editing the papers for the next issue of Tolkien Studies. This is a major task that has been occupying all three editors. There are authors who have trouble with - well, I shouldn't say the things they have trouble with, but they have trouble with them. But that leads to the first of my catch-up news items, which is:
1. I should say, since there have been a couple of inquiries, that Tolkien Studies is alive and well. It's just delayed. A combination of various personal difficulties on top of never having quite recovered from the dent in our schedule caused by the 2022 supplement are the cause, but the 2024 (tsk) issue should have gone to the publisher (more processing time) within a month from now.
2. Last week, B. and I went to hear the San Jose Symphonic Choir give its centenary concert of singing Beethoven's Ninth, and I reviewed it for the Daily Journal. The singing and playing ranged from excellent to not so excellent, but we had a good time of it. This was the fullest I've seen the Mountain View CPA in a long time, and the fullest I've seen its parking garage ever. I had to park out on the street two blocks away, and I was lucky to find that.
3. Last November, when I was in LA (and the National Guard wasn't), I saw a delightfully clever performance of Sondheim's rarely-staged Pacific Overtures, his musical about the opening of Japan. So when I saw that another Asian-American theater company was going to do it in San Francisco, I decided to go to that one too. Friday was it, after another long day (and a drive up the coast from Santa Cruz). Follow-ups like this are rarely a success, and this wasn't. The performers were all of professional quality, but the show was bland and dull in comparison to the bright and witty I saw in LA.
3a. Near the theater, which is in the Mission District, are two Mexican restaurants I queried for dinner beforehand. Both advertise tamales, one in their menu, the other actually is called a "Tamale Parlor." Neither has any tamales. The one was out of them, the other - despite the name - doesn't even carry them. As a tamale-lover, I was very disappointed.
4. Were you under the impression that C.S. Lewis and Charles Williams wrote each other fan letters that crossed in the mail? Neither was I, but just in case you were, Sørina Higgins is out to correct you. Actually, Williams wrote, "If you had delayed writing another 24 hours our letters would have crossed," and the conditional of this phrasing attracted Søri's attention. She thinks Williams was just being polite; he wouldn't have taken the trouble of writing a letter if Lewis hadn't written him first.
What she doesn't address is the peculiarity of Williams, who was an editor in the London branch, the commercial office, of the Oxford University Press, being asked to evaluate Lewis's book which was an academic treatise being published by the Oxford branch, the academic office, of the Press, although he did suggest what was eventually used as the book's title, The Allegory of Love. What I've read elsewhere, though I can't remember where, is a suggestion that Williams being given Lewis's book was a stitch-up concocted by Humphrey Milford, the Publisher of the Press (manager of the London office, and Williams's supervisor) and R.W. Chapman, Secretary to the Delegates (manager of the Oxford office, who knew Lewis, an Oxford don) in collaboration, as they thought - quite astutely - that Williams and Lewis would be great friends if they ever met. That, by Lewis's own testimony (Preface to Essays Presented to CW), it was Chapman who first mentioned Williams's novels to Lewis is another clue.
Anyway, if this is true, then Williams's "admiration for the staff work of the Omnipotence" that brought them together should have been pitched at a slightly lower level.
1. I should say, since there have been a couple of inquiries, that Tolkien Studies is alive and well. It's just delayed. A combination of various personal difficulties on top of never having quite recovered from the dent in our schedule caused by the 2022 supplement are the cause, but the 2024 (tsk) issue should have gone to the publisher (more processing time) within a month from now.
2. Last week, B. and I went to hear the San Jose Symphonic Choir give its centenary concert of singing Beethoven's Ninth, and I reviewed it for the Daily Journal. The singing and playing ranged from excellent to not so excellent, but we had a good time of it. This was the fullest I've seen the Mountain View CPA in a long time, and the fullest I've seen its parking garage ever. I had to park out on the street two blocks away, and I was lucky to find that.
3. Last November, when I was in LA (and the National Guard wasn't), I saw a delightfully clever performance of Sondheim's rarely-staged Pacific Overtures, his musical about the opening of Japan. So when I saw that another Asian-American theater company was going to do it in San Francisco, I decided to go to that one too. Friday was it, after another long day (and a drive up the coast from Santa Cruz). Follow-ups like this are rarely a success, and this wasn't. The performers were all of professional quality, but the show was bland and dull in comparison to the bright and witty I saw in LA.
3a. Near the theater, which is in the Mission District, are two Mexican restaurants I queried for dinner beforehand. Both advertise tamales, one in their menu, the other actually is called a "Tamale Parlor." Neither has any tamales. The one was out of them, the other - despite the name - doesn't even carry them. As a tamale-lover, I was very disappointed.
4. Were you under the impression that C.S. Lewis and Charles Williams wrote each other fan letters that crossed in the mail? Neither was I, but just in case you were, Sørina Higgins is out to correct you. Actually, Williams wrote, "If you had delayed writing another 24 hours our letters would have crossed," and the conditional of this phrasing attracted Søri's attention. She thinks Williams was just being polite; he wouldn't have taken the trouble of writing a letter if Lewis hadn't written him first.
What she doesn't address is the peculiarity of Williams, who was an editor in the London branch, the commercial office, of the Oxford University Press, being asked to evaluate Lewis's book which was an academic treatise being published by the Oxford branch, the academic office, of the Press, although he did suggest what was eventually used as the book's title, The Allegory of Love. What I've read elsewhere, though I can't remember where, is a suggestion that Williams being given Lewis's book was a stitch-up concocted by Humphrey Milford, the Publisher of the Press (manager of the London office, and Williams's supervisor) and R.W. Chapman, Secretary to the Delegates (manager of the Oxford office, who knew Lewis, an Oxford don) in collaboration, as they thought - quite astutely - that Williams and Lewis would be great friends if they ever met. That, by Lewis's own testimony (Preface to Essays Presented to CW), it was Chapman who first mentioned Williams's novels to Lewis is another clue.
Anyway, if this is true, then Williams's "admiration for the staff work of the Omnipotence" that brought them together should have been pitched at a slightly lower level.
Friday, June 13, 2025
Salonen: the grand finale
For his last-ever program as music director of the San Francisco Symphony (though he didn't know it would be his last-ever when he scheduled it), Esa-Pekka Salonen chose Gustav Mahler's Second Symphony, big enough to make a concert by itself. Ordinarily I'd skip out on an all-Mahler program, but I decided to attend this one (first of three performances) not just because it was EPS's last, but because I was so impressed with his interpretation of Mahler's Third at the end of last year's season.
And it wasn't as revelatory, but still extremely interesting. As with the Third, EPS divided the Second up into two unanticipated parts.
The dramatic and somber (with placid interludes) first movement of the Second is the only piece of Mahler's which can be played to sound as if it might have been written by Mahler's mentor Anton Bruckner. EPS did not direct it that way. Instead, he had it sound like the anti-Bruckner: the sound was bright, clean-cut, and almost crystal-clear throughout. If it was dark at all, it came in touches where it was creepy in the way that Saint-Saëns' Danse Macabre is creepy.
The result of this is that the delicate and wistful second movement intermezzo, which is intended to be as incongruously different from the first movement as possible, sounded just like it. Placid and calm? Yes, just like the interludes in the first movement. Loud and dramatic moments? (Yes, it has them: this is Mahler, after all.) As clear and simply bright as the first movement's.
So the first two movements were the ad hoc part 1 of Salonen's version of the Second. The third movement scherzo turned out to be the beginning of part 2. The climax at the end of this was the first loud passage in the symphony to be at all rough and chaotic or, to put it more bluntly, to sound as if it had been composed by Mahler. The long instrumental opening of the choral finale, written as something of a return to the first movement's approach, was here hairier and irregular and much more like the end of the scherzo.
What most impressed with the finale was EPS's command of the extremes of dynamics. At the choral climax, the SFS Chorus, some 140 strong, was beefy and powerful enough to stride over the full noise of the orchestra, and the final instrumental-only conclusion made an even mightier roar with multiple sets of timpani banging away and the organ at full throttle, the way I always want to hear it at the climaxes of works like Saint-Saëns's Organ Symphony or Holst's "Uranus" from The Planets.
On the other hand, the quiet was really quiet. It's difficult for a large chorus to sing as intensely quietly as Mahler directs its opening passage to be (ppp), but this ensemble managed that hush. The instrumental side could be just as quiet. EPS managed the passages with an offstage band to come across so softly that they were in perfect volume balance with active onstage performers of nothing but one flute and one piccolo.
Not to forget the work's two solo singers. Heidi Stober's soprano repeatedly rose beautifully out of the chorus, but even greater honors are due to acclaimed mezzo Sasha Cooke, who in addition to parts in the finale has a solemn and subdued prelude song, "Urlicht," between the scherzo and the finale, which she conveyed as sweet and coy in her powerful deep voice.
Huge applause afterwards for all concerned, including Chorus director Jenny Wong, who's rapidly establishing herself as the best director this choir has ever had. Unlike last week, EPS consented to take a couple of curtain calls by himself as well, though he insisted on taking them standing in the middle of the orchestra, somewhere between the second violins and violas, as if to emphasize he considers himself just one of the fabulous musicians on stage.
And thus concludes EPS's five-year tenure as Music Director of SFS. He'll turn 67 at the end of this month, a prime age for a conductor, and we could have had him for much longer if only incompetent and clueless management hadn't driven him to let his contract expire and leave. He's not returning as a guest next season and we might well never have him again. What a loss.
And it wasn't as revelatory, but still extremely interesting. As with the Third, EPS divided the Second up into two unanticipated parts.
The dramatic and somber (with placid interludes) first movement of the Second is the only piece of Mahler's which can be played to sound as if it might have been written by Mahler's mentor Anton Bruckner. EPS did not direct it that way. Instead, he had it sound like the anti-Bruckner: the sound was bright, clean-cut, and almost crystal-clear throughout. If it was dark at all, it came in touches where it was creepy in the way that Saint-Saëns' Danse Macabre is creepy.
The result of this is that the delicate and wistful second movement intermezzo, which is intended to be as incongruously different from the first movement as possible, sounded just like it. Placid and calm? Yes, just like the interludes in the first movement. Loud and dramatic moments? (Yes, it has them: this is Mahler, after all.) As clear and simply bright as the first movement's.
So the first two movements were the ad hoc part 1 of Salonen's version of the Second. The third movement scherzo turned out to be the beginning of part 2. The climax at the end of this was the first loud passage in the symphony to be at all rough and chaotic or, to put it more bluntly, to sound as if it had been composed by Mahler. The long instrumental opening of the choral finale, written as something of a return to the first movement's approach, was here hairier and irregular and much more like the end of the scherzo.
What most impressed with the finale was EPS's command of the extremes of dynamics. At the choral climax, the SFS Chorus, some 140 strong, was beefy and powerful enough to stride over the full noise of the orchestra, and the final instrumental-only conclusion made an even mightier roar with multiple sets of timpani banging away and the organ at full throttle, the way I always want to hear it at the climaxes of works like Saint-Saëns's Organ Symphony or Holst's "Uranus" from The Planets.
On the other hand, the quiet was really quiet. It's difficult for a large chorus to sing as intensely quietly as Mahler directs its opening passage to be (ppp), but this ensemble managed that hush. The instrumental side could be just as quiet. EPS managed the passages with an offstage band to come across so softly that they were in perfect volume balance with active onstage performers of nothing but one flute and one piccolo.
Not to forget the work's two solo singers. Heidi Stober's soprano repeatedly rose beautifully out of the chorus, but even greater honors are due to acclaimed mezzo Sasha Cooke, who in addition to parts in the finale has a solemn and subdued prelude song, "Urlicht," between the scherzo and the finale, which she conveyed as sweet and coy in her powerful deep voice.
Huge applause afterwards for all concerned, including Chorus director Jenny Wong, who's rapidly establishing herself as the best director this choir has ever had. Unlike last week, EPS consented to take a couple of curtain calls by himself as well, though he insisted on taking them standing in the middle of the orchestra, somewhere between the second violins and violas, as if to emphasize he considers himself just one of the fabulous musicians on stage.
And thus concludes EPS's five-year tenure as Music Director of SFS. He'll turn 67 at the end of this month, a prime age for a conductor, and we could have had him for much longer if only incompetent and clueless management hadn't driven him to let his contract expire and leave. He's not returning as a guest next season and we might well never have him again. What a loss.
Sunday, June 8, 2025
Salonen: the penultimate program
The San Francisco Symphony program this week was a miscellaneous assortment of four pieces, each about 20 minutes long. Perhaps that's why, even though it was music director Esa-Pekka Salonen's next-to-last program, the hall was not as packed on Saturday as it was last week. (I don't usually go to SFS on Saturday. I did this week because I was doing something else on Friday. More on that later.) The audience cheered EPS just as lustily, though, despite his attempts to modestly back off at the end.
We had:
We had:
- Richard Strauss's two shortest - and, not coincidentally, best - tone poems, Don Juan and Till Eulenspiegel. These were played with quicksilver energy and bumptious color, so much so that, had I not known better and were told that Don Juan actually portrayed the merry prankster Till, I might have believed it. (The reverse would be less plausible.)
- Sibelius's shortest and most cryptic symphony, the Seventh. This was played in the same manner: it was so brilliantly colorful and convincing moment-by-moment that it didn't matter where the piece was going, and indeed I wasn't sure if it was going anywhere. Each section seemed to come from a different work; there was even a moment straight out of Valse Triste.
- A premiere, Rewilding by local composer Gabriella Smith. This celebrates the titular ecosystem restoration projects by means of musical onomatopoeia. It both begins and ends with the percussion evoking the squeaking of Smith's bicycle as she rides to and from her project sites (which is what she spends her non-musical time doing). In between are attempts at animal sounds: lots of insect swarms from the strings and bird calls of various kinds from the woodwinds, while the brass play what come across more as Ingram Marshall-style foghorns.
Wednesday, June 4, 2025
what are they waiting for?
Here's something that bugs me, and that seems to be happening constantly these days: People who get into their cars, turn the engine on, and then just sit there, maybe checking their phone or doing nothing at all.
The reason this bugs me is that they're doing this in parking lots, and my car is next to theirs or directly across the lane, and I want to leave but I don't want to risk hitting or being hit by another car leaving at the same time, because it's awfully hard to see behind you, despite turning head and rear-view mirrors, and they got to their car before I got to mine. So I wait for them to leave. And wait, and wait ...
Occasionally I've actually gotten back out of my car, gone to theirs, knocked on the window, and asked, "Are you planning on leaving soon? Because I'm parked next to you, and I don't want to move if you're going to be moving." But mostly now I give up, and figure if they don't leave after one minute they're unlikely to leave before two, and go out myself.
But if people would just go when they're ready to - again, they've turned the engine on - there wouldn't be this problem.
The reason this bugs me is that they're doing this in parking lots, and my car is next to theirs or directly across the lane, and I want to leave but I don't want to risk hitting or being hit by another car leaving at the same time, because it's awfully hard to see behind you, despite turning head and rear-view mirrors, and they got to their car before I got to mine. So I wait for them to leave. And wait, and wait ...
Occasionally I've actually gotten back out of my car, gone to theirs, knocked on the window, and asked, "Are you planning on leaving soon? Because I'm parked next to you, and I don't want to move if you're going to be moving." But mostly now I give up, and figure if they don't leave after one minute they're unlikely to leave before two, and go out myself.
But if people would just go when they're ready to - again, they've turned the engine on - there wouldn't be this problem.
Tuesday, June 3, 2025
no concert
B. saw an announcement that a choral group we'd never heard of was giving a free concert of Mozart's Requiem on Sunday afternoon in a local church, so we decided to go. I don't know how it came out; we didn't stay for the performance.
We'd arrived early enough to read the quite extensive comments on the strange composition history of the piece, and its musical contents, in the program book. By 3 pm, the announced time, the sanctuary was packed with concertgoers, some of them children.
The conductor stood up and started to speak into a microphone. (Not very clearly: her voice kept fading in and out.) Now, many conductors have adopted the irritating habit of speaking a few superfluous sentences before pieces, but usually they're done in a couple of minutes. Not this one. She took some 15 minutes to tell the entire story of the commissioning, composition, and publication of the Requiem. I thought about shouting out, "We can read all this in the program book! Let's hear the music!"
Perhaps I should have, because then the conductor turned to an analysis of repeated musical motifs in the Requiem, with musical illustrations by the rehearsal pianist.
It was at about this point that B. asked if we should just leave. I said I hoped the talk would be done soon. It wasn't. After five minutes - this had now gone on for 20 minutes total, and it still wasn't done - the conductor was on her third motif, and we got up and left. I walked to the back parking lot to fetch the car while B. waited at the front door. When I picked her up, the conductor was still talking.
Look, if you want to give a pre-concert talk before the concert, schedule it for an hour before showtime. Don't incorporate it into the actual program. Then people can decide if they want to attend or not. Besides, this wasn't really a pre-concert talk in content. The motivic analysis made it more like a lecture in a junior college class on Mozart.
I won't dignify the ensemble by naming it, but we certainly won't attempt to attend any more of its concerts.
We'd arrived early enough to read the quite extensive comments on the strange composition history of the piece, and its musical contents, in the program book. By 3 pm, the announced time, the sanctuary was packed with concertgoers, some of them children.
The conductor stood up and started to speak into a microphone. (Not very clearly: her voice kept fading in and out.) Now, many conductors have adopted the irritating habit of speaking a few superfluous sentences before pieces, but usually they're done in a couple of minutes. Not this one. She took some 15 minutes to tell the entire story of the commissioning, composition, and publication of the Requiem. I thought about shouting out, "We can read all this in the program book! Let's hear the music!"
Perhaps I should have, because then the conductor turned to an analysis of repeated musical motifs in the Requiem, with musical illustrations by the rehearsal pianist.
It was at about this point that B. asked if we should just leave. I said I hoped the talk would be done soon. It wasn't. After five minutes - this had now gone on for 20 minutes total, and it still wasn't done - the conductor was on her third motif, and we got up and left. I walked to the back parking lot to fetch the car while B. waited at the front door. When I picked her up, the conductor was still talking.
Look, if you want to give a pre-concert talk before the concert, schedule it for an hour before showtime. Don't incorporate it into the actual program. Then people can decide if they want to attend or not. Besides, this wasn't really a pre-concert talk in content. The motivic analysis made it more like a lecture in a junior college class on Mozart.
I won't dignify the ensemble by naming it, but we certainly won't attempt to attend any more of its concerts.
Monday, June 2, 2025
transit and birds in Pittsburgh
I said I was going to write about these subjects, but my post on food got a little too long.
Both the wedding venue, just across the Monongahela River on one side of downtown, and the baseball stadium, just across the Allegheny on the other side, were a little further from my hotel than I was comfortable walking, so I was going to need to learn the bus system. I found the online guide to transit in Pittsburgh confusing and useless, and while Google Maps will tell you how to do if you need to leave right now, it's too narrowly focused to be useful for planning ahead.
I walked over to the nearest station of the light rail, which is called the T (which stands for trolley, which you'll understand if you take it out to the suburbs, where it runs down the middle of streets). It was an underground station like on BART, except no gates, because the T is free in the central city. There were, however, ticket machines for buying passes, good on both the buses and the pay parts of the T - 3-hour, 1-day, 7-day, starting from whenever you first use them, not when you buy them. All this was explained to me by helpful locals whom I enquired from.
Down in the bowels of the station was a large multiple-compartment tray with folding paper schedules for every bus line in the city. Not having time to figure out which lines I might need, I took one copy of each. They were very useful. For all of my travel plans, I'd look up the route on Google Maps, write down the numbers of all the bus lines that served it, then look up on the paper schedules where they actually went and when. This was particularly useful when I went out to my brother's house in the suburbs. I took a taxi out there (I don't do Uber), but I came back on the bus, having carefully printed out a map that would show me how to walk the 1/4 mile downhill (which is why I didn't take the bus in) to the bus stop and what time it would arrive, which was vital given that the line runs only every 90 minutes on holidays. I was relieved to find I was not the only rider on the bus.
I plotted an even more elaborate trip to the North Shore for the ball game. First I took a bus to a likely lunch place, then I walked a few blocks through a park to the National Aviary, then a longer distance distinctly downhill to the ball park. (No bus service on that route that wouldn't be more trouble than it was worth; figuring things like that out is what made the planning elaborate.) Plenty of time; the game wasn't until 4 pm. Having realized our seats were on the back side of the stadium close to the otherwise awkwardly-located local T station, I took that back downtown afterwards.
But the National Aviary, ah that was worth seeing. I enjoy aviaries, especially the walk-through kind. The San Antonio Zoo has four of them and is the best such experience I've had, but this was a close second. It's small, but is packed with birds and is all-bird. There's three walk-throughs: a grasslands one with tiny birds, mostly canaries and finches; a wetlands, which B. would have enjoyed the most, full of flamingos and odd ducks (I saw one duck, which the posted guide identified as a puna teal, chasing a flamingo around the pond); and a tropical rainforest, which featured gigantic blue parrots which missed a bet by not being the mascots of the Pittsburgh Pirates, and a large Malaysian pheasant (the Great Argus, the guidebook said) which kept throwing back its head and emitting a piercingly loud woo woo cry that echoed through the room.
There were also smaller displays featuring African penguins (tolerant of a temperate climate), lorikeets, and a giant Steller's sea eagle. And much more. There's a tiny cafeteria that includes among its offerings chicken tenders and turkey sandwiches. Roasted bird, in an aviary? I had to wonder about that.
Both the wedding venue, just across the Monongahela River on one side of downtown, and the baseball stadium, just across the Allegheny on the other side, were a little further from my hotel than I was comfortable walking, so I was going to need to learn the bus system. I found the online guide to transit in Pittsburgh confusing and useless, and while Google Maps will tell you how to do if you need to leave right now, it's too narrowly focused to be useful for planning ahead.
I walked over to the nearest station of the light rail, which is called the T (which stands for trolley, which you'll understand if you take it out to the suburbs, where it runs down the middle of streets). It was an underground station like on BART, except no gates, because the T is free in the central city. There were, however, ticket machines for buying passes, good on both the buses and the pay parts of the T - 3-hour, 1-day, 7-day, starting from whenever you first use them, not when you buy them. All this was explained to me by helpful locals whom I enquired from.
Down in the bowels of the station was a large multiple-compartment tray with folding paper schedules for every bus line in the city. Not having time to figure out which lines I might need, I took one copy of each. They were very useful. For all of my travel plans, I'd look up the route on Google Maps, write down the numbers of all the bus lines that served it, then look up on the paper schedules where they actually went and when. This was particularly useful when I went out to my brother's house in the suburbs. I took a taxi out there (I don't do Uber), but I came back on the bus, having carefully printed out a map that would show me how to walk the 1/4 mile downhill (which is why I didn't take the bus in) to the bus stop and what time it would arrive, which was vital given that the line runs only every 90 minutes on holidays. I was relieved to find I was not the only rider on the bus.
I plotted an even more elaborate trip to the North Shore for the ball game. First I took a bus to a likely lunch place, then I walked a few blocks through a park to the National Aviary, then a longer distance distinctly downhill to the ball park. (No bus service on that route that wouldn't be more trouble than it was worth; figuring things like that out is what made the planning elaborate.) Plenty of time; the game wasn't until 4 pm. Having realized our seats were on the back side of the stadium close to the otherwise awkwardly-located local T station, I took that back downtown afterwards.
But the National Aviary, ah that was worth seeing. I enjoy aviaries, especially the walk-through kind. The San Antonio Zoo has four of them and is the best such experience I've had, but this was a close second. It's small, but is packed with birds and is all-bird. There's three walk-throughs: a grasslands one with tiny birds, mostly canaries and finches; a wetlands, which B. would have enjoyed the most, full of flamingos and odd ducks (I saw one duck, which the posted guide identified as a puna teal, chasing a flamingo around the pond); and a tropical rainforest, which featured gigantic blue parrots which missed a bet by not being the mascots of the Pittsburgh Pirates, and a large Malaysian pheasant (the Great Argus, the guidebook said) which kept throwing back its head and emitting a piercingly loud woo woo cry that echoed through the room.
There were also smaller displays featuring African penguins (tolerant of a temperate climate), lorikeets, and a giant Steller's sea eagle. And much more. There's a tiny cafeteria that includes among its offerings chicken tenders and turkey sandwiches. Roasted bird, in an aviary? I had to wonder about that.
Saturday, May 31, 2025
Salonen: the antepenultimate program
The San Francisco Symphony has been promoting the heck out of the last four concert programs of the season, Esa-Pekka Salonen's final appearances as music director. It's ironic because the reason he's going is the incompetent management of the Symphony, the same organization that's trying to sell this as a celebration. And it's tragic because EPS has been doing such a good job. Joshua Kosman, reviewing last week's program, the first of the set, explained: "The real theme of the program was This is what we had, and this is what we’ve lost. Onstage leadership of an extraordinary caliber, from a conductor able to infuse even familiar works with color and drama and narrative shape — that’s not something you let slip away. Except they did."
I missed that first concert, as I was away, but I'm attending the other three. Between two matinees, Friday was the only evening performance of program no. 2. (I know what 'antepenultimate' means, so I'm going to use it when appropriate.)
The repertoire was two of the less dramatic works of Beethoven's 'heroic' period, the Fourth Symphony and the Violin Concerto, both dating from 1806 and bearing adjoining opus numbers. If you wanted to hear Beethoven as a refined, elegant composer, instead of the usual brusque bumpkin, this was your chance. EPS conducted the Fourth as light and sparkling, with colorful and brilliantly tight responses from the players. The only exception to the mood was a deeply misterioso slow introduction. Soloist Hilary Hahn - with a sure-footed and beautiful consistently light tone - was at one with her conductor in presenting the Violin Concerto as smooth and graceful. That's the way the score tends anyway, and these performers just reinforced that. Even the orchestral fortissimos were smooth and graceful. It's a large-scale work, and came across as a prosperous voyage through a vast calm sea.
Possibly knowing that this series was going to be their last chance, the audience packed Davies more fully than I've seen it in years. They cheered EPS mightily on his appearance, and cheered Hahn even more mightily after the concerto (EPS declined to share her curtain calls). Two encores.
I missed that first concert, as I was away, but I'm attending the other three. Between two matinees, Friday was the only evening performance of program no. 2. (I know what 'antepenultimate' means, so I'm going to use it when appropriate.)
The repertoire was two of the less dramatic works of Beethoven's 'heroic' period, the Fourth Symphony and the Violin Concerto, both dating from 1806 and bearing adjoining opus numbers. If you wanted to hear Beethoven as a refined, elegant composer, instead of the usual brusque bumpkin, this was your chance. EPS conducted the Fourth as light and sparkling, with colorful and brilliantly tight responses from the players. The only exception to the mood was a deeply misterioso slow introduction. Soloist Hilary Hahn - with a sure-footed and beautiful consistently light tone - was at one with her conductor in presenting the Violin Concerto as smooth and graceful. That's the way the score tends anyway, and these performers just reinforced that. Even the orchestral fortissimos were smooth and graceful. It's a large-scale work, and came across as a prosperous voyage through a vast calm sea.
Possibly knowing that this series was going to be their last chance, the audience packed Davies more fully than I've seen it in years. They cheered EPS mightily on his appearance, and cheered Hahn even more mightily after the concerto (EPS declined to share her curtain calls). Two encores.
Friday, May 30, 2025
Pittsburgh diner
I had some good meals in Pittsburgh. That was one reason I chose to stay downtown, even though it was a bus ride across the river to the wedding venue: I was within walking distance of a variety of restaurants. Among the best were the outstandingly tangy and moist fried chicken at The Eagle, which is actually a chain with outlets scattered across the Midwest, but this was the first I'd encountered it; and the jambalaya at Iovino's, a brasserie out in the suburb of Mt. Lebanon near where my brother lives; he took me there. It's some of the best jambalaya I've had in a restaurant which doesn't specialize in Louisiana cuisine; other entrees I might have considered included grilled fish with polenta or a bbq burger.
Other than that: When I travel, I follow the way of the Trillin: I look for distinctively local foods that I'm not likely to find at home, that are regular cuisine and nothing fancy or expensive. I found two of them in Pittsburgh, neither mentioned in any guides to the city I read, the way that the cheesesteak is always mentioned in guides to Philadelphia. One I liked a lot, the other I definitely didn't.
The one I liked was Italian wedding soup. Every Italian restaurant whose menu I checked, and some places that weren't even Italian, had wedding soup and usually no other. This surprised me. In California, the inevitable Italian soup is minestrone. Go to an Italian restaurant whose menu lists "soup of the day" - seven days a week that soup is minestrone. Almost never any other offerings. I didn't see any minestrone in Pittsburgh. I like wedding soup, which I'd previously only had from jars I found in the grocery. It's not a soup you eat at weddings; the name refers to the marriage of meat (tiny meatballs) and vegetables (typically spinach and others). The fresh versions were of course much better than the jars, and the best I had was at a really fine Italian restaurant whose only flaw was the malfunctioning restrooms, Pizzaiolo Primo. Despite the name, there's no particular menu emphasis on pizza; I had shrimp linguini.
The 'only in Pittsburgh' I didn't like was the idea of a deli sandwich served at a local chain whose name I remembered as Prismatic Brothers. No, Primanti Bros., that was it. The sandwiches come with huge quantities of french fries (yes, in the sandwich) and cole slaw, with the ostensible ingredients of that particular type of sandwich cowering in the bottom, in "where's the beef?" style. If that's what you want, the quality of the ingredients was good. But it's not what I want.
Other than that: When I travel, I follow the way of the Trillin: I look for distinctively local foods that I'm not likely to find at home, that are regular cuisine and nothing fancy or expensive. I found two of them in Pittsburgh, neither mentioned in any guides to the city I read, the way that the cheesesteak is always mentioned in guides to Philadelphia. One I liked a lot, the other I definitely didn't.
The one I liked was Italian wedding soup. Every Italian restaurant whose menu I checked, and some places that weren't even Italian, had wedding soup and usually no other. This surprised me. In California, the inevitable Italian soup is minestrone. Go to an Italian restaurant whose menu lists "soup of the day" - seven days a week that soup is minestrone. Almost never any other offerings. I didn't see any minestrone in Pittsburgh. I like wedding soup, which I'd previously only had from jars I found in the grocery. It's not a soup you eat at weddings; the name refers to the marriage of meat (tiny meatballs) and vegetables (typically spinach and others). The fresh versions were of course much better than the jars, and the best I had was at a really fine Italian restaurant whose only flaw was the malfunctioning restrooms, Pizzaiolo Primo. Despite the name, there's no particular menu emphasis on pizza; I had shrimp linguini.
The 'only in Pittsburgh' I didn't like was the idea of a deli sandwich served at a local chain whose name I remembered as Prismatic Brothers. No, Primanti Bros., that was it. The sandwiches come with huge quantities of french fries (yes, in the sandwich) and cole slaw, with the ostensible ingredients of that particular type of sandwich cowering in the bottom, in "where's the beef?" style. If that's what you want, the quality of the ingredients was good. But it's not what I want.
Thursday, May 29, 2025
in the Pitt
On my trip, I did something I hadn't done in over fifty years. I attended a major league baseball game. The home team Pittsburgh Pirates defeated the Milwaukee Brewers 2-1, so all the locals went home happy.
The game was an optional add-on for attendees of the wedding, the day before the ceremony, and I figured it would be a good occasion to socialize with my fellow guests. It was also a glimpse into a world I rarely see.
Not having a smartphone to load my ticket onto, I had to stop at the box office to pick it up. (None of the team's or stadium's web material that I could find said where around the stadium's perimeter the box office was, and I couldn't reach them by phone. I presumed it would be near the gift shop, whose location was given, and I guessed right.)
Our seats were on the other side of the stadium, but instead of walking around the outside and using the gate there, I entered at the main gate by the box office, took the escalator (! - I'd never seen a sports stadium with an escalator before) up to the second level, where our seats were, and walked around the inside - in both senses: the walk around was inside the park, and it was inside the building, not open to the air.
PNC Park is, I understand, one of the new breed of baseball parks that are smaller and more intimate than old school, but it looked awfully big to me. The long, curved (so you couldn't see how much further there was to go), seemingly endless corridor was like nothing so much as a concourse at a huge airport. Tiny signs indicating the doors outside to numbered seating sections were inconspicuous; what occupied the attention was a vast sequence of concessionaires, and the crowds occupying their seating. The concessions were a bit different from what you get at an airport: frequently repeated outlets for junk food (no actual restaurants), and the same sequence of whiskey bars. The stadium opens 90 minutes before the game starts to allow attendees plenty of time to get lubricated, and judging from what I saw on quick visits to the restroom during the game, many people never bother to go out and watch the action.
When I finally got to my section, the weather outside was balmy. The seats were up a steep flight of steps, and at first I wasn't sure if I'd be able to see home plate from up here - oh, there it is - and such view outside as wasn't blocked by the giant scoreboard was impressive: the large river with downtown behind it, just like at the wedding venue, only this time it was the Allegheny, the river on the other side of downtown.
I've occasionally seen baseball on tv, and watching a game in person is different in a couple important ways. First, there's no play-by-play commentary. The PA limits itself to announcing the name of the next batter. If you don't know the umpire's signals, you have no way of telling a ball from a strike without averting your eyes from the field and looking way up at the scoreboard, which half the time isn't displaying the box score anyway, preferring pictures of the batters or animated geegaws - if a visiting team player strikes out, the scoreboard displays a gif of three cannons firing, that sort of thing.
That's the other thing about watching baseball without a tv camera to guide you - it's hard to know where to look, or when. Baseball is not like other sports. In basketball or soccer or hockey the action is nearly constant. In American football it's intermittent, but you know it's going to happen when the players line up and the quarterback takes the snap. But baseball consists of a long sequence of pitches that the batter doesn't hit, or fouls, interrupted at unpredictable intervals when something exciting happens. It only lasts a few seconds, so if you happen to be looking away you'll miss it. And you usually need to be looking at two widely separated places at once. The ball has gone out to the outfield over there, while the runners are on the base paths over here, and knowing what's going on with both is vital to following the game.
At any rate, despite having few hits and almost no runs, the game wasn't too boring as sports games go. My brother told me that in recent years, rule changes have prohibited the characteristic baseball activity of standing around not doing anything for long periods. So things proceeded on with dispatch - after the first couple innings, I wondered if the game would be over in an hour, though in fact it took more than two - and there were a couple exciting double plays, and so on. I'm not likely to do it again, but I didn't feel my time was wasted.
Tomorrow: food, transit, and birds in Pittsburgh.
The game was an optional add-on for attendees of the wedding, the day before the ceremony, and I figured it would be a good occasion to socialize with my fellow guests. It was also a glimpse into a world I rarely see.
Not having a smartphone to load my ticket onto, I had to stop at the box office to pick it up. (None of the team's or stadium's web material that I could find said where around the stadium's perimeter the box office was, and I couldn't reach them by phone. I presumed it would be near the gift shop, whose location was given, and I guessed right.)
Our seats were on the other side of the stadium, but instead of walking around the outside and using the gate there, I entered at the main gate by the box office, took the escalator (! - I'd never seen a sports stadium with an escalator before) up to the second level, where our seats were, and walked around the inside - in both senses: the walk around was inside the park, and it was inside the building, not open to the air.
PNC Park is, I understand, one of the new breed of baseball parks that are smaller and more intimate than old school, but it looked awfully big to me. The long, curved (so you couldn't see how much further there was to go), seemingly endless corridor was like nothing so much as a concourse at a huge airport. Tiny signs indicating the doors outside to numbered seating sections were inconspicuous; what occupied the attention was a vast sequence of concessionaires, and the crowds occupying their seating. The concessions were a bit different from what you get at an airport: frequently repeated outlets for junk food (no actual restaurants), and the same sequence of whiskey bars. The stadium opens 90 minutes before the game starts to allow attendees plenty of time to get lubricated, and judging from what I saw on quick visits to the restroom during the game, many people never bother to go out and watch the action.
When I finally got to my section, the weather outside was balmy. The seats were up a steep flight of steps, and at first I wasn't sure if I'd be able to see home plate from up here - oh, there it is - and such view outside as wasn't blocked by the giant scoreboard was impressive: the large river with downtown behind it, just like at the wedding venue, only this time it was the Allegheny, the river on the other side of downtown.
I've occasionally seen baseball on tv, and watching a game in person is different in a couple important ways. First, there's no play-by-play commentary. The PA limits itself to announcing the name of the next batter. If you don't know the umpire's signals, you have no way of telling a ball from a strike without averting your eyes from the field and looking way up at the scoreboard, which half the time isn't displaying the box score anyway, preferring pictures of the batters or animated geegaws - if a visiting team player strikes out, the scoreboard displays a gif of three cannons firing, that sort of thing.
That's the other thing about watching baseball without a tv camera to guide you - it's hard to know where to look, or when. Baseball is not like other sports. In basketball or soccer or hockey the action is nearly constant. In American football it's intermittent, but you know it's going to happen when the players line up and the quarterback takes the snap. But baseball consists of a long sequence of pitches that the batter doesn't hit, or fouls, interrupted at unpredictable intervals when something exciting happens. It only lasts a few seconds, so if you happen to be looking away you'll miss it. And you usually need to be looking at two widely separated places at once. The ball has gone out to the outfield over there, while the runners are on the base paths over here, and knowing what's going on with both is vital to following the game.
At any rate, despite having few hits and almost no runs, the game wasn't too boring as sports games go. My brother told me that in recent years, rule changes have prohibited the characteristic baseball activity of standing around not doing anything for long periods. So things proceeded on with dispatch - after the first couple innings, I wondered if the game would be over in an hour, though in fact it took more than two - and there were a couple exciting double plays, and so on. I'm not likely to do it again, but I didn't feel my time was wasted.
Tomorrow: food, transit, and birds in Pittsburgh.
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