Kalimac's corner: a journal by DB
Thursday, May 21, 2026
interview
A fellow named G. Connor Salter has been interviewing various authors including Inklings scholars. He's gotten around to me. Here's the result.
Wednesday, May 20, 2026
Lewis and Clark book review
Craig Fehrman, This Vast Enterprise: A New History of Lewis and Clark (Avid Reader Press [Simon & Schuster], 2026)
A new history of Lewis and Clark? As a long-time interested one in that expedition. I had to check this out, and it turned out to be well worth the trouble. Recent writers like Stephen Ambrose and Clay Jenkinson have painted Lewis as a psychological basket case, rendering it ludicrous that he was appointed to command the great western expedition. Fehrman finds a balance between this and the traditional view of Lewis as a great explorer, specifying his weaknesses but also emphasizing his strengths. Some of the other white men staying with the Mandans and Hidatsas over the winter of 1804-5 thought Lewis and Clark completely incompetent at dealing with the Indians; but you don't find that view here, though mistakes are acknowledged. Fehrman accepts without comment that Lewis was a suicide; this is possible but not historically established as certain, though most writers now treat it as if it were.
What makes this history "new" is the viewpoint. Chapters on various chunks of the expedition are told largely from the viewpoint of specified persons; sometimes Lewis or Clark (very different men), but just as often York, Clark's slave - so there's a lot of background information on the practice of slavery in this period - or Sacajawea, the Shoshone woman brought along as a translator. It's no longer necessary to rebut that she "guided Lewis and Clark across the continent," so Fehrman wastes no space on that, while emphasizing how resourceful and useful to the expedition she was. Strangely, though many of the men kept journals, the only subordinate who gets chapters is the lead sergeant, John Ordway.
But there are also chapters from the point of view of Indians, mostly chiefs, whom the explorers met, and this gives of course an entirely different view of the story. Most interesting is one from the view of Wolf Calf, one of the Blackfoot warriors with whom Lewis and a few hunters had an at first wary, then violent, encounter on the Marias River in July 1806. In later years, Wolf Calf left a brief description of the event, which Fehrman has uncovered (and prints in full in an appendix) though most previous scholars were unaware of it, though it had been published. It quite contradicts parts of Lewis's account, but Fehrman has noticed that Lewis was still asleep for much of the early-morning violence and is relying on the testimony of his hunters, who had probably fallen asleep on watch and had good reason to prevaricate.
This careful reading of the journals to observe things that had passed previous writers by is Fehrman's principal value. For instance, it's long been claimed that Sacajawea was close only to Clark among the explorers, but Fehrman finds plenty of evidence that she had friendly and mutually rewarding relations with Lewis and Ordway as well. He also digs up other evidence, not just Wolf Calf's memoir. Clark nicknamed Sacajawea's infant son "Pomp" or "Pompey," and so he is usually called. But Fehrman has interviewed Shoshone women, and declares that "according to Shoshone tradition" his mother had nicknamed him a Shoshone word, Pahmpi, which Clark had adapted into a condescending classical reference. Fehrman gives no further source for this, though his source notes are extensive, so I can't tell if this is an actual tradition, passed down through the generations, or if somebody had just noticed that there was a Shoshone word that sounded like "Pompey" and assumed that was the baby's real nickname.
This book can be rewardingly read by people previously knowing little about the expedition, though they may find the beginning a bit of a slog, as there's four chapters on preparations before they ever set off up the river, and another four before they get to territory unknown to whites. The emphasis is on relations with the Indians, which is the interesting aspect of the early part of the journey, though geographic discoveries later on, which are what most interests me, are not neglected. Overall, an intelligent and rewarding book, and the best account of the expedition alone, as opposed to as part of a biography of Lewis or Clark, since an intelligent abridgment of the journals like Bernard DeVoto's.
A new history of Lewis and Clark? As a long-time interested one in that expedition. I had to check this out, and it turned out to be well worth the trouble. Recent writers like Stephen Ambrose and Clay Jenkinson have painted Lewis as a psychological basket case, rendering it ludicrous that he was appointed to command the great western expedition. Fehrman finds a balance between this and the traditional view of Lewis as a great explorer, specifying his weaknesses but also emphasizing his strengths. Some of the other white men staying with the Mandans and Hidatsas over the winter of 1804-5 thought Lewis and Clark completely incompetent at dealing with the Indians; but you don't find that view here, though mistakes are acknowledged. Fehrman accepts without comment that Lewis was a suicide; this is possible but not historically established as certain, though most writers now treat it as if it were.
What makes this history "new" is the viewpoint. Chapters on various chunks of the expedition are told largely from the viewpoint of specified persons; sometimes Lewis or Clark (very different men), but just as often York, Clark's slave - so there's a lot of background information on the practice of slavery in this period - or Sacajawea, the Shoshone woman brought along as a translator. It's no longer necessary to rebut that she "guided Lewis and Clark across the continent," so Fehrman wastes no space on that, while emphasizing how resourceful and useful to the expedition she was. Strangely, though many of the men kept journals, the only subordinate who gets chapters is the lead sergeant, John Ordway.
But there are also chapters from the point of view of Indians, mostly chiefs, whom the explorers met, and this gives of course an entirely different view of the story. Most interesting is one from the view of Wolf Calf, one of the Blackfoot warriors with whom Lewis and a few hunters had an at first wary, then violent, encounter on the Marias River in July 1806. In later years, Wolf Calf left a brief description of the event, which Fehrman has uncovered (and prints in full in an appendix) though most previous scholars were unaware of it, though it had been published. It quite contradicts parts of Lewis's account, but Fehrman has noticed that Lewis was still asleep for much of the early-morning violence and is relying on the testimony of his hunters, who had probably fallen asleep on watch and had good reason to prevaricate.
This careful reading of the journals to observe things that had passed previous writers by is Fehrman's principal value. For instance, it's long been claimed that Sacajawea was close only to Clark among the explorers, but Fehrman finds plenty of evidence that she had friendly and mutually rewarding relations with Lewis and Ordway as well. He also digs up other evidence, not just Wolf Calf's memoir. Clark nicknamed Sacajawea's infant son "Pomp" or "Pompey," and so he is usually called. But Fehrman has interviewed Shoshone women, and declares that "according to Shoshone tradition" his mother had nicknamed him a Shoshone word, Pahmpi, which Clark had adapted into a condescending classical reference. Fehrman gives no further source for this, though his source notes are extensive, so I can't tell if this is an actual tradition, passed down through the generations, or if somebody had just noticed that there was a Shoshone word that sounded like "Pompey" and assumed that was the baby's real nickname.
This book can be rewardingly read by people previously knowing little about the expedition, though they may find the beginning a bit of a slog, as there's four chapters on preparations before they ever set off up the river, and another four before they get to territory unknown to whites. The emphasis is on relations with the Indians, which is the interesting aspect of the early part of the journey, though geographic discoveries later on, which are what most interests me, are not neglected. Overall, an intelligent and rewarding book, and the best account of the expedition alone, as opposed to as part of a biography of Lewis or Clark, since an intelligent abridgment of the journals like Bernard DeVoto's.
Tuesday, May 19, 2026
tv review
I saw a favorable review for Legends, and it was on Netflix, so I could get it. If you like British cop shows, and I know a lot of people do, this is a good one. It's a 6-episode mini-series, so it functions as a really long movie. The heroes of this one are Customs agents, not previously trained at undercover investigations, so they are perhaps a little easier to identify with than the typical pro hacks.
The story is that it's 1990, and Margaret Thatcher has decided to crack down on heroin importations. That's Customs' department, so they set up a training and filtering program to test and train volunteer agents who want something a little more exciting than riffling through suitcases. After a three-week program, they're down to four agents who look qualified to do the work.
"Legends" is Customs' term for cover identities, but only one of the four is destined to go deep undercover. He's maneuvering himself into the position of being the drug dealers' transport guy, who moves the heroin from Pakistan to the UK. Of the other three, one becomes the computer whiz backroom girl, and the remaining two spend most of their time watching over the other batch of drug dealers than the ones the transport guy is working on.
Most of the show jumps back and forth among the agents and their handler, who is played by Steve Coogan in a serious role, though there are flashes of humor in the show here and there. The undercover guy is married with a small daughter - unusual for undercover agents, who are usually unattached - so he has to balance work and family, and being two different guys at once, in an odd and stressful way.
It's a highly dramatic show, and well directed and acted, and I recommend it for those inclined to such drama.
The story is that it's 1990, and Margaret Thatcher has decided to crack down on heroin importations. That's Customs' department, so they set up a training and filtering program to test and train volunteer agents who want something a little more exciting than riffling through suitcases. After a three-week program, they're down to four agents who look qualified to do the work.
"Legends" is Customs' term for cover identities, but only one of the four is destined to go deep undercover. He's maneuvering himself into the position of being the drug dealers' transport guy, who moves the heroin from Pakistan to the UK. Of the other three, one becomes the computer whiz backroom girl, and the remaining two spend most of their time watching over the other batch of drug dealers than the ones the transport guy is working on.
Most of the show jumps back and forth among the agents and their handler, who is played by Steve Coogan in a serious role, though there are flashes of humor in the show here and there. The undercover guy is married with a small daughter - unusual for undercover agents, who are usually unattached - so he has to balance work and family, and being two different guys at once, in an odd and stressful way.
It's a highly dramatic show, and well directed and acted, and I recommend it for those inclined to such drama.
Monday, May 18, 2026
two concerts
Because I was going up for the evening anyway, I added to my schedule the afternoon Peninsula Symphony concert in San Mateo. I learned that long-term (40+ years!) m.d. Mitchell Sardou Klein is retiring at the end of next season. Perhaps it's time, because it seemed to me the orchestra has deteriorated since I last heard them two years ago.
The concert opened with Wagner's Flying Dutchman Overture. This was energetic and perky enough, but the Wagnerism of it was in full cry and it was consequently very tedious. Then, the Viola Concerto of the early-20C modernist Rebecca Clarke. Clarke didn't actually write a viola concerto; in 1919 she wrote a sonata for viola and piano, and this was orchestrated about 20 years ago to be used as a concerto for an instrument in desperate need of more repertoire. Soloist was Pearl de la Motte, a Juilliard student who won the string player competition here two years ago, prize of which is customarily playing a concerto with the Pen Sym. Her tone was a rich viola tone, distinct from both violin and cello, satisfying to hear despite the fact that the music itself seemed to wander meaninglessly, rather in the mode of one of the concertos that Elgar was writing at the same time.
Lastly, Brahms's Second Symphony, played in a blatty style reminiscent of the SFS in the bad old days of the 1970s. The horns were particularly coarse, the colors from other instruments blared out in an un-Brahmsian fashion, and interpretive oddities of strange emphases and pauses, especially in the first movement, didn't help. Well, I'll be hearing the BA Rainbow Symphony in the Third next month, and maybe that'll wipe out the memory of this one.
Then, off to the Freight in Berkeley for another Terry Riley 90th birthday celebration. The Bang on a Can All-Stars, a 6-member touring ensemble, have been going around playing a Riley celebration, and this was their Berkeley stop. They played two long pieces by him. First was A Rainbow in Curved Air, but it didn't sound much like the version on overdubbed electric organs that Riley improvised for a record in 1969. For one thing only one of the performers was on electric organ (also covering as an electric piano), the others being clarinet/sax, electric guitar, cello, string bass, and drums/percussion. That turned the minimalist noodling background into more of a muddle. The tunes coating this on the other instruments seemed original and not copies of Riley's, and at times, especially in the long string bass pizzicato solo, the rest of the ensemble pretty much dropped out to enable it to be heard.
After that, the performers were joined by 4 or 5 (hard to see how many were onstage) local musicians, one of them a vocalist, for a full performance of Riley's minimalist classic, In C. This was enchanting as every live performance I've heard of it has been. The pulse rhythm was played on xylophone. The other players took full advantage of Riley's permission to drop out occasionally, and hushes to only one or two players besides the pulse were frequent. But also they'd build up to tremendous climaxes at other times. This sounded coordinated, but I didn't see any signals as a leader gave for switches during Rainbow. The whole lasted 47 minutes, a typical length for this work. We were out at 9:30, early for a Freight concert, but I was thoroughly satisfied with my evening.
The concert opened with Wagner's Flying Dutchman Overture. This was energetic and perky enough, but the Wagnerism of it was in full cry and it was consequently very tedious. Then, the Viola Concerto of the early-20C modernist Rebecca Clarke. Clarke didn't actually write a viola concerto; in 1919 she wrote a sonata for viola and piano, and this was orchestrated about 20 years ago to be used as a concerto for an instrument in desperate need of more repertoire. Soloist was Pearl de la Motte, a Juilliard student who won the string player competition here two years ago, prize of which is customarily playing a concerto with the Pen Sym. Her tone was a rich viola tone, distinct from both violin and cello, satisfying to hear despite the fact that the music itself seemed to wander meaninglessly, rather in the mode of one of the concertos that Elgar was writing at the same time.
Lastly, Brahms's Second Symphony, played in a blatty style reminiscent of the SFS in the bad old days of the 1970s. The horns were particularly coarse, the colors from other instruments blared out in an un-Brahmsian fashion, and interpretive oddities of strange emphases and pauses, especially in the first movement, didn't help. Well, I'll be hearing the BA Rainbow Symphony in the Third next month, and maybe that'll wipe out the memory of this one.
Then, off to the Freight in Berkeley for another Terry Riley 90th birthday celebration. The Bang on a Can All-Stars, a 6-member touring ensemble, have been going around playing a Riley celebration, and this was their Berkeley stop. They played two long pieces by him. First was A Rainbow in Curved Air, but it didn't sound much like the version on overdubbed electric organs that Riley improvised for a record in 1969. For one thing only one of the performers was on electric organ (also covering as an electric piano), the others being clarinet/sax, electric guitar, cello, string bass, and drums/percussion. That turned the minimalist noodling background into more of a muddle. The tunes coating this on the other instruments seemed original and not copies of Riley's, and at times, especially in the long string bass pizzicato solo, the rest of the ensemble pretty much dropped out to enable it to be heard.
After that, the performers were joined by 4 or 5 (hard to see how many were onstage) local musicians, one of them a vocalist, for a full performance of Riley's minimalist classic, In C. This was enchanting as every live performance I've heard of it has been. The pulse rhythm was played on xylophone. The other players took full advantage of Riley's permission to drop out occasionally, and hushes to only one or two players besides the pulse were frequent. But also they'd build up to tremendous climaxes at other times. This sounded coordinated, but I didn't see any signals as a leader gave for switches during Rainbow. The whole lasted 47 minutes, a typical length for this work. We were out at 9:30, early for a Freight concert, but I was thoroughly satisfied with my evening.
Saturday, May 16, 2026
concert review: South Bay Philharmonic
A typical symphony concert has three works, two of them fairly long. This potpourri of a concert had eight works, all of them pretty short. The unifying gimmick was that they were all in some way referents to time. The keynote work of the program, probably the longest selection, and definitely the best-played, was Ponchielli's "Dance of the Hours." I also enjoyed a piece by frequent South Bay contributor Ron Miller, "Overture to a Summer Afternoon," a rondo featuring a bustling American modernist recurring theme. Miller is not usually this good. Mussorgsky's "Night on Bald Mountain" was played OK, but somewhat clunkier, and "Sunrise" from Grofé's "Grand Canyon Suite" was squeaky. The grinding conclusion to the program was a suite from the music to the Back to the Future films, which meant nothing to me as I've completely forgotten the first one and never saw any of the others. Less imitation John Williams than imitation Elmer Bernstein, it was loud, crass, and extremely repetitious. B. who plays viola in this orchestra was not happy with this mixed bag program and especially not with this piece.
Friday, May 15, 2026
news of the day
1. Author gets in trouble for quoting Sturgeon's Law.
2. California gubernatorial candidate Tom Steyer is paying online "influencers" to boost his campaign. They're writing posts praising him without revealing they've been paid to do so.
I'm not much of an influencer, but that only means I get less crud e-mail than they do. I wonder how Steyer's campaign contacted these people. If I'd gotten an e-mail from someone claiming to represent him and offer me money to boost his campaign, I'd probably have thrown it out with the spam. If I'd recognized it as real, I'd probably have posted "Can you believe it? Some nut wants to pay me to praise Steyer."
I'm leaning towards supporting Becerra. He may be incompetent, but he's less corrupt.
2. California gubernatorial candidate Tom Steyer is paying online "influencers" to boost his campaign. They're writing posts praising him without revealing they've been paid to do so.
I'm not much of an influencer, but that only means I get less crud e-mail than they do. I wonder how Steyer's campaign contacted these people. If I'd gotten an e-mail from someone claiming to represent him and offer me money to boost his campaign, I'd probably have thrown it out with the spam. If I'd recognized it as real, I'd probably have posted "Can you believe it? Some nut wants to pay me to praise Steyer."
I'm leaning towards supporting Becerra. He may be incompetent, but he's less corrupt.
Tiptree on Tolkien
From a 1974 essay, "Harvesting the Sea," by James Tiptree Jr. (only later revealed as Alice B. Sheldon), reprinted in the collection Meet Me at Infinity (Tor, 2000), p. 265:
The main thing I've been into is a serious study of Tolkien's Ring and reading H.G. Wells for the first time. I will spare you my conclusions beyond saying I take both very seriously indeed. One of the aspects which they share is that they are both strategies for handling almost unbearable grief. In Wells's Days of the Comet, the fantastic, gut-tearing paean of hope reveals the wound beneath; it is the blinded crying for light. In Tolkien the held-back cry of bitter loss becomes lacerating; it is interesting to read that his first memories were of the ravaging of his childhood lands by the devastations of the railroad, and that in his youth, by 1918, all but one of his close friends had been killed in the war. His prescription is go on, go on; it stinks, it hurts, but go on. Somehow go on. Wells goes on, too; both men are, well, sturdy. Brave, one might have said in a simpler age. Both tremble toward sentimentality, are saved at each last moment by their brilliantly observing eyes, their regard for what is, no matter how dismaying. And of course with Tolkien, the rich airy landscape of words, his almost magical grasp.I don't recall this unusual, interesting, and observant comment being quoted in the Tolkien literature before; so here it is.
Wednesday, May 13, 2026
more dentistry
Monday's the day I finally saw the periodontist about my fractured tooth. He said it needed to come out, soon, but he wanted an endodontist to have a look first, especially to confirm the neighboring teeth were secure. Fortunately I was able to get to the endodontist (I had to look up all these dental specialties) on Tuesday. He said the neighboring teeth were fine, but the fractured tooth needed to come out right away. He'd do it, right then, and I wouldn't have to wait for the periodontist to schedule an appointment.
So I said OK, and he did. It was uncomfortable but not painful; it's the aftermath which is more difficult, involving some pain, a lot of gauze to staunch the bleeding, and severe restrictions on eating. There's also the cost, since apparently my insurance covered none of this, but I have the money. What I don't have so much of is agreeableness over the physical effects.
The other exciting part is that both appointments required consultation with my physicians over whether there'd be any medical complications to this. Reaching them is challenging, especially as there's three of them, only two have direct office phone numbers, and one is away right now though someone is covering. That required an hour's wait on both days, and a quick visit by me to one of the offices when phone contact proved insufficient.
So I said OK, and he did. It was uncomfortable but not painful; it's the aftermath which is more difficult, involving some pain, a lot of gauze to staunch the bleeding, and severe restrictions on eating. There's also the cost, since apparently my insurance covered none of this, but I have the money. What I don't have so much of is agreeableness over the physical effects.
The other exciting part is that both appointments required consultation with my physicians over whether there'd be any medical complications to this. Reaching them is challenging, especially as there's three of them, only two have direct office phone numbers, and one is away right now though someone is covering. That required an hour's wait on both days, and a quick visit by me to one of the offices when phone contact proved insufficient.
Tuesday, May 12, 2026
I hate the Los Angeles Philharmonic customer service department
I went to the LA Phil website to print out my ticket for the concert I'm attending later this month. When I got to the "show barcode" command, I clicked on it, and it said "Please wait" and continued to say that for the next five hours. I tried a different browser; same result.
Eventually the customer service number woke up for the day and I called them. The agent responded to my attempt to print the ticket by saying we don't advise printing tickets; the barcodes might not be legible to the scanners. I said, "In that case, why do you enforce this by making the website hang up on 'Please wait' for five hours?" And instead of responding, "We don't; I don't know why you're having trouble with this, but it's not our intention and I'm sorry it's happening," which would have been both true and kindly, she said, "I'm not responsible for any problems." I said yes you are; you are a person designated by the LA Phil to answer the phone with customer problems, so therefore you are responsible for dealing with them. That forthright answer may have been the reason why she shortly hung up on me.
Bad move. That only makes me call back in towering anger and demand to speak to a supervisor. The supervisor promised to listen to the tape of the previous call and have a talk with the responsible agent; but he also said that the LA Phil feels no obligation to facilitate printing of bar codes because these days most people have smartphones. I said "most people" leaves out the large number who don't, and is a studied insult to their existence. He said he didn't mean to insult anybody - if true, that's a greater condemnation than if he did intend to insult them - but he's had lots of experience and not allowing printing is not a problem. I said I've had plenty of experience with other venues, and they all offer printing out tickets as an option. I said that maybe we're not as technologically advanced in the Bay Area as you are in L.A. (a truly sarcastic remark, coming from the heart of Silicon Valley where I live), but we manage to allow printing of tickets and have no problem scanning them on the day. Maybe he should see about fixing the website so that it offers a printable ticket. Perhaps not very many people will need that option, but they do exist and will be grateful. I doubt I got my point across.
He did come up with a technical reason for probably why I'd had trouble accessing the bar code, and then offered to switch my ticket to will call, waiving the added fee usually associated with this. He said that option should have been available when I bought the ticket, but it was not. A list of possible ways to get your ticket was one of the steps, but that list had only one option: online download. So I was stuck.
Eventually the customer service number woke up for the day and I called them. The agent responded to my attempt to print the ticket by saying we don't advise printing tickets; the barcodes might not be legible to the scanners. I said, "In that case, why do you enforce this by making the website hang up on 'Please wait' for five hours?" And instead of responding, "We don't; I don't know why you're having trouble with this, but it's not our intention and I'm sorry it's happening," which would have been both true and kindly, she said, "I'm not responsible for any problems." I said yes you are; you are a person designated by the LA Phil to answer the phone with customer problems, so therefore you are responsible for dealing with them. That forthright answer may have been the reason why she shortly hung up on me.
Bad move. That only makes me call back in towering anger and demand to speak to a supervisor. The supervisor promised to listen to the tape of the previous call and have a talk with the responsible agent; but he also said that the LA Phil feels no obligation to facilitate printing of bar codes because these days most people have smartphones. I said "most people" leaves out the large number who don't, and is a studied insult to their existence. He said he didn't mean to insult anybody - if true, that's a greater condemnation than if he did intend to insult them - but he's had lots of experience and not allowing printing is not a problem. I said I've had plenty of experience with other venues, and they all offer printing out tickets as an option. I said that maybe we're not as technologically advanced in the Bay Area as you are in L.A. (a truly sarcastic remark, coming from the heart of Silicon Valley where I live), but we manage to allow printing of tickets and have no problem scanning them on the day. Maybe he should see about fixing the website so that it offers a printable ticket. Perhaps not very many people will need that option, but they do exist and will be grateful. I doubt I got my point across.
He did come up with a technical reason for probably why I'd had trouble accessing the bar code, and then offered to switch my ticket to will call, waiving the added fee usually associated with this. He said that option should have been available when I bought the ticket, but it was not. A list of possible ways to get your ticket was one of the steps, but that list had only one option: online download. So I was stuck.
Monday, May 11, 2026
a day out in the East Bay
Since I was attending a concert in Oakland Saturday evening and another in nearby Walnut Creek on Sunday afternoon, I decided to stay over in the neighborhood overnight, finding a hotel room which didn't have a "hot" setting for the shower, ugh, and whose "breakfast bar" was both useless and overpriced.
That did mean I'd have time Sunday morning to visit the Eugene O'Neill National Historic Site in Danville. This takes planning to get to. The site, O'Neill's retreat home at the top of the mountains, is now accessible by road only through a gated private community, which means you have to make a reservation for the NPS van to take you up there by car. (It's also possible to hike in from the regional parks which abut the other side of the property, and a large party did that on our tour, but you have to reserve for the tour to do that also.)
I'd been to this home once before, but it was years ago. O'Neill and his wife had wanted to get as far away as they could from Broadway, where he could just write in peace and privacy, so they built this home in an isolated spot and deprecated visitors. They designed it according to their amateur understanding of Chinese philosophy and aesthetics, and named it Tao House. The plan worked for a few years, and O'Neill wrote some of his most renowned plays, including A Long Day's Journey Into Night, here. But then his increasing hand tremor made it impossible for him to write (with pencil, the only way he could get his ideas down), and the coming of WW2 made their servants go off and get war jobs - neither O'Neill drove, or cooked or cleaned for that matter. So they sold the house and left. So it was interesting to see the house's design and the earth-sky color scheme, and the private study where Eugene did his writing, made up into a simulacrum of a merchant marine captain's quarters (he had once been in the merchant marine, and now he was the captain of his soul).
And the concerts? Saturday was pianist Sarah Cahill playing works of Terry Riley, a celebration of his 90th birthday last year (he wasn't there; he's living in Japan). It was a very tiny concert in an industrial warehouse in West Oakland, in a room rented by a new-music proprietor as rehearsal space. Four rows of chairs on risers on the side of a big room otherwise empty except for a piano in the middle. Only one piece, from 1964, was minimalism as we'd know it. Since then Riley has been exploring jazz, ragtime (one piece was a ragtime reinvention of "I Am the Walrus," recognizable only in the rhythm), improvisation, and various other techniques. Pieces that Cahill has commissioned in honor of Riley by Samuel Adams (very quiet) and Danny Clay (very hypnotizing) were also included.
As for Sunday's concert, it was the California Symphony at Lesher. I drove in about 90 minutes before concert-time (pre-concert lecture is at 60) only to find the next-door parking garage was, unusually, full. Oh yeah, it was Mother's Day and everyone was in downtown Walnut Creek eating brunch. I wound up parking on the street 1/4 mile away up at the top of a hill.
The concert featured a new piece by resident composer Saad Haddad, five minutes of Arab-inspired dissonance. Then the Rach Three. Pianist Sofya Gulyak was highly popular with the audience, but all I could think of was how the piece kept going on and on long after it had run out of anything to say, and it was so tedious. After that, Borodin's Second Symphony, which doesn't get played much. I've heard this piece come out sludgy and dull, but not this time: crisp and dramatic under m.d. Donato Cabrera's direction, a delight to hear.
That did mean I'd have time Sunday morning to visit the Eugene O'Neill National Historic Site in Danville. This takes planning to get to. The site, O'Neill's retreat home at the top of the mountains, is now accessible by road only through a gated private community, which means you have to make a reservation for the NPS van to take you up there by car. (It's also possible to hike in from the regional parks which abut the other side of the property, and a large party did that on our tour, but you have to reserve for the tour to do that also.)
I'd been to this home once before, but it was years ago. O'Neill and his wife had wanted to get as far away as they could from Broadway, where he could just write in peace and privacy, so they built this home in an isolated spot and deprecated visitors. They designed it according to their amateur understanding of Chinese philosophy and aesthetics, and named it Tao House. The plan worked for a few years, and O'Neill wrote some of his most renowned plays, including A Long Day's Journey Into Night, here. But then his increasing hand tremor made it impossible for him to write (with pencil, the only way he could get his ideas down), and the coming of WW2 made their servants go off and get war jobs - neither O'Neill drove, or cooked or cleaned for that matter. So they sold the house and left. So it was interesting to see the house's design and the earth-sky color scheme, and the private study where Eugene did his writing, made up into a simulacrum of a merchant marine captain's quarters (he had once been in the merchant marine, and now he was the captain of his soul).
And the concerts? Saturday was pianist Sarah Cahill playing works of Terry Riley, a celebration of his 90th birthday last year (he wasn't there; he's living in Japan). It was a very tiny concert in an industrial warehouse in West Oakland, in a room rented by a new-music proprietor as rehearsal space. Four rows of chairs on risers on the side of a big room otherwise empty except for a piano in the middle. Only one piece, from 1964, was minimalism as we'd know it. Since then Riley has been exploring jazz, ragtime (one piece was a ragtime reinvention of "I Am the Walrus," recognizable only in the rhythm), improvisation, and various other techniques. Pieces that Cahill has commissioned in honor of Riley by Samuel Adams (very quiet) and Danny Clay (very hypnotizing) were also included.
As for Sunday's concert, it was the California Symphony at Lesher. I drove in about 90 minutes before concert-time (pre-concert lecture is at 60) only to find the next-door parking garage was, unusually, full. Oh yeah, it was Mother's Day and everyone was in downtown Walnut Creek eating brunch. I wound up parking on the street 1/4 mile away up at the top of a hill.
The concert featured a new piece by resident composer Saad Haddad, five minutes of Arab-inspired dissonance. Then the Rach Three. Pianist Sofya Gulyak was highly popular with the audience, but all I could think of was how the piece kept going on and on long after it had run out of anything to say, and it was so tedious. After that, Borodin's Second Symphony, which doesn't get played much. I've heard this piece come out sludgy and dull, but not this time: crisp and dramatic under m.d. Donato Cabrera's direction, a delight to hear.
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