concert review: California Symphony

I think that Mason Bates's update to the Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra was supposed to be the highlight of this concert, but the Brahms Fourth Symphony took that prize instead, in my ears, so that became the focus of my review.

concert review: Redwood Symphony

What is this? It's the entire bassoon section of the Redwood Symphony dressed as gnomes for the orchestra's Halloween concert. Everybody was dressed up: they were conducted by a pirate, and Batman played the timpani.

And I reviewed it.

Watching ten small children, each bearing a souvenir baton, escorted in turn up to the podium for 30-second stints "conducting" a Sousa march - it reminded me of the old joke of a conductor with a small piece of paper on the music stand in front of him which proved to read "Wave hands around until music stops." The main point of the exercise, of course, was for their parents to take photos.

return to history

Unruly: The Ridiculous History of England's Kings and Queens, by David Mitchell (Crown, 2023)

David Mitchell is a British comedian, tv panelist, and writer whom I think is not well-known in the US. I know his screen work exclusively from clips on YouTube. But I'm aware that he's both very funny in a ruthlessly logical way and extremely intelligent, so I picked up this book which is a history of English monarchs from post-Roman times up through Elizabeth I, which is when, Michell says, royal history became too much of a subset of general history to be worth pursuing.

Reviews describe this as a humorous book, but while it does have some comic digressions in the manner of John Oliver, it's mostly an entirely serious historical account; it's the way that it's told that's funny; and this appeals to me, for though my style is different and I'm nowhere near as good as Mitchell, that's similar to the effect I aim at when writing informally about history myself.

Mitchell has a main theme which becomes more explicit as the book goes along, which is an analysis of the whole point of having a king, what good does it do to have one in a medieval society. And he measures the kings he discusses in terms of how well they succeed at those aims.

I'll leave that analysis to him, but I would like to quote extracts from his extraordinarily level-headed (i.e. he agrees with me) evaluations of some of the more challenging historical problems of the period.

On whether King Arthur actually existed:

Some people will still say he might have existed, but the sort of person they say he might have been is so far removed from King Arthur in any of the forms we understand him that it feels like they're just saying he didn't exist in a different way. Perhaps a Roman officer who served in Britain, or a Romano-British chieftain, or a Welsh king. Someone like that, the idea goes, might have been the bit of real grit in the imagination oyster that turned into the Arthurian pearl. Personally, I don't think imagination oysters need real grit any more than metaphorical bonnets need real bees.

On whether Richard III was really a bad guy:

It's well established, then, that the Tudors worked hard to make Richard III look bad. Too well established. People in modern times got a bit overexcited about it and started to jump to the contrary conclusion that Richard was, in fact, lovely. This is a bit of a leap. The lamentable problem that you can't believe everything you're told is not solved by merely believing the polar opposite. I find all this a bit daft. It's nice to take an active interest in history. But we don't and can't really know these people. The truth is lost under centuries of propaganda and then centuries of contrarian rejection of it.

This is an amazing, entertaining, and useful history book.

soup for dinner

When B. and I were up in Ashland, Oregon, last June, I stopped in a grocers that carried interesting stuff that I didn't see at home. I bought several packets of a northwest brand of soup fixings - one envelope of pasta or beans, another one of seasonings, a recipe card inside.

It was hard to believe, in June, that it would ever again be cold enough for soup for dinner to be desirable, but at last it's come. I got down the bag from the back of the pantry where the packets had been sitting all these months, pulled out the basic chicken noodle soup mix, and made it. Of course it expected you to add chicken, but on the back of the card there were some additional suggestions, one of which was a cup of fresh vegetables: "We like summer squash & broccoli." Substitute zucchini for the summer squash and it not only sounds good to me, I was already planning to put those in before I saw the back of the card.

So that was our nice small dinner, and I'll make the others soon.

And that was our Halloween. No trick-or-treaters in our neighborhood in recent years, so no costumes, no decorations, no candy, no lights on, just a normal evening at home.

no, el coward

Our play-reading group just finished our second play by Noël Coward. We've all agreed that it will be our last.

Some time ago we read Blithe Spirit, and despite the degree that it's about the staging rather than the dialogue, we enjoyed it and decided to pick another one some time. I argued against Present Laughter, because I'd watched a tv presentation of that and found it boring and tedious, despite the fact that it starred Kevin Kline. The amount of bad writing required to make Kevin Kline boring and tedious is unimaginable.

Instead, we picked Private Lives, which as a play with only four characters (essentially: there's a maid with a brief walkon) was ideal for a four-reader group. It's the one about a divorced couple who run into each other while each on their honeymoon with a new partner, who rediscover first why they got married in the first place and then why they got divorced.

But no, it's more than that. They actually reunite, then split up again, then reunite again, meanwhile revealing themselves as both truly unpleasant people whom we felt bespoiled by trying to impersonate by reading their lines. This is the play with the infamous line so beloved by Brett Kavanaugh's frat brothers, "Certain women should be struck regularly, like gongs."

It should be noted that the woman addressed replies to the man saying it, "You're an unmitigated cad, and a bully." But he returns, "And you're an ill-mannered, bad-tempered slattern." We couldn't say that either of them were wrong.

As the play went on it turned out that the discarded partners, instead of sympathetic innocents, are just as bad as the other two. And we noticed retrospectively how the general air of nastiness and inhumanity infects Blithe Spirit as well: it was just disguised by the comic situation. This one is not so well-disguised. Coward's world turns out to be an unpleasant one we just don't want to spend any more time in, and so, no more.

And so, having done all of Shakespeare's history plays, we're turning to Marlowe's Edward II. Those people are also nasty and brutish, but they're not pretending to be oh-so-cleverly witty about it, and that makes all the difference.

concert review: Other Minds

The Complete Piano Sonatas of Galina Ustvolskaya
Conor Hanick, piano

This was a concert so profoundly unusual and interesting that I felt compelled to go to it. Other Minds is a sponsor that does offbeat modern music events; I've been to them occasionally before. For this one, they rented the Freight & Salvage in Berkeley.

Ustvolskaya was a Soviet-era composer who was a pupil of Shostakovich (he had a crush on her, as he did on most of his female pupils, but nothing came of it). But her music is not like his; in truth it's not like much of anything else, and she was even more insistent on her own uniqueness than is justified by the music.

Her output is small. She wrote six piano sonatas over the course of her career, four in 1947-57 and the other two in 1986-88. What I learned from this concert was how different the two subsets are: I'll explain that. There are recordings of these pieces, but the impact of hearing them live is incomparable.

After a half-hour talk on Ustvolskaya by musicologist Simon Morrison and a brief break, Hanick sat down and played all six sonatas without a break, only stopping long enough to take his hands briefly from the keyboard between works: one solid 70-minute wad of music.

It takes something really good to keep from being wearying over that time. Not only was Hanick a solid and vivid pianist (and the Freight's acoustics are wonderfully clear for piano music), but it was constantly evident throughout that this was music of great substance and thought, no matter how uningratiating it was - and it was, very. The contrast could not have been greater with certain renowned modern composers whose difficult music is empty and void of anything except challenges to the performers.

From the beginning, Ustvolskaya's music was tough and brutal. Someone dubbed her "the lady with the hammer." Yet throughout the early sonatas, there were quiet and tender passages as well. The variety was part of what kept the flow working. Though the music held interest and was obviously of intellectual substance, I was not sure if I was really connecting with it on a visceral level.

This changed when we got to the last two sonatas. If the earlier music was tough and harsh, this was tougher and harsher. Hanick slammed the keys down, and even employed his forearm to play tone clusters - not for the gentle washes of sound that Henry Cowell, their inventor, had done, but for the ferocious clang that people think they're for.

It was at this point in her career that Ustvolskaya started employing insistent repetitions of notes and phrases, always at top volume, that put tremendous tension and drive into the music. This is what caused one critic to dub her an exponent of "sado-minimalism," a term whose cleverness can't disguise that it's inapt for both of its components. Though severe, it isn't painful, and there's nothing of the absorbent trance of canonical minimalism.

Though you'd think I'd be beginning to be tired out from all this, instead I found my interest renewed and refreshed, absorbed and captivated by this hard but very human stuff. It spoke a strange and hard language, but it spoke clearly and compellingly. I'm not sure I'd want to listen to it again soon, but I'm oh so glad I did, and was I ever artistically satisfied by the evening.

concert review: Voices of Silicon Valley

This was the 10th anniversary celebration of a little (17-voice) local acappella choir that I hadn't heard of before. SFCV actually promoted this concert, though they haven't reviewed it, at least the first performance (I went to the second, yesterday). But what inspired me to go was that my old friend K., who's belonged to other local choirs, has joined this one. I think she felt it was more her style.

Its style is an offbeat combination of avant-garde experimental pieces and epically tuneful musical excerpts from video games.* The main work on the program was Bits torn from words by Peter S. Shin, which has lyrics but mostly consists of oohs and ahhs overlaid on each other in complicated ways. It sounds great in the recording by the famed avant-garde choir Roomful of Teeth. But though VoSV sang this challenging piece with fair competence, they lacked the artistic flair needed to put it across effectively. Nice try, though.

I was much more impressed with the premiere of a commission from one of their own tenors, Alexander Frank. Describing the work beforehand in a talk that deserved the title Chatter as much as the composition did, Frank said that, because the work consists entirely of spoken words, he does not classify it as music, but as 'voice.'

Oh, I thought, I wish my old buddy V. were alive to hear that. She and I used to have intense arguments about this. I said that certain types of aural compositions were not music, not to denigrate them but to classify them properly, because they needed to be listened to differently in order to be appreciated. (Imagine listening to the 'music' in, say, a Shakespeare soliloquy as if it actually were a musical composition. It would just be wayward and irritating.) V. insisted it was all music; music is the whole sphere, it's not differentiated. I would say fine, in that case we need another word to describe what the term 'music' used to mean. I suggest 'music,' and for the larger category of organized sound, something like 'organized sound.'

Anyway, it sounds like Frank agrees with me. His composition was a fascinating collage of mostly unintelligible chatter. It began with everybody talking at once, like the sound of a restaurant full of diners, and then reduced to a few voices, then increased again. Sometimes a couple voices would talk in unison. It was not music because there was no melody, no harmony; but there was rhythm and timbre and there was certainly multiplicity of line if not exactly counterpoint, and as with other such works I've heard (Varese's Ionisation for percussion ensemble) I found myself absorbed by those elements, though I would not wish the piece to go on any longer than it did.

More conventionally, VoSV sang a piece called The House of Belonging by Jeffrey Derus, one of those efforts in which the words are stuffed awkwardly into music which they don't quite fit; and Friede auf Erden by Arnold Schoenberg, in German.

Their pianist, whose role was mostly to serve as a pitch pipe, though she did accompany a couple of pieces, also played a solo piano work, one of the most totally useless pieces of music I have ever heard. Its sole point seemed to be to proceed slowly down the entire keyboard from the top note to the bottom.

After intermission there was a brief interjected set by a local high school choir, who did pretty well for themselves. Their set included a motet by Josef Rheinberger, a 19C figure who's the most renowned composer from Liechtenstein, but their most challenging and effective piece was a setting of the Lamentations of Jeremiah by the noted living American choral composer Z. Randall Stroope. Then they joined VoSV at the end for the grand finale, a nice arrangement of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah."

The first performance had been at the Hammer Theatre in San Jose, but I skipped that both for scheduling reasons and to avoid Hammer's dodgy acoustics, preferring the venue of the small and friendly, if perishingly cold, Tateuchi Hall in Mountain View. I might have been better off at Hammer. The chorus was miked, which in a hall as small as Tateuchi led to an overload of sound, with a couple of the sopranos (not K.) shrieking unpleasantly.

I think the choir strove for more than they could do here, but some of it came off well, and it's the striving that's important, right?

Credits: VoSV artistic director and conductor, Cyril Deaconoff. Pianist, Ting Chang. High school choir, Saratoga. Its director, Beth Nitzan.

*They sang themes from Genshin Impact and Portal 2, not that either of those names means anything to me, but I know that if I don't mention it, someone will ask. They also sang, with boombox-style accompaniment, music from Gladiator, which if it's not a video game, ought to be.

concert review: Esmé Quartet

I heard this group two-and-a-half years ago, in their North American debut, at which time they consisted of four young women from Korea who had been studying in Germany. Now they consist of three of those women plus a man from Belgium, and they're not in Germany any more, they're right here in San Francisco, having all four been hired to teach at the San Francisco Conservatory, which is some six blocks down the street from the Herbst Theatre where both of these concerts were held.

At the previous concert they gave a stunningly effective performance of Dvořák's Op 106, a work which doesn't always come off that well. So how would they do this time with Schubert's G Major, which is one of the most lyrical quartets in the repertoire? Oh, one felt floating along in a timeless state of bliss listening to this lengthy work: the combination of lyricism and drive was superb. Here: this is a very fine video of the previous Esmé lineup playing this work, and it will give you something of an idea.

I was particularly pleased with the forte outbursts in the first movement, which had the bite and drama one associates with Schubert's previous quartet, "Death and the Maiden," and by the fast rondo of the finale, which had the momentum of a waterwheel or of a snowball rolling unobstructed downhill: it was as if it was being driven by the force of gravity.

Yet even more remarkable, by the same standards, was the rest of the program. Mozart's D Major Quartet, K. 575, one of his late "Prussian" Quartets, rose above any routine Mozart scribbling with an elegant sense of gracefulness and an unending emphasis on the lyric flow. Astonishingly, the same thing was true of Ligeti's First, a tiresome collection of random 1950s avant-garde tricks strung together. No matter how gritty, fragmented, dissonant, or harsh the music, the Esmé players found that lyrical flow of a melodic line. It was an astonishingly graceful performance, unlike anything I've heard in this work before. It didn't make me like Ligeti any better, but it further cemented my admiration for Esmé.

For an encore, despite now being only 3/4 Korean, they played a piece of Korean folk music, which in its ceaseless presentation of bent note slides outdid even Ligeti in weird modernism.

smashing pumpkins

Article (paywalled) about what to do with your jack-o-lantern after Halloween.

Don't put it in the garbage; it will just release methane from the landfill. Compost it, or donate it to be fed to pigs or other omnivores, or take it to a pumpkin-smashing event, after which they'll compost it.

I thought with sorrow of all the ex-jack-o-lanterns I dumped in the garbage after past Halloweens, because I didn't know any better and knew of nothing else I could do. We did keep a compost heap for a short period, but I quit because it was not something I could manage, and it wasn't large enough to have taken a whole pumpkin in a short period anyway.

But a few years ago, our garbage can was replaced with one with a separate compartment for food scraps, which I think go to the omnivores. And I would be happy to put the pumpkin in that, if we still kept a jack-o-lantern. But the number of trick-or-treaters in our neighborhood, once hefty, trickled to a near-stop years ago, so now we just turn the lights off and go to bed early on Halloween. No candy that we'd only have to eat ourselves, and no decorations and no jack-o-lanterns.

But it's nice to know what we should do if we did it.

and the trivia goes on

So Anna Kendrick was on Stephen Colbert's show a day or two ago, to promote her new movie Woman of the Hour (which I've actually seen: it's on Netflix), the true story of a woman who goes as a contestant on The Dating Game not knowing that one of the three eligible bachelors is a serial killer. (And what happens then? Stephen: "The person you play, was that a real person?" Anna: "Yes." Stephen: "And was she OK?" Anna: "Stephen! Premise of the film!")

She's talking about, having already been cast in the lead role, she applied for and won the vacant position of director, though she'd never directed a film before. She was having an internal debate on whether to apply or not, and described it (4:08-4:22) as "a Gollum/Smeagol battle of who's going to win out here."

Now that was interesting, because not only did she make the comparison, but she did so aptly: Gollum v. Smeagol is an internal debate within one person, not (as some viewers of the movie might presume) between two different personas in a multiple-personality case. Good for her.

And also, she pronounced "Gollum" correctly, whereas Colbert in response (4:35) is still saying "Golem." I wish someone would correct him on air about that. Isaac Asimov was once on The Tonight Show, and was irritated by Carson pronouncing his name "EYE-ZAK", so he fantasized about calling his host "JOE-NEE" but didn't have the nerve.

Colbert didn't know he was engaged in a Lord of the Rings trivia contest last night, but he lost it to Anna Kendrick.