concert review: Bay Area Rainbow Symphony

I go to occasional concerts by the local LGBT&c orchestra because I like their programming. This concert, guest conducted by local luminary John Kendall Bailey, was held in the large hall at the SF Conservatory, which is still rather small and was packed.

There were two items new to me that I was eager to hear. Sussex Landscape is a tone poem by Avril Coleridge-Taylor, who was the daughter of the more-remembered Samuel Coleridge-Taylor but whom I'd not previously known of. The piece was written in 1940, when Sussex, where she lived, and neighboring Kent were right in the path of invasion by air and (potentially) sea. So not surprisingly it's somber-toned, with shafts of light peering through on occasion, ranging in mood from anguished to pensive. The idiom is more like Carwithen than, say, Finzi.

Kurt Atterberg is my favorite of the phalanx of great Swedish composers of the first half of the 20C. I had not heard his Suite No. 3, which is for strings with solo parts for violin and viola, another dark and quiet work of impressive beauty.

The rest of the program consisted of familiar but not overplayed classics. I was impressed enough by the robust presentation of Britten's Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra, with a rigor better reflecting its subtitle, Variations and Fugue on a Theme of Purcell, that I was willing to stay and hear the suite from Ravel's Daphnis and Chloé, one of the most overripe works in the entire repertoire. Also pretty well done without indulgence.

concert review: South Bay Philharmonic

This is the nonprofessional orchestra with which B. plays viola. I've been hearing a lot of comments about this program in recent weeks, but the piece I heard the least about was Schubert's Fifth Symphony, which is the part of the concert that went well. Not only were all the notes roughly in place, which is not a given in the nonpro market, but with the help of music director George Yefchak, the orchestra conveyed the grace and charm of Schubert's delightful composition. Really enjoyable, that.

The concerto half, not so much. We had Beethoven's Triple Concerto, which - though mostly ignored - is really a fun piece when played well - and Addinsell's Warsaw Concerto, which is a 15-minute chunk of ersatz Rachmaninoff commissioned for a movie score by producers too cheap to pay for the original. Neither of these came off well. Communication between the soloists and the orchestra seemed to be completely absent. The playing by the soloists was ... inconsistent, let's leave it at that.

The interesting part is that the soloist trio in the Beethoven were three juvenile siblings, and the pianist in the Warsaw was their mother. Some seven years ago, I'd heard a concert with Mom in which she invited her two then pre-teen string-playing sons to play an encore piano trio piece with her. Now the cellist is about 17 and the violinist about 20, and they were joined by their even younger sister at piano who's about 15. She was the best of the four of them.

Also played, an encore of "Ashokan Farewell" with a really fine solo from concertmaster Gene Huang, and an brief session with a string quartet summoned by cellist Brent Cyca. He likes tangos, so they played two, including this rather familiar one, though they didn't play it that well, sounding more like the string quartet that used to practice in our living room.

concert review: San Francisco Symphony

Juraj Valčuha surprised me. Previous encounters had shown him a conductor prone to the gentle and lyrical, though not flaccid. This time a more dynamic man showed up. Brahms's Violin Concerto, with the estimable Gil Shaham as soloist, was crisp and surprisingly concise for such a long rambling work.

Then, Shostakovich's Tenth. Very slow and cautious first movement, even a little dull, but then it ramped up fast, with the finale blasting the DSCH motif off in all directions. Pretty exciting.

But ... why a program consisting of nothing but two warhorses, excellent works though they are? It's an evening like an early visitor from next season, recently announced, where the absence of a music director has left the programming with no coherent direction whatever. (I'm still going to be attending. The quality of the musicianship in SFS is what keeps me making the trip up here, and while I expect that will decay soon, I'll wait for it to happen.) I wonder what Kosman will say about this concert, or if he'll even go. Last time they played the Tenth, which was only three years ago, he made clear he was tired of hearing the piece. But I'm not.

Shaham's encore was Isolation Rag by Scott Wheeler, who's got a ways to go before he becomes William Bolcom.

war plans

The silliest argument going on over Signalgate is whether Hegseth's operational details of the then-impending attack on Yemen constituted "war plans."

Insofar as there's a difference between "war plans" and "attack plans," the latter is probably the more accurate term. These were tactical details. "War plan" implies a more strategic overview.

But even given that, the obfuscation over this subtle distinction in terminology is intended merely to disguise the fact that, whether war plans or attack plans, they were or should have been classified information that was treated with total lack of attention to operational security. Hegseth's sanctimonious claim that no "war plans" were discussed is not only misleading but evades the entire point. Senator Duckworth, who's been an Army pilot, was especially scorching: "Pete Hegseth is a f*cking liar. This is so clearly classified info he recklessly leaked that could’ve gotten our pilots killed. He needs to resign in disgrace immediately."

Hegseth has been going around denouncing Jeffrey Goldberg, the journalist who was handed this info on a golden platter, as a liar and scum. He specifically cited the "very fine people" line, which Republican orthodoxy claims is a hoax. (Actually, DT said it and that's what he meant.) So apparently the kind of thing that makes Goldberg a liar now is calling them "war plans" instead of "attack plans." Karoline Leavitt even claimed that by using the term "attack plans" on the second article, the Atlantic admitted it was lying by calling them "war plans" on the first article. That's a truly pathetic rationalization, and we should keep in mind that this is the kind of thing that DT's minions mean when they call their critics liars.

three more concerts

I had another busy weekend.

Friday: Gut, Wind, and Wire; Piedmont
Three folks from Baltimore who play on early instruments featuring the eponymous sound-makers. The wind was mostly wooden flutes but included a small and recalcitrant bagpipe. They played mostly Renaissance music: Scottish dances, Terpsichore dances, pieces (in their original form) later edited by Respighi for his Ancient Airs and Dances, pieces referred to in Shakespeare plays, and lots and lots of Playford dances.
Performed at the Piedmont Center for the Arts, an old converted house with its main hall turned into a tiny concert hall holding some 30 people.

Saturday: California Symphony; Walnut Creek
SFCV had me reviewing this one, so reviewed it got. I mentioned conductor Cabrera's opinion, expressed in remarks prior to the piece, that it's a mistake to try to power through the triumphant ending of the third movement of Tchaikovsky's "Pathétique" and preempt the inevitable audience applause by diving straight into the finale. But I didn't mention that that's exactly what Elim Chan did with SFS a week earlier. By Joshua Kosman's account, she succeeded in stopping the applause, a feat Cabrera dismissed as unachievable. But I wasn't there so I don't know.
In regard to the piece being premiered, my editors deleted a sentence which would have made clear that a comparison to Luciano Berio is not a compliment in my book. But I guess you're not supposed to be too critical.

Sunday: Santa Cruz Chamber Players, Aptos
Music for piano trio, quartet, and quintet (that's one piano with varying numbers of strings). Included two new pieces, both soft and padding, one titled "A Wish for Ukraine." Also Frank Bridge's Phantasy, very cooly and effectively played, and Dvorak's evergreen Op. 81 quintet.
Fifty minutes turned out to be not quite enough time to drive here from Hollister where I'd gone first.

report

Local temperatures are supposed to be in the 80s F the next couple of days. And it's still March. Then they'll drop back down to the 60s. How? Clouds. Let's hear it for clouds.

I read that 23andme is potentially going bankrupt, so all of us who submitted DNA to their ancestry-testing program should delete our data lest it be sold to the highest bidder. I haven't done anything with mine since getting it years ago - it only told me I was literally 99.9% of the ethnicity I knew I was already - so I had no problem with deleting it, except for how difficult it was to do so. First the site demanded I change my password. Then it sent me a verification code. Then I had no idea what to do next, so I asked Google's A.I. for help and it told me to use the Settings menu, but not how to find the Settings menu, which turned out to be obscurely located. Once I found it, though, it was self-evident what to do next; let's hear it for self-evidence.

The Tolkien Society, based in the UK, now has so many US members that it's decided to hold a conference in the US in May. It'll be in Kansas City. Not that they know anybody in particular in Kansas City, just that it's in the middle of the country so it'll be equally convenient from everywhere. That strikes me as a very British attitude to take. The UK is small enough geographically that you can do that. I don't think they realize how large a country the US is. Kansas City is not equally close to everywhere, it's equally far. I'd like to go, but personal schedule and the difficulty of traveling argue against it.

Canada is holding its general election on April 28, it says here. If the incumbent Liberals lose, then new Prime Minister Mark Carney will only have been in office two months, probably outdoing in brevity a previous Liberal tag-end PM, John Turner. Turner also never served in parliament as PM, as Carney hasn't, but Turner at least had previous experience there. Carney's qualifications are as a steel-nerved central bank governor, which his supporters hope will help him stand up against a rampaging DT. And let's stop there.

another C.S. Lewis conference

I got a notice that a Christian theological educational group in Berkeley was sponsoring a daylong conference on "Learning from the Inklings in Wartime." And by the Inklings, they meant - mostly but not exclusively - C.S. Lewis. It sounded more introductory than I needed, but it was nearby, I needed to go to the area anyway for a concert that evening after the conference ended, and I thought I'd enjoy it, so I decided to go.

It was held in the classroom wing of a Presbyterian church, and there were about 35 people there, a few of whom I already knew. As usual at a specifically CSL conference, I was probably the only non-Christian there, but also as usual I made no effort to advertise the fact.

The plenary talks focused on Lewis's essay "Learning in Wartime," correlating Christian imperatives, the goals of a scholarly life, and the pressures of an existence in times of crisis. The fact that we're living in such a time right now was not ignored, but it was not propagandized and if anything leaned left. This group may have been theologically conservative, but it was also in Berkeley and the politics reflected that.

The breakout sessions I attended were more tangentially on wartime. One presenter read poems of his own composition inspired by Lewis's writings, not just those on war. One of the attendees said the poems reminded him of the lyrics of Bruce Cockburn. Another presenter, a scholar whose work I knew, did make the conference scholastically worthwhile for me. He spoke learnedly on Lewis's writings on Hell, observing that they all dated from during or closely adjacent to WW2, but without making much of that point. He did, however, opine that Tolkien's portrait of Satan, as Morgoth and Sauron, outdoes Lewis's in Perelandra and far outshines Milton's in Paradise Lost, for all that one of Lewis's wartime writings on Hell is a study of Milton arguing that Milton's Satan is no proud rebel but a self-pitying whiner.

The speakers were all good and had worthwhile things to say. Several had trouble pronouncing the name of Lewis's character Wormwood, one rendering it as "Wordsworth". Registration cost included a sandwich buffet for lunch. There were a few inspiring songs with guitar or piano. The church locked up the women's restroom before we were done.

the naming of chicken parts

Some people profess to be puzzled as to why other people eat chicken wings. "They're just little bags of bones," I've heard it said. Yes! I reply. That is why I like them! Wings have a higher-ratio of skin to meat than other chicken pieces, and it's the skin - and the seasoning and coating on it - that make chicken more than just good.

Whole chicken wings are less commonly served these days than before. What's become trendy in the last few decades is single joints of wings. The wing is cut into three pieces, the tips are discarded (season and cook them, and I'd eat them), and the rest makes two pieces.

One of those pieces, the one directly connected to the breast before it's cut off, is called the drumette, due to its resemblance to a miniature of the leg piece known as the drumstick from its resemblance to a etc. But what is the other piece called? For a long time I didn't know, which was frustrating because it was my preferred piece. But then I began to accumulate names:

Flats are what I found them called at the original Buffalo wing bar in Buffalo, and which I subsequently confirmed is a generally recognized term among others who serve wing pieces as snacks. Wingstop, for instance, uses the term.

Mid-joints is how they're labeled when you buy them uncooked at an Asian grocery. Many Chinese restaurants that serve chicken wing pieces only use the mid-joints.

Wingettes is how they're referred to on bags of cooked and frozen wing pieces in supermarkets. Isn't that a more general term for all the pieces? No, because the bag reads "wingettes and drumettes."

By any of those names ...

it's spring

If you feel like finding something, however nominal, to celebrate, today's the vernal equinox - and it's this, not Daylight Saving Time, which is primarily responsible for the greater light we're getting in the evening - so here's something to celebrate with:

"Here Comes the Sun," by George Harrison and the Beatles, performed as it would have been done by a ragtime band of circa 1910:



Enjoy!

books

Source Code: My Beginnings, Bill Gates (Knopf, 2025)
Covers the mogul's life up until Microsoft packed up in Albuquerque and moved to Seattle. It's a remarkably self-reflective memoir for someone on the autism spectrum. Gates attributes the secret of his success as his ability to concentrate ceaselessly on any task that interests him, an inclination not shared, to his irritation, by his business partners, except for one friend who died in a mountain-climbing accident while they were still in high school. Gates' intellectual passion was for anything that could be defined exactly, without gray areas or ambiguity. At school he thought of himself as a mathematician, and he was the best one at his school. But when he got to Harvard, he found - as have many others who've gone there - that everybody at Harvard had been the best at their school, and others now outshone him. His turning point came when a friend suggested that he concentrate on what he was the best at, computer programming. This had been a neglected field because software was then thought of as the free supplement to hardware. Gates credits himself with changing that attitude. But when he started a real company, he found himself concerned with covering the practical necessities of running a business, which - again - his business partners had no interest in. He had a real love/hate relationship with Paul Allen in particular: they were friends, appreciated each other's talents, but got on each other's nerves and argued fiercely.

The Devil Prefers Mozart: On Music and Musicians, 1962-1993, Anthony Burgess (Carcanet, 2024)
I picked this up at the concert with Burgess's music I attended a few weeks ago. It's a UK publication not in print in the US. It's a large (75 items) collection of Burgess's music journalism - reviews and feature articles. It does not include his monograph This Man and Music, though there is some overlap in content. It's mostly classical, of course, and when he dips into popular music you wish he hadn't. The title article is on whether music can be dangerous, and he dismisses pop music as too puerile (his word) to be of any concern: that's why the Devil prefers Mozart. Burgess claims to be writing for a general audience, but often delves rather bewilderingly into technical talk: I've had a modest technical training in harmonic theory, but I couldn't always follow him. Because these are separate pieces, there's a lot of repetition, including of Burgess's weird theory that Lady Macbeth's "Screw your courage to the sticking place" refers to tuning a lute. The editor, Paul Phillips, provides footnotes correcting numerous factual errors.

three concerts

I had a busy weekend.

Friday: Pavel Haas Quartet, San Francisco
Average-quality performances of two average-quality quartets by Dvořák (Op. 61) and Tchaikovsky (No. 3).

Saturday: Santa Cruz Chamber Players, Aptos
I had to attend this, because when I won their bassoon theme competition last year, the prize was a free ticket to one of this year's concerts. The season is almost over and this was the first one I could get to.
But I was interested anyway. Light and reedy tenor Andrew Carter sang 1) songs with piano by Harry T. Burleigh, Dvořák's Black pupil whose work I'd never heard before (very plush late Romantic), 2) songs without piano but with viola (!) by RVW (violist, Polly Malan), 3) a song with both piano and viola by the impresario of this concert, Chris Pratorius Gomez. Pianist Kiko Torres Velasco also unloaded Beethoven's Op. 109 sonata, a bit clumsily at first but with increasing effectiveness as it went on.

Sunday: Esmé Quartet, Willow Glen
For review at SFCV, but I'd want to get to this anyway. The Esmé are supreme at conveying the sprawling masterworks of the SQ repertoire. When they played Dvořák's Op 106, I wrote, "This was awesome, a performance for the ages." When they played Schubert's G Major, I wrote, "one felt floating along in a timeless state of bliss." This time it was Beethoven's Op. 131, a particular challenge to make comprehensible, and I wrote, "This lucid presentation came off as warm, even friendly" and that in all such works, they combine "grace and drive with ideal balance and expression." Most satisfactory.

Sofia Gubaidulina

I just came across the news that Sofia Gubaidulina died on Thursday, at the age of 93.

Here's the most extensive and explanatory piece about her music I've written, in a review of a San Francisco Symphony concert back in 2009:

Sofia Gubaidulina, 77 years old and the most senior of distinguished living women composers, her round face reflecting her Tatar ancestry, leaned forward in her chair and stared in an intense birdlike way at the interviewer posing wordy, vapid questions in a language the listener knows little of, then waited as the self-effacing translator (Laurel Fay, actually one of the most formidable American scholars of modern Russian music) rendered them into Russian, then replied in the same language for Fay to make English of it.

They were talking about Gubaidulina's The Light of the End, a recent orchestral composition that the SFS then performed under Kurt Masur. This is, the composer explained, a work about the conflict between the pure tones of just intonation, represented by the French horns, and the modern compromised system of equal temperament, represented by, I guess, the rest of the orchestra. The moments when the horns went on their way against other instruments produced an intense sub-intervalic dissonance very different from the boring old chromatic dissonances of your average modern composer. It had an almost spiritually cleansing effect, especially as it was used as punctuation, not a steady diet, and the whole thing was resolved into pure consonance at the conclusion, the "light of the end" of her title.

But that's Gubaidulina for you. Much of her music has a hushed, expectant quality. This piece was louder and more forceful than others of her works I know, but it played on that expectancy. And her mastery of the orchestra and capability for creating a distinctive voice were strongly evident. I "get" Gubaidulina in a sense that I don't get Carter, Dutilleux, or Kirchner (three living male composers older than she, all of whom I've suffered through in concert).

Gubaidulina expressed satisfaction that the light of her hard-won conclusion would be followed by Bruckner's Fourth Symphony, which she described as what comes afterwards when you get there.

words to live by

B. is reading a book by Mariann Edgar Budde. She's the Episcopal bishop who offended DT by asking him to be merciful. In the book, she quotes these lines:

"I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo.
"So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."

world according to cat

It's beginning to look rather spring-like out there. Tiny birds are settling down on the top of the fence around our front patio. I can't hear if they're saying anything, because the sliding glass door is closed, but Tybalt is looking at them and is making enough chirping noises for the bunch of them. He wants them, but he's not going to get them.

John Wain

Today is the centenary of the birth of John Wain, a British writer - mostly novelist and poet, though also dramatist, critic, and professor - who was well-known to followers of contemporary English literature in his heyday in the 1950s, but is almost forgotten today.

Except for one thing. As a student at Oxford in the 1940s, he'd had C.S. Lewis as his tutor, and after his graduation Lewis invited him to attend the Inklings, so now he's on the unofficial roster of that famous society.

But he wasn't too happy about being known for that, when he was still around to express an opinion (he died in 1994), because the Inklings are most famous for fostering Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings, and Wain disliked that book. He found it meaningless and detached from reality. Wain's own fiction is conservative modern realism, so you can see the difference and perhaps understand why he couldn't grasp fantasy as reflective of reality.

But perhaps he shouldn't have been too upset, at least with me as an example, for after learning about Wain through reading about the Inklings, curiosity drove me to try his writings. I liked enough of them to carry on. Eventually I read all 14 of his published novels and 3 short story collections, as well as much of his nonfiction. Most of his novels aren't really very good, though they were clearly readable and not murky or dull, but a few I enjoyed, one of them - Lizzie's Floating Shop, his only juvenile - enough to re-read it. Some of his short stories are extremely biting. And I liked a lot of his nonfiction, particularly his two books of memoirs (Sprightly Running and Dear Shadows) and his biography of Dr. Johnson.

Last year I finally completed a long-mooted project of writing a paper about Wain - his biography, his literary views and their formation, and a survey of his novels - and gave it at Mythcon and a Signum University conference. It's not formal in nature so I have no plans to publish it academically, but maybe I can get it out somewhere else.

In the meantime, a centenary is a moment to think about its celebrant. Wain was born in Stoke-on-Trent, son of a dentist, on March 14, 1925, and by his own account wasn't much formed literarily or in personality until he got to Oxford at 18 and became a disciple of Lewis, the Oxford drama teacher Nevill Coghill, and, less formally, the independent scholar E.H.W. Meyerstein. Then Wain met fellow students and budding writers Philip Larkin and Kingsley Amis, both much better remembered today than himself, and his literary affiliations were set.

weird almost-coincidence

The New Yorker this week (Mar. 17 issue) had an article on Texas Gov. Greg Abbott.

Leaving aside the politics, it discussed something about Abbott I hadn't known, though apparently everybody else did. He's permanently in a wheelchair.

It told the story of how he got there. One day, some 40 years ago, he was out jogging, and a large oak tree collapsed and fell on him.

That's weird, I thought, because at approximately the same date - and I'm just about Abbott's age, too - almost the same thing almost happened to me.

I was walking on the Stanford campus where I was working at the time (work was over and I was heading to the parking lot), and going past Encina Hall, when a full branch from a large spreading oak tree suddenly detached itself and slammed to the ground, right in front of me.

A couple steps away and I would have been hit, with unknown consequences.

But I'm confident that, whatever damage it would have done to my head, it would not have transformed me into a right-wing Texas politician.

The most amusing part of the article is an interview with Abbott's principal political advisor, who explains why he lives in New Hampshire and has been commuting to Texas fortnightly for getting on 30 years. “I never thought of moving,” he said. “Texas is hot as hell, and they have snakes.”

wickeder

B. and I just endured some three hours of watching the Wicked movie. The charge for streaming it online having been more than we wanted to pay (and far more, it turns out, than it was worth), B. put a hold on a library DVD and it came in.

Mind, I haven't seen the stage musical, and I never finished reading the Maguire novel. But seeing the movie fresh, I found:

The plot was forced (as in, "we're gonna cram in Wizard of Oz references whether they fit or not"). The dialogue was broken and discontinuous. The special effects were garish. The songs were dull and, even worse, sometimes gratuitously irritating. The problem is that they stood in the place of better songs. For instance, the movie begins with a song about how the Wicked Witch is dead. I could hardly avoid wishing I was hearing the infinitely more catchy song on the same topic from 1939 instead. And the song about visiting the wonders of the Emerald City was a pale, anemic little thing that made me think longingly of the similarly-themed but much more vivid and colorful "New York, New York" by Bernstein/Comden & Green from On the Town.

Thumb down on this one.

concert review: Vienna Philharmonic

Another year, another three-concert set by the visiting Vienna Philharmonic, the most renowned orchestra in the world, at Zellerbach Hall, and I perforce am sent to review one of the concerts. Each of the four times I've done this, it's been a different conductor. Vienna doesn't have a music director; the orchestra is a self-governing entity and invites whoever they like.

This time it was Yannick Nézet-Séguin, music director in Montreal (of which he's native) and Philadelphia. I hadn't heard his work before. I didn't say so explicitly, but I couldn't avoid comparing his Dvořák New World Symphony with the splendid rendition under Dalia Stasevska that I heard from SFS a year ago. This one was effective enough, but felt rather superficial in interpretation next to Stasevska's profundity. Nézet-Séguin was, at least in this work, one of those conductors whose idea of interpretation is to take fast passages really fast and slow passages really slow. In other words, rather like Christian Thielemann, who did a haphazard job on Mendelssohn and Brahms the last time I reviewed Vienna, except that Nézet-Séguin is more like Thielemann done right. He showed more control and better taste, and so he was passable if not excellent.

The Vienna sound is still great, though. There was a small but detectable increase in the number of women in this once, not long ago, all-male orchestra, since the last time I saw them. Vienna has an elaborate system of training prospective players in the Vienna sound, and it takes recruiting players for the early stages of this process to get them in the orchestra later.

wicked

Our fantasy book discussion group met on Sunday to discuss Gregory Maguire's Wicked, in commemoration of the recent release of its musical's movie. How much the book, or the musical, is based on the 1939 Wizard of Oz movie as opposed to Baum's book was a major topic of discussion. Our answer was: mostly. Not too much of the distinctively Baum in it.

I got a confirmation of that when I checked the DVR today to see what was on Great Performances lately and found they had shown the Movies for Grownups Awards, sponsored by AARP. Alan Cumming hosted, boasting that he'd just turned 60, the spring chicken, but he and his show were far preferable to the average Oscar host and show. It moved along briskly, didn't waste time with a lot of follies, and Cumming's little songs were funnier than the average Oscar host's little songs ("Hey, Mr. Chalamet man, sing like Bob for me").

Anyway, the screenwriting award went to the writers for the Wicked movie, and Jeff Goldblum, who played the Wizard in that movie, introduced the winners by saying that their movie was based on a stage musical which was based on a book which was based on a movie which was based on another book. And there's your officially blessed answer: Maguire's book was based on the 1939 movie.

a day in San Francisco

There's a music series I'm on the mailing list for, held at a small church in the City, but for which the timings are usually awkward so I can rarely go. But this Saturday morning they were holding a children's program, and I had to go up to the City anyway for a concert at Herbst that evening, and the program for the children's concert was Saint-Saëns' Carnival of the Animals, which I like, so I thought, why not?

Because I often have difficulty forcing my body to be ready to go out in the mornings, that's why not, but this time it co-operated and I was there. It was only about half an hour, but the arrangement for one piano, violin, viola, and bass worked fine - Meena Bhasin on viola playing "The Swan," as far as I could tell in the same register as the original cello part, was particularly good, and it was fun watching the tiny children cavorting to the music.

The evening concert was the Calidore String Quartet, which previously I've found very impressive, but either I was too tired out or they were, because otherwise why would a program with Beethoven and Schubert in it sound dull and crabby, and the best piece in it was Jesse Montgomery's Strum? I've heard that before and thought it an outstanding piece; it was even better this time. The scherzo of Korngold's Third Quartet was also a moment that had life in it.

That left over eight hours with nothing to do besides meals, so what would I do with it? I decided to spend my time in North Beach, which is another neighborhood I rarely get to. Herbst is in the Civic Center which is here, and the kids' concert was in Noe Valley which is over there, and North Beach is way off in the other direction, but with knowledge of the city's bus and streetcar system, I got between the places OK.

There was a restaurant in North Beach that had been on my "try this" list for some time, and I walked over to examine from below two of the legendarily steepest street segments in the City which were nearby, but I spent most of my afternoon in the famous City Lights Bookstore, which was also conveniently nearby. I'd never bought anything at City Lights on my few previous visits, having not found anything that interested me, but it turns out that's because I hadn't noticed that there's a little staircase leading down to the basement, and that's where all the books are that are more my speed.

Good thing I brought a canvas bag, also for a couple bottles of interestingly flavored cider that I found at a little street fair back in Noe Valley.

world according to cats

After his visit two weeks ago to the vet for a teeth-cleaning, Tybalt began - even more than usual - to love-bomb me. I was afraid he was calculating that sufficient ministrations would convince me never to take him to the vet again.

Unfortunately that didn't work. Yesterday he went back for a follow-up check, and this time it was Maia's turn in the dental chair. The cries of dismay as we stuffed them in their carriers and hauled them off by car were intense, but they survived and are back at home, as over-loving as ever.

For instance, I cannot work at my computer without Tybalt alternating between 1) standing up right in front of the screen so that I can't see anything; 2) flopping down by the side and preventing me from using the trackball by clawing at my fingers whenever I try.

Tybalt had been sent home from his major appointment with various meds which we were supposed to squirt onto his teeth twice a day. B. held him and squeezed his mouth open while I wielded the syringes. We gave up on this after a day and a half, having traumatized the cat and placed more medicine on his jaw, B.'s hands, etc. than in Tybalt's mouth let alone on his teeth.

Anyway, yesterday the vet, trying to examine Tybalt's teeth, was having even more trouble squeezing his mouth open than B. had had. I refrained from pointing out that this was why we gave up on the meds.

concert review: Mission Chamber Orchestra

This is the third concert season in a row that my editor has sent me down to review this unpretentious little orchestra, so I gave it an unpretentious little review. My spirits lightened when we got as far in Falla's El amor brujo as the "Ritual Fire Dance," which at least sounded familiar, and then they dampened again afterwards.

It did occur to me, elsewhere in the piece when the orchestra gives the sound of a clock striking midnight, that this was the second ballet score I'd heard with that effect. The first being Prokofiev's Cinderella, duh.

The only matter of real note I decided it was better not to critique. In the opening piece for strings, the playing was seriously not up to snuff, and I thought, oh dear this orchestra has devolved. But it hadn't: it was the high-school musicians they'd invited to play along with them in that one piece. Last time they did that, they'd made a big production out of it, having the high-schoolers play alone first, and even doing it in their school auditorium, so that time I was warned.

a heroic concert

Christopher Costanza, a cellist whom I just reviewed in a different concert, and pianist Stephen Prutsman, with whom he's frequently collaborated, often with others, gave a concert tonight at Stanford of a distinctly challenging nature.

They played Beethoven's sonatas for cello and piano. All five of them. They're big, hefty works. With intermission, it took 2 1/2 hours. It was in the music department's small recital hall, and like most of the concerts there, it was free. The hall was packed.

Interesting performances, too. Costanza was inquisitive and querulous. Prutsman was bold and daring and stomped over everything.

I tried an experiment at this concert. I downloaded all the scores from the IMSLP onto my ipad, to see if it was feasible to follow along. And I sat in the far back corner, so that nobody sitting behind me would be distracted. This wouldn't work with orchestral pieces, because the ipad screen at 8 inches is too small to display them clearly, but chamber music works.

And it did. My only problem was one place where I wasn't sure whether they were taking the repeat or not, and I lost my place until the end of the movement.

This is good because in a couple weeks I'm reviewing Beethoven's Op. 131 string quartet, and I really need a score for that one. Now I know I can download it, and avoid all the hassles attendant on getting a score from the library.

Preceded by a quick early dinner at home, because I'd been out in the late afternoon at another concert, an amateur strings group called Harmonia California, who played suites by three fairly obscure early 20C British composers: Frank Bridge and Granville Bantock, whom I already knew, and Christopher Wilson, whom I didn't. Bridge's, like most of his work, was mildly modernist; Bantock's was intensely Scottish; and Wilson's was kind of incipiently neoclassical. The orchestra stumbled a certain amount, but got through the pieces basically intact.