quiz lolly

Slate has been running a daily quiz of six questions each with four multiple-choice possible answers, which runs the gamut from six questions I know the answers to offhand to six questions I have absolutely no idea of.

Occasionally there's a clever question or set of answers, and I liked one of today's in a cultural quiz; the question was, what were the names of the other two members of Josie and the Pussycats? Though I've seen the movie, I didn't remember the answer - which was Valerie and Melody - but I got it right because of what the wrong answers were. They were 1) Veronica and Betty, 2) Violet and Patty, 3) Velma and Daphne. I could remember where all three of those pairs came from, though two of the sources I've had no contact with in a long time, so elimination gave me the right answer.

concert review: TACO

So I did, Sunday afternoon, attend an Independence Day celebration of a sort. The Terrible Adult Chamber Orchestra, that group of nonprofessional musicians who get together to practice purely for the fun of it, was holding one of its rare public concerts, in the grass-lined amphitheater bowl in the park at the Mountain View civic center.

B. plays violin in this orchestra, so I chauffeured her to the event - a lot easier than driving in by herself - and stayed to listen to the concert. The conductor, knowing I was coming, even labeled one of the ADA chairs with my name. I was grateful for the chair: sitting on the ground at the top of the bowl, as the rest of the audience did, would not be in my repertoire these days.

For a patriotic program, they played not the usual custom of American classical standards like Gershwin and Copland, but resurrected one of standard patriotic songs, most of them in very fine arrangement. We had the national anthem, the Battle Hymn of the Republic, America ("My country 'tis of thee"), and America the Beautiful. We had a couple of Sousa marches (Stars & Stripes Forever and the Liberty Bell, of course). We had a few popular songs of patriotic cut: George M. Cohan's Grand Old Flag, Irving Berlin's God Bless America (on seeing that title, I always wonder if America sneezed), and Woody Guthrie's This Land is Your Land.

Most of these were instrumental, though the national anthem and one other were sung by a 13-year-old female student with an impressively powerful voice but some rather irregular, TACO-like, ways of expressing it, plus a pop-singer-like way of circling around the final note in a phrase before landing on it. The orchestra needed a second try on one or two of the numbers, but handled most of it pretty well.

One catch with a volunteer orchestra is that you can't control what instruments you get. For this concert, there were no oboes. Fortunately, a clarinet in C can cover the oboe part and serve as - brace for it - a fauxbo.

on the need for Alex Ross

There is no need for me to write about the soul-crushing news that Alex Ross, probably the finest classical music critic of all time, is retiring from his regular job as critic for The New Yorker, where he would occasionally - too rarely - write long and thoughtful articles, far beyond quotidian concert reviews, about the state of music. He'll continue to write, not always about music (as not always in the past, either), but it's not the same.

I don't need to write about it because it's already been said eloquently by Joshua Kosman, Will Robin, and Lisa Hirsch. And here's Ross's own thoughts in reaction to this.

I've met Alex Ross a couple of times. He would occasionally come out to speak in my area, and I was able to chat with him after the talk. I particularly remember thanking him for his then-recent article about Florence Price, whom I'd been erratically pushing as the first great American female composer. Now I had Ross's endorsement of her greatness, and it later turned out to have kicked off a virulent Price revival, whereby her previously obscure music is now heard all the time.

Such was the respect in which Ross was held and the influence that his statements had. As a sometime music critic myself, I can say that he was the highlight, the monument, of my profession.

Tolkien in the old days

One feature of the early Tolkien fandom days of the 1960s whose import is hard to recapture today is the little cries of bliss that Tolkien fans would emit whenever a major publication dared to acknowledge that Tolkien existed, and maybe was important, by publishing an article about him.

One such article appeared in the Saturday Evening Post issue with a cover date (normally the date the issue goes off sale, but whatever) of exactly sixty years ago today, July 2, 1966. It was titled "The hobbit-forming world of J.R.R. Tolkien" - puns on the word 'habit' were almost obligatory in media coverage of Tolkien in those days - by Henry Resnik, and you can read it on the SEP website here.

One thing you'll notice if you read the article is that, despite some useful factual information on Tolkien and how he came to write The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings - Resnik could have drawn a lot more than he did from his telephone interview with Tolkien which is transcribed here, starting on page 37 - it's mostly about what the article calls "Tolkien people," i.e. American fans, whom Resnik has also interviewed in quantity. As with most such articles, the interviewees are better at demonstrating their intense devotion to Tolkien than at explaining what about his work excites or moves them so.

Despite its prominent publication, then - and it was the only article the SEP ever published on Tolkien, by the way - I find this a trivial and rather useless article for anything other than recording testimonies to this devotion. The presentation of the article - the tireome-pun title, Tolkien's photo inserted in a drawing of flowers, with photos of buttons reading things like "go go Gandalf" in Tolkien's alphabets running down the page without explanation - suggests that the editors didn't take the article very seriously either, and sure enough, they didn't.

This is from a memoir by Otto Friedrich, then managing editor of the Post, describing the editors' attitude towards the whole phenomenon of 'teen articles' (the youth of Tolkien's fans is emphasized by Resnik):

It was the celebrated youth movement, though, that precipitated the most vehement and irreconcilable arguments. Emerson [William A. Emerson Jr., the editor in chief], who had two adolescent daughters, regarded the whole phenomenon with a mixture of horror and fascination. His commercial instincts, however, convinced him that this was a subject that would sell millions of magazines. [After the magazine's first Beatles cover] sold out, and a second Beatles cover did the same, Emerson knew that nobody cared very much about explanations. A cover story on Sonny and Cher sold very well too, and so did one on Bob Dylan, and Drugs on the Campus, and Teen-Age Drinking, and the Peril of Pep Pills. Our younger editors were still not satisfied with this paternalistic approach, however, and in time the youth fad became almost a religion among magazine editors, and so we went along with the herd in publishing stories on body paint and old-costume fashions and various weird rock groups.
Whether this was really good journalism was a matter of endless debate. I myself strongly opposed the whole trend, arguing that most Americans do not dance to rock music or smoke marijuana, after all, that all the teen-agers together represent a relatively small part of the population, and that the median age in this country is not getting younger, as many people think, but older. In short, as the times changed, my own role gradually changed from that of the young militant to that of an aging conservative. ... I vetoed the whole subject of Tiny Tim. (Decline and Fall (Harper & Row, 1970), p. 218; Friedrich was 36 at the time, Emerson was 43.)

I think the condescending and dismissive attitude that reeks from this passage, which clearly applies to the Tolkien article - Resnik says the Tolkien Society of America was so wildly popular it had 800 members! 800! - is also evident both in the presentation and the content of the Tolkien article.

And that's what we had to deal with, back then.

two 19C history books

Robert Strauss, Worst. President. Ever.: James Buchanan, the POTUS Rating Game, and the Legacy of the Least of the Lesser Presidents (Lyons Press, 2016)
The publication date explains how it was still possible to attribute this superlative to Buchanan, who sat there unmoving as the nation plunged towards civil war, having already endorsed the Dred Scott decision, which essentially negated the free states' anti-slavery laws.
The book starts out as whimsically as its title, with the author pawing through his father's history book collection for info on Buchanan - there isn't much. But it mutates into not just a full biography of the man, but a history of his political times. There's an entire chapter which has very little on Buchanan, but is a detailed account of the political background behind the presidential election of 1856. There's also a comparison of Buchanan with other Bad Presidents, explaining why he's worse.
The one thing Strauss doesn't do is explain how Buchanan could be such an active, even belligerent executive in other areas - the Mormon rebellion, the Pig War, he even launched an invasion of Paraguay (Paraguay?!) after the government there fired on a US ship - and yet be so inert at southern threats to take over US forts. Some of the other books on Buchanan that Strauss mentions - he's quite thorough bibliographically - get into this, but Strauss doesn't allude to it. (Basically, he was secretly sympathetic to their cause, but this motivation got buried in postwar historical analysis.)

Speaking of which, there's
Jonathan Horn, The Man Who Would Not Be Washington: Robert E. Lee's Civil War and His Decision That Changed American History (Scribner, 2015)
The decision was, of course, the one to resign his US Army commission and go with his state Virginia's decision to secede, even though he thought secession was a bad idea, had nothing but misgivings about the war to come, and he wasn't enthusiastic about slavery despite being a major slave-owner himself.
What Washington had done was declare himself primarily a citizen of the US as a whole. He would never, Horn says, have supported a state's secession. Why didn't Lee? Why did Lee decide that the one thing he couldn't do was raise arms against his native state?
Horn doesn't really answer this question, and despite the title doesn't concentrate on the decision. This is a full biography of Lee, though it skips lightly over some of the eventless years in the peacetime army. There's nevertheless a lot of interesting background, especially about his personal and family finances. Did you know that 1) Lee was available to lead the Harper's Ferry campaign against John Brown, although he was stationed out in Texas at the time, because he was home on leave after his father-in-law died? 2) that for many years Lee was not a legal resident of Virginia at all, but of the District of Columbia, because Arlington was in the west bank portion that was part of D.C. until retroceded to Virginia in 1846? 3) although he'd previously worn a mustache, he didn't grow his beard until after the Civil War started?

no movie

There's a new movie that's been getting a lot of enthusiastic recommendations, called The Sheep Detectives.

It turned out to be on Amazon Prime, so I could see it for no added cost.

I watched the first few minutes.

I hated it.

concert review: Redwood Symphony

Saturday evening was Redwood's annual outdoors concert, held in the courthouse square downtown. It's right near the train station, so I took the commuter train up. It runs every half an hour, well into the evenings, on weekends, and the parking garage down at my end won't be full.

Advertising for the concert advised bringing lawn chairs. I don't have one, and wouldn't be inclined to lug it on the train anyway. I figured I'd arrive early and sit on one of the low stone walls that surround the plaza. But what I found was that a large number of slat chairs had been arranged in front of the orchestra's tent, so I could sit in one of those.

The orchestra was under a tent, and was festooned with microphones, the speakers for which gave a tinny and metallic sound to the music, especially the strings. They played Dvorak's "New World" Symphony, which I'm always up for hearing, sloppy and warbly in places, but the Largo and finale came out pretty much OK.

Also on the program, the waltz from Swan Lake, and two extremely catchy military marches, the second of which conductor Eric Kujawsky is convinced was an homage to the first: the "Colonel Bogey" March, and the main theme from the movie The Great Escape, by Kenneth Alford and Elmer Bernstein respectively. I know both marches well, but this was the first time I'd ever heard either in concert.

When I was very small, 3 or 4 I guess, "Colonel Bogey," then in the flush of fame coming off its appearance in The Bridge on the River Kwai, was my favorite piece of music. I wrote lyrics to it about my baby brother, the first line of which is all I can remember and which went, "Mikey, he is a pike-pike boy." What a pike-pike boy may be, I can alas no longer remember.

When we went to a record store to buy a recording of "Colonel Bogey," my parents encouraged me to make the request. "Do you have 'Mikey Is a Pike-Pike Boy'?" I asked. The clerks disclaimed knowledge of this until my parents told me to sing it. Then they said, "Oh yes, we have that."

vacation planning

I'm planning a major vacation, or what counts as major by my standards, next month. This started as a convention trip, but I hanker to tootle around what's strange country to me while I'm there. And having made plane, car, and hotel reservations, I've been exploring the matter of what to do and see, and just as importantly what to eat, while I'm there. This involves checking out a whole host of tour books - I'm partial to Moon and Lonely Planet - from various libraries, jotting down notes about tempting things located where I'm going, and then checking everything online for accuracy and up-to-dateness. Detailed planning, with lots of options rather than a rigid schedule, whets the appetite for the trip.

There's two catches. One is that things closed on the one day of the week that I'll be there are a specialty everywhere. And also, some areas are better covered by tourist guides than others. I'm visiting four states on this trip, and I find that while there's plenty of tourist information on Texas and New Mexico, for Oklahoma and Kansas the material is more limited. I have some old AAA tourbooks, from back when they were still covering restaurants, and both states have entries in the sketchy but intermittently useful "Off the Beaten Path" guidebook series, which I was able to find at one cozy library. That helped.

Having made my lists of sites and restaurants, I then print out a series of maps from Google Maps of the various towns and small cities I'm visiting, and mark on them the locations of my sites. Bigger cities are more difficult to handle this way, but photocopies of urban area insets from the state maps, and of tourist districts from the tourbooks, serve as substitutes.

What am I seeing? I'm inclined to history museums, mostly - not the little local ones that collect miscellaneous junk, but serious explorations of the history of a region. And some scenery, so long as I don't have to take a hike to see it, since long walks are beyond me now. And as for eating, I follow the way of the Trillin, which is to look for solid but not fancy expressions of the local cuisine. In Texas and Oklahoma that means steakhouses and barbecue, and in New Mexico lots of green chile. Also, Louisiana cuisine - my favorite US regional - leaks over as far as central Texas, so I'm noting that as well. There's lots of Mexican and Tex-Mex places too, and I'm noting those for when there's nothing else or when I simply want a change, but since those are cuisines well-supplied at home, I'm not prioritizing it for the trip.

Now to turn my attention to preparing to pack, and shopping for anything I'll need.

I will

All the signing and stamping have been done, and B. and I have officially created our wills. It's a rather complicated procedure; we're establishing a living trust and putting some of our assets into it, with the trust as the sole heir of each of us. Then, after we're both deceased, come the bequests and the distribution of the residue of the estate. This, our financial advisor explained, will simplify matters and avoid probate. I won't live to see it, of course, but I hope it works out that way.

After getting the documents drafted, for which we employed an online legal service, we needed witnesses - for which we asked the nearest nephew & his wife - and a notary. Then we needed the relevant assets transferred to the trust, which meant visits to brokers and a lot of paperwork which isn't complete yet.

Our medical provider had already nudged us into filling out advance directives using their forms (a lot better drafted than the ones the legal service provided), and we're keeping those with the same documents.

the file vanishes

This has happened to me more than once lately.

I'm using a library computer, saving files onto my USB drive. I check the directory frequently; the files I've already copied are all listed as saved files. I've chosen my USB's directory, no other.

When I'm done, I carefully use the "eject" command before removing my drive.

But when I take the USB drive to another computer, the files I've saved have all vanished. They're completely gone, no trace.

How do I stop this from happening?

concert review: Garden of Memory

Owing to scheduling glitches, I missed last year's edition of the annual walk-through avant-garde concert held at Chapel of the Chimes, Oakland's ornate columbarium and mausoleum. But I got there this year, nabbing a nearby parking space by arriving 2.5 hours early, with my lunch packed in my car.

Unfortunately many of my favorite performers didn't get there this year. So instead of focusing on them, I decided to emphasize the walk-through aspect and prowl around until I found things worth sitting and listening to for a while.

Garden of Memory always begins at 5 pm rather unpopulated, but although the organizers limit attendance, it tends to get more and more crowded over its four-hour length until it becomes deucedly uncomfortable. So I figured I'd start at the part of the building that gets the most crowded later on, the east end of the old wing, and I headed straight for the room designated the Garden of St. Matthew. Instead of being a niche like many of the "garden" rooms, it's along a major pathway. When I've been there before, interesting music was always going on, but I could never stop and listen to it but had to proceed directly towards the exit on the other side of the room, and the reason was that the room was so crowded that, if you stopped, you were blocking the only (and invariably busy) pathway.

So this time I got there early to get a spot where I could stop and listen, and found singer-songwriter Majel Connery on double-tracked vocals and electronic keyboard, accompanied by Felix Fan on electronic cello. I'd actually heard Connery here before, and was impressed with what I heard, but I'd never sealed her down as one of my favorites. I have now. I found this stuff enrapturing; unfortunately nothing of hers online really sounds like what I heard, so I guess you'll have to take my word for it.

Proceeding onward, I wound up in Laura Inserra's old stomping grounds (she's not there this year), the Garden of Eternal Wisdom, where I found violinist Shira Kammen, hammer dulcimer player Robin Petrie, and Celtic harpist Shelley Phillips playing what sounded like Celtic folk music with a Middle Eastern edge to it. I was able to grab the only chair in the room and sat in comfort for quite a while to listen to this charming stuff. Getting lost in the building is part of the experience, the publicity says, and as always in this room I noticed someone starting at the event map trying to figure out which room they were in. (I whispered it to them.) When I left, I found the twisty passage leading to the room was packed with people waiting for an opportunity to enter and listen, so again I had been wise to get there fairly early.

At this point, I found it was time for a set I wanted to hear in the largest venue, the Chimes Chapel, customarily shared by 3 or 4 performers. This was a contemporary classical art song recital, mezzo Silvie Jensen accompanied by pianist Sarah Cahill (founder of this concert series and a regular performer here) in songs by Philip Glass, Meredith Monk, and some other younger composers whose names I didn't know and didn't catch. The Glass and Monk sounded very typical of their composers although I hadn't heard these particular pieces before.

I then hung around for the next set, which was the women's chorus Kitka - which I first encountered here, many years ago - applying their standard nasal vocals to their usual repertoire of obscure Eastern European and Central Asian folk music. As always, a half hour set by Kitka is easier to take than a whole concert. Talking with the people next to me beforehand, I found they'd never heard Kitka before. This is going to be unusual, I warned them.

By this time it was 7:30 and I moved onward to the new wing, which I'd avoided earlier in the day, as it's more spacious and is consequently better saved for later when things are more crowded. Here I passed by a lot of performers of ambient noodling, none of which attracted me enough to make me want to sit down and listen for a while. So eventually I meandered back down to the entrance and left just before the closing time of 9 pm.

MTT memorial, pt 2

The second MTT memorial was the annual Pride Concert of the Bay Area Rainbow Symphony, a group of LGBTQIA+ and allies, held at the SF Conservatory's concert hall. It was pretty well packed.

The highlight of the concert was the local premiere of a song cycle by Jake Heggie, titled "Good Morning, Beauty," to poems by the performance artist Taylor Mac, who refers to the poems as "a present to queers in long-term relationships," and they're about the long-termness of it. It says: "Good morning, beauty / How are you here? / How has it happened? / Year after year?" The art song settings with elaborate orchestration was conducted by music director Robert Mollicone and sung by mezzo Nikola Printz, who went ambigender in an outfit that was a man's black suit on the right and a woman's white dress on the left. And the dedication in the program book read "to the memory of Michael Tilson Thomas and Joshua Robison, whose fifty years together embodied everything the piece celebrates."

Also on the program, a suite reconstruction of the orchestral music for the 1939 Wizard of Oz, a movie with iconic status in this community, composed by Herbert Stothart (who won an Oscar for doing so), based partly on the song melodies by Harold Arlen (who also won an Oscar for that).

And Brahms's Third Symphony. Why Brahms, who as far as we know was straight? Let Mellicone explain: "This felt like a great tie-in for Pride not only due to the broad spectrum of emotions involved, but also because of the musical code embedded in the opening (and recurrent) statement of the work: Frei aber Froh, or 'Free yet Joyful.'" It was a somewhat hairy performance, with things oddly sticking out of Brahms's mellow texture, but nicely and passionately performed.

MTT memorial, pt 1

(pt 1? Yes, pt 2 is coming along in a couple of days)

Regular San Francisco Symphony guest conductor James Gaffigan was scheduled to lead Beethoven's Ninth this week. After former music director Michael Tilson Thomas died two months ago, management decided to repurpose this concert as a memorial to him.

This was appropriate, as the Ninth was a signature work for MTT. He performed it in his inaugural concert as music director in 1995, and I heard him conduct it at least twice - when he recorded it in 2013, and in the last concert by him I ever heard, in 2023.

To the Ninth - which was originally scheduled as the whole concert - management added new material as a first half. It began with brief appreciation/reminiscences by representatives of the orchestra, the chorus, and the symphony board - all women, by the way. I particularly enjoyed the chorus member talking about the time that MTT, with a combination of curiosity and whimsical joy, scheduled a fiendishly difficult choral work by the Italian ultra-modernist Giacinto Scelsi. Thanks to MTT's attitude, both performers and audience had a great time.

Then, three brief works - a lullaby movement from Brahms's German Requiem, done just as a memorial, I guess; Ives' The Unanswered Question, because it was a favorite of MTT's; and a raucously Bernsteinian squib by MTT himself, titled Agnegram.

Gaffigan took the three instrumental movements of the Ninth with broad imperturbability, satisfying without trying to dazzle. The Ode to Joy was bolder and busier in its instrumental presentation. The chorus burned through the score with unspeakable power, towering over everything Beethoven forced them to do. Principal soloist bass Peixin Chen gave an impressively deep sound, with a hollow tone that sounded as if he were singing from within a very large cave. Tenor Thomas Cooley was lighter and fleetier, with a pleasing strong tone quality. The two women don't get enough solo material to judge, but soprano Jessica Faselt and mezzo Kelley O'Connor were both strong and clear in voice, topping each other in turn as they sang together.

that was strange

I was up in the middle of the night, and occupying my time watching a YouTube clip of a John Oliver segment, when all of a sudden the picture froze, though the sound kept sailing on. As this went on for a while, I force-closed the browser, re-started it - the tab was cued to just before the picture stopped - but it only played for a couple of minutes before this happened again. Repeat, rinse, and again.

I got through the entire video eventually, but then the browser - I use Firefox - started freezing whenever I tried doing something else. Rebooting the computer didn't help. I'd start Firefox, it'd work fine for a couple minutes, then it'd freeze - and it wouldn't unfreeze; at one point I left it alone for an hour to see what would happen.

Then it got to the point where it was freezing as soon as I'd start it. Before it got that far, I'd searched for help, and the only clear advice was to uncheck something called hardware acceleration, which I'd already done to solve some other problem. Beyond that was things I couldn't do, and I was thinking about taking the computer in to the software wizards when they opened in the morning, when all of a sudden the problem stopped, and the browser works fine again.

Well, this computer is nearing the end of its lifespan anyway, so sooner or later I'll have to do something, but in the meantime I'm just going to hope this doesn't recur. If I'd been asleep when I should have been, I'd never have noticed anything.

another day

Last week's searing temperatures have calmed down, and we're back to the merely uncomfortably warm. B. runs the fans in the bedroom all night, and this enables us to sleep - in fact, I need to keep a heavy robe on because of the moving air.

All we have to worry about locally right now is the World Cup. My interest in this is best measured with a zero, but I do have to worry that when a game is scheduled at the big local stadium, the traffic closures can extend as far as the passing highways, which I sometimes use. So I've put little "avoid 237" stickers on my pocket calendar for days that games are scheduled, one of which is today. But I don't think I'll have to go that way any time soon.

listen to Elim Chan conduct

In search of online interviews and other such publicity material about Elim Chan, the San Francisco Symphony's new music director, I found a number of full-length concert videos of her conducting various European orchestras in standard classics of the repertoire. They were all good performances - I listened to the bunch of them with full appreciation - but two struck me as particularly outstanding. They captured the fervor and intensity that these pieces had when new and bold, they were led and played with full commitment to the music, and they had me captivated on the edge of my seat throughout - an experience I find rare enough in concert and even rarer in recordings. But this is the amazing conducting that I heard in person when she led Holst's The Planets in a guest appearance at SFS a few years ago.

One of these particularly outstanding renditions was of Brahms's Fourth Symphony, his last and most experimental essay in the form, and my long-time favorite of his. Compelling and urgent.



The other was the monster itself, Beethoven's Fifth, the work that originally sold me on the heavy classics. If bad performances have led you to find this work dull and routine, just listen to this fiery attack.



The other full-length recordings I listened to of Elim Chan conducting included:

Tchaikovsky's Fifth

Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade

Shostakovich's Fifth

Shostakovich's Tenth

Beethoven's First

critical mutterings

Dave Hurwitz, executive editor of ClassicsToday.com, has over the last several years been publishing literally hundreds of videos on YouTube featuring him talking about various aspects of classical music: reviews, lists of the greatest (or worst) this and that, opinion pieces, and on. He mostly eschews music clips for copyright reasons, and I wish he had transcripts, because it's tiring to listen to him yammer for half an hour where you could read it in five minutes.

Anyway, one of his latest opinion pieces was billed as a praise of the San Francisco Symphony for hiring Elim Chan as its new music director. I say "billed as" because much of it was actually a complaint, and as often when listening to Dave (I call him by his first name because he's so personalized and intimate in his presentations) I begin to think he's yammering more than he can coherently and judiciously talk about.

Let's start with what Dave gets right. First, he's absolutely correct that picking a fairly young and well-regarded conductor like Chan was a wise choice. After Michael Tilson Thomas retired, another senior conductor like Esa-Pekka Salonen was a good idea, because Salonen had the authority and seasoning not to be overshadowed by the long and fabulous reign of his predecessor. But after a fairly short Salonen regime - and we weren't expecting a long one, just perhaps not as short as we actually got - now's the time to raise someone younger, experienced but not encrusted, up from the next tier and see what she can do.

Second, Dave is concerned that ten weeks a year will not be enough time for Chan to really put her stamp on the orchestra. A great music director has to really commit to their post; they can zoom off and guest conduct elsewhere, sure, but they can't be a jet-setter just dropping in for a couple weeks once in a while.

But what Dave didn't note is that Chan's contract says ten weeks only for the first year. Maybe she already has a lot of other commitments for that year. Starting with her second year she'll be here longer; maybe not long enough to meet Dave's standards for commitment, but it's a step in the right direction. Also, even the ten weeks is a contractual minimum; it's possible she could manage more.

My other complaint is his characterization of Esa-Pekka Salonen flouncing off in a huff because he didn't like the orchestra's policies. That's unfair. You have to remember that Salonen didn't need another music director job when he came to SFS; he didn't even want another one; but SFS sold him on it by offering him an irresistible opportunity to do things he really wanted to do. And then, because of budget concerns which really didn't make any sense, they took those things away. And I'm not talking, as Dave is, about the superfluous European tour that got cancelled; I'm talking about special programs like the SoundBox and the Collaborative Partners initiative.

And Salonen didn't flounce off; he didn't renege on his contract. He simply said that this was not what he signed up for and declined to renew his contract when it expired. I think he had every right to do that, no call to be criticized for it, and it was the right thing for him to do considering the circumstances. It was the circumstances - the orchestra's unnecessary retrenchment - which was at fault.

That's where I think Dave Hurwitz is off-base, and Joshua Kosman - former critic for the San Francisco Chronicle, whose judgments heavily informed mine - has a better take on it.

a miscellaneous Jane Yolen memory

Jane Yolen has passed on. She certainly accomplished a lot while she was among us: author of literally hundreds of books. Many of them very short children's books, but some were longer. I have about 35 of them. I probably cherish most some of the short story collections, but my strongest memories are of some of the full-length novels: Briar Rose, Cards of Grief, The Devil's Arithmetic. I am also particularly glad to have an essay collection on fantasy, titled Touch Magic.

What really sticks with me about Jane Yolen, though, is that for some years we were pretty good friends. As in, if we'd see each other at a convention we'd sit down for a long chat. I think this began as a result of her first (of two) appearances as Mythcon Guest of Honor, in 1984. I was editing Mythprint in those days, and I wanted some celebratory material on the GoH, and I recall writing her with some bibliographical questions - she was prolific even then. We had some mutual friends in the apa Apanage to which she belonged, so that was a seed for acquaintance. That must be how it started.

During that period - it must have been about 15 or more years before we fell out of touch - I visited her at her home in western Massachusetts twice I think. But what I remember most is a visit somewhere else. In the summer of 1992, I spent a week in Edinburgh in Scotland. At that time, Jane and her husband David were renting a house in St. Andrews, not far to the north, so I drove up one day to see them. The rented house was an impressive semi-Gothic structure, but my particular memory comes from Jane driving me over to a modern suburban neighborhood, to the home of friends of theirs. These friends had decided to hold an American-style backyard barbecue, complete with hamburgers fired on a grill; and I was Jane's guest. Soon after I arrived, it started to rain pretty heavily, so we all grabbed the fixings and retreated inside. But this was Scotland, where a rainy day at any time of year is normal, and despite my limited experience there I knew that. What puzzled me was that any of the natives should have been surprised at the rain.

busy day

Wow, did I have a busy day on Monday. First I had a doctor's appointment at noon to discuss the results of my test from last week. I had to take a roundabout route to get there, because there was some event going on at the Apple spaceship, which is along the regular route.

That gave me half an hour to get home before the regular starting time of my Zoom play-reading session. I made it, ten minutes to spare. This week we were finishing up Dion Boucicault's London Assurance, our latest successful venture into obscure 19th century comedy. This one features a man who convinces his father that he is not himself but a random lookalike. Then he keeps forgetting that there are things he therefore shouldn't know.

When we finished that, I had enough time to grab a hasty lunch before heading over to the other side of the urban area for another visit to the specialized dentist who is taking care of the hole where my extracted tooth used to be. Done there - uncomfortable but not painful, as my previous visits have been - I stopped by the nearby excellent tamale makers for dinner makings before heading home.

After dinner, another Zoom session. The Lamplighters, the local Gilbert & Sullivan society, were presenting an hour's introduction to Iolanthe, their next production, focused on Sullivan's music. I know Iolanthe pretty well, but I thought I might learn something, and I did pick up a little. (The oboe solo at Iolanthe's introduction is the only extended instrumental solo in the entire G&S canon.)

After that I fell asleep early, and no wonder.

venue review

Review of a new pop-music concert venue in my area, the Siesta Valley Bowl. Only it's not new, it's the amphitheater that used to host the now-defunct California Shakespeare Festival.

You know, I stopped going there long before Cal Shakes died, and the reason was the acoustics. The bowl was not focused, and the unamplified actors had to shout to be heard. That's assuming that a plane landing at or taking off from the nearby Oakland Airport wasn't passing overhead, which they did frequently, because that would rip a few pages out of the script entirely, making the actors inaudible no matter what they did.

So, all in all, this is a better venue for amplified pop music than it was for unamplified theater, assuming it doesn't bother the neighbors. Though I will say that I was curious enough to go and listen to what the review said was probably "the finest song in [the performer's] entire catalog," and all I can say is that if that is his finest song, I'm really glad I don't have to hear any of the others.

driving

B. and I had received an invitation for Saturday. Our great-niece, T., has graduated from high school - and beyond that, owing to an arrangement between her high school and a local junior college, a lot of extra classes, and four years of summer school, she also completed an A.S. degree, normally two years full-time of junior college, at the same time. So she goes off to university this fall a couple of legs ahead.

So T.'s parents, A. and C., decided to host a big late-afternoon party to celebrate. We've been invited to some earlier birthday and other celebrations but were not able to attend. So since we did have this day free, we decided to go.

The thing is, T. and her family live three hours' drive and a mountain range away from here, in a large and comfortable home out in the boondocks far from anything, so it's a major investment in time to go there. I drove us, we spent an hour and a half there, and then B. wanted to get back, partly to perform evening ablutions before it was too late. It took even longer to get home, thanks to a brush fire in the freeway median, but we did that too. Amazingly I got us home without feeling too tired out on the way.

Not a trip we may ever take again, at least not together, but we did get a chance to congratulate (congraduate) the honoree, and chat with parents and grandparents. It was a good outing, despite the trouble it took to get there.

automation

This is very 1963, but it's also disturbingly relevant today:

one thing about doctors

and dentists is that - I suppose depending on their specialty - is that they love looking around the inside of your body, where all the blood and guts are. (In the case of dentists, close-up views of the gums and around the tongue.) If they have cameras floating around in there, they want to show off the view to the patient, and are rather hurt if you decline on grounds of ickk.

voting for the least annoying candidate

Here's a clue, politicians. If you're running for a relatively low-profile down-ballot office, like state legislature or a county office, don't deluge the voters with endless flyers or giant ads on tv or in newspapers. Because all you'll do is make me wonder, "Who's funding this person?" and make me reluctant to vote for you.

Indeed, for one local office there were two candidates, of which I was very skeptical of the incumbent. But the challenger's ads were so glaring that I got even more uncomfortable with him. I voted for the incumbent, who won.

ok, here's the story ...

I was asked to tell about Shostakovich and the San Jose Symphony, so here it is.

This happened in 1992, after long-time music director George Cleve was persuaded to retire. Those who heard Cleve in later years may think of him as a mellow Brahmsian figure, but that's not what he was like when he was younger. Everyone agreed his music-making was inspired, but in rehearsal he could be tempestuous, even tyrannical - B. sang with the symphony in those years, and can testify to the long rehearsals and the tantrums - and eventually it was just too much.

To hunt for Cleve's replacement, the symphony held one of those "seasons of discovery" that orchestras in search of a new music director are sometimes fond of. A set of prospective conductors were invited to lead one concert each which served as an audition. One of the finalists, who didn't get the job, was Marin Alsop, now probably the most renowned female conductor around. But remember this was 1992, she was young and still little-known - it was the first I'd heard of her - and it may be a good thing she didn't get the job, because it meant she didn't go down with the ship. But I get ahead of myself.

The successful candidate was a Ukrainian named Leonid Grin (pronounced Green). His audition concert featured a dark, somber and compelling rendition of Shostakovich's Tenth Symphony, preceded by Grin's own brief talk about what this music meant to him. It was a stunner of a performance, and it was probably responsible for him getting the job.

Unfortunately, it turned out that dark, depressing Russian music was the only thing that Grin could really do well. His attempts at being light-hearted were particularly cringe-worthy; I remember a rendition of Ravel's Bolero that was especially pathetic. He put the snare-drummer (regular percussionist Galen Lemmon) in front of the orchestra on the grounds that this was a snare-drum concerto, and it just didn't work.

I don't say that ten years of this ham-handedness was solely responsible for the symphony's decline and eventual bankruptcy - an incompetent management was the primary cause - but it didn't help. After the orchestra's demise, an entirely new management hired most of the same musicians - nothing wrong with them - and founded a new and more successfully-run orchestra initially named Symphony Silicon Valley, now Symphony San Jose. Grin has never been seen here since, though SSV did eventually bring back the older and mellower George Cleve as a guest conductor.

two outings

On Friday, the Redwood Symphony put on another of its occasional spectacular Sondheim semi-staged productions, this one of A Little Night Music. B. came with me to this one. I was unfamiliar with the show and hadn't heard much of it, and what most struck me on this encounter was how little it sounds like standard-issue Sondheim. His usual ticks are completely absent. I enjoyed most of the music; the closest thing to a catchy song in it is "The Glamorous Life" and the most tiresome and irritating is "A Weekend in the Country," which I had heard before somewhere.

The orchestra - this was Tunick's rarely-heard full symphony orchestration - did very well, but the singers were mixed. Fredrik had a weak voice, and Anne was whiny and annoying, which undercut both the character and the plot. But Desiree (Annmarie Macry) did a good job with "Send in the Clowns," and William Giammona as Carl-Magnus had complete command of his character's infinite self-regard; he was even better than the guy on the original cast recording.

Sunday I headed out to the local area's most popular ethnic event, the Greek festival put on annually by a local Greek Orthodox church in the forlorn hope that attendees might be distracted from the food and the dancing long enough to pay regard to the religion. Instead, I spent two hours eating the like of lamb chops, dolmas, and a new offering of fried cheese (saganaki) that was quite delicious. Having arrived at opening, I was able to get in some of this before the lines became insanely long, and at that point I just left.

However, I did unusually run into someone I knew, and thus spent a considerable part of my eating time in the company of the marketing director from Music@Menlo, whom I've had a lot of professional contact with, plus her husband and two small children, whom I hadn't met before because she doesn't bring them to work. We chatted on a lot of music gossip, such as the appointments of new music directors in both San Francisco and L.A., hopeful signs both of them, and I told stories like how Shostakovich led to the fall of the old San Jose Symphony.

Bay Area Book Festival

I spent much of Saturday attending four politically-oriented panels at the Bay Area Book Festival in Berkeley, all of them in the rented facility of the Freight and Salvage stage.

I was unfamiliar with the names of any of the participants, but they turned out mostly to be authors of books, usually non-fiction, on the topics of their panels. But the subjects interested me.

The first panel was something of a damp squib. Titled "Mindful Democracy," it was full of activists who said that democracy wasn't, or shouldn't be, a war between two hostile tribes, but a communitarian act of compassion and connection. But they offered no way to get there from here, or to solve the mutual suspicions that characterize our political world.

The second, though, was a dazzler. The topic was detention of immigrants, and the highlight speaker, buttressed by the others, was a historian from Stanford named Ana Raquel Minian, who argued that detention of immigrants is a long-standing US practice and who summarized her book tracing that history back to 1900. I was impressed enough with Minian's speaking that I went to the sales table afterwards and bought that book, titled In the Shadow of Liberty: The Invisible History of Immigrant Detention.

Moderator for this panel was a local named Piper Kerman, whom I didn't know by name but who turned out to be the author of the original book of Orange is the New Black.

The other panels, all like the second full of hard advice on what to do about it, featured the topics of press freedom (support independent journalism) and academic freedom. Particularly excoriating speakers in the latter, notably UCB professor Hatem Bazian, who ran off the rails a few times but who was most impressive saying that public education is a public good that should not leave students shivering in debt and consequently fearing to speak out because of potential damage to their careers.

on my way home

Having spent Wednesday morning of my LA trip doing library research at UCLA, I was able to get as far on my drive home as Pismo Beach to stay overnight. ("What's in Pismo Beach?" asked my LA hosts, wondering why I was going there. "Hotels," I replied.)

That gave me enough time on Thursday to do something I'd only done once before: drive along the narrow and twisty coast road, the Big Sur highway. This is often closed for extended periods because of landslides or storm damage, but it's open now. Lots of lovely scenery, visible through the intermittently intense rain that fell that day, and the number of stretches of road covered in loose rocks that had fallen from the cliffs above were notable. I stopped at Willow Creek, where you can drive down below the bridge to the tiny stone beach where the creek hits the water. Despite the dicey weather, lots of surfers plying their trade out on the waves. Also, much further north in Big Sur, the Henry Miller Memorial Library, which is not a library but a bookstore specializing in literature with moral content. Both Tolkien (The Two Towers and The Return of the King) and Lewis (The Screwtape Letters and A Grief Observed) made appearances, as did Ray Bradbury and Philip K. Dick.

And one more stop. I'd made a reservation to tour Hearst Castle, which I'd also been to only once before, many years ago. Checking their menu of tours, I'd found one designed for the walking-disabled, with no stairs. I am able but very slow on stairs, so that was the one for me. There were only three of us on this tour, guided by a Bryan Cranston type named Phil, who talked very fast and rather quietly. He kept leading us into rooms occupied by a much larger regular tour group (the same one each time), so he'd huddle us into a far corner and talk even faster and more quietly, so I didn't absorb much of what he was saying. I did gather two things: first, that the not particularly devout Hearst was fascinated by collecting medieval Christian iconography; second, that his expectations of what visitors should do and how behave meant I would not have enjoyed a visit here in his time.

B. would find the decorations fascinating, but I'm not taking her here. Opportunities to sit during the tour were few, and the shuttle bus going up to the castle from the visitor center took the winding and twisty road at breakneck speed. Even I was a little nauseous.

concert review: Los Angeles Philharmonic

I had wanted to hear Gustavo Dudamel conduct one more time in LA before he left its music directorship for that of New York at the end of this season. But I was in no position to visit LA this season until April, and then Dudamel was gone until late May. Of his last programs after his return, the most likely was his semi-staged production of Wagner’s opera Die Walkure. It’s a very long opera, so they divided the three acts into separate days. I picked Act 3, because that’s the part with both the Ride of the Valkyries and the Magic Fire Music. I bought my ticket for a pretty penny and Sunday I went to Disney Hall and heard it.

The orchestra was displayed on the stage, with the singers mostly up on a balcony behind them, though for part of the conclusion Wotan and Brunnhilde moved to a catwalk in front of the orchestra, very close to my seat at the front of the side terrace.

The music making was pretty good, though the Ride of the Valkyries was too fast and lightweight. The Magic Fire Music, though, was slow and powerful, making a grand conclusion. As for the long part between, purely a dialogue between Wotan and Brunnhilde, that wasn’t too boring, mostly because I didn’t have to sit through Acts 1 and 2. I spent more of it watching Dudamel than paying attention to the singers, Ryan Speedo Green and Christine Goerke, though they had strong voices and had no trouble being heard above the mostly not very loud music. Back during the much noisier Ride, though, the Valkyries could often not be heard over the orchestra except when all eight of them were singing together, which was pretty thrilling.

Staging was minimal. The Valkyries stood in front of papier mache statues of horses, one of which appeared to be a unicorn. Costumes were fairly traditional. Wotan kept adjusting his eyepatch.

This was only the second time I’ve seen Wagner staged, the first being a college production of a semi-staged Rheingold many years ago. I could do without any more, though I don’t consider my time wasted. I enjoyed this.

concert review: San Francisco Symphony

The outstanding feature of guest conductor Cristian Macelaru’s rendition of Dvorak’s New World Symphony was its clarity of form. Every section of every movement stood out as its own entity, and the whole passed on in crystalline goodness. And the solo passages from the individual musicians! Just marvelous.

And we also had Rachmaninoff’s First Piano Concerto. According to the program notes, the original version of this concerto sounded like any other late 19C piano concerto, but the revised version, which we heard, sounds like Rachmaninoff. Well, a bit, but not as epically as the Second or Third, problematic as they in their turns are. Soloist Simon Trpceski thundered away dramatically, but to what end?

Lastly but first on the program,the premiere of a tone poem, Embers, by Tyler Taylor. How about that, another composer with the names of two US Presidents. Taylor is a horn player, so he knows the orchestra from the inside. His music featured a well-blended mixture of grinding strings (secret: they left the practice mutes on but played loudly), ghostly winds, and clonking percussion. It was a hefty chunk of chaotic tonal noise.

music director reds

Huzzah, entering its second year without one, the San Francisco Symphony has finally named a new music director, who takes over not next season, which is already announced, but the season after that.

And they've done exactly what I hoped they'd do, which is to name a fairly young conductor who's already made her mark as a guest with the orchestra. And I say "her" because yes, it's a woman, the first one SFS has ever had in this post, and one of the few in a major position anywhere in the country.

She's Elim Chan, who'll be 40 by the time she takes over. She's originally from Hong Kong, but received her higher education in the U.S. She's conducted here several times, and I've heard her once, leading Holst's The Planets, which I described as played "with the ideal dynamism and sweep, and with every exotic instrumental color exactly where it should be."

She'll be conducting next week, which I won't be attending, but I do have a ticket for the program in October that she's already scheduled for, with John Adams's Doctor Atomic Symphony. I'm looking forward to it, and to a new era of exciting music-making in SF.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

the ecstasy and the agony

B. wanted to hear the Winchester Orchestra in Vaughan Williams's cantata Dona nobis pacem, but only if I could drive her. I judged this more appealing than the SF Symphony, so we went. "We are a nation at war," wrote conductor James Beauton in the program notes, "which is why this evening's performance feels especially relevant." It was a fine performance, solid orchestra, strong and well-directed chorus, and soprano Amy Spencer's calls of the fading "Dona nobis pacem" were under tight control and exquisitely done.

But we should have left at intermission, because the second half was a "symphonic suite" (actually full of the chorus going "ahhh") of music from the series She-Ra and the Princesses of Power, which I've never seen nor heard of. Composer Sunna Wehrmeijer created the music digitally, so it had to be painstakingly scored so that an orchestra could play it. Was it worth the trouble? No! A lot of overloud off-the-shelf movie music, full of whooshing sounds and clanking effects. B. put in her earplugs and read from her tablet to pass the time. As for me, my watch said the piece was 40 minutes long, but it didn't seem so long, so I suspect that B. was right in saying that I did nod off for parts. Which she found amazing due to the Awful Dynne.

home electrician

Last night while stumbling to the bathroom I knocked down a framed drawing from the wall while fumbling for the bathroom door. In the morning, B. discovered that the falling frame had knocked the toggle off the ancient light switch. This was the switch that controlled the overhead lights for the bedroom as well as the outlets where we plug in the fans that keep the room cool in hot summer nights, nights which are expected to resume this week. So we needed the toggle fixed, and fast.

I could have called in an electrician for much money, but there was nothing else for him to do right now in terms of home repairs. I decided to see if I could do it myself. I bought a new light switch from the local hardware store and gathered the tools. Not knowing which breaker controlled the room, I turned off the master breaker for the house.

Detaching the old switch from the wall and unconnecting the wires was one job; stripping the wire that needed it, connecting them to the new switch, and installing it in the wall was quite another. B. had found a useful illustrated article (not a video, blessed be) on how to replace a light switch. I found I already knew most of it, which was encouraging regarding my competence to do the job, but it had some useful information, such as that it doesn't matter which connection you attach each of the two hot wires to, which was relieving because the layout of the old switch and the new switch was different, so if it had mattered I wouldn't have known how to map the old one on to the new one. Unless the article had explained it, which it probably would have.

The big problem, not addressed by the article, was attaching the plate to the wall. The long screws could go through holes in the switch but couldn't fit into anything in the wall, so how was the whole (plate + switch) going to attach to the wall? I suspect that the old plate was original to the house and wasn't screwed in to the wall at all, but had been stuck on the wall paint when it was still wet; some prying had been necessary for detaching it. So I fixed the plate to the wall with a couple of pieces of transparent duct tape. One more thing to alert the landlord to whenever we do move out of here.

prime ministerial memoirs

David Cameron, For the Record (Harper, 2019)

The question posed by this enormous book (703 pages of text) is, does David Cameron really get how much of a disaster he inflicted on the UK by holding the Brexit referendum and then losing it?

And the answer is, sort of. This book is full of regrets at things not done or done not well enough, but mostly they take the form of regrets at not expressing himself clearly enough, with the implication that he must have failed because, if he'd succeeded, his perfectly formed views would have commanded universal assent. Uh-huh. I do wonder how much of the book's lengthy exposition of issues came from speeches that Cameron gave at the time, and if not, if he should have given them as speeches.

As for Brexit, Cameron defends holding the referendum on the grounds that the pressure to do so was so great that, had he resisted it, it would have broken out even more virulently later, and would be even more likely to have gone Leave than were the chances with the actual referendum. As for why it was lost, Cameron blames increased immigration, and for that he blames the UK having the best economy in Europe at the time, making everyone want to come there. So for losing the referendum he blames his own brilliant economic policies. What a guy.

For me, the most surprising and dismaying aspect of the book was the enormous amount of time Cameron had to spend arguing with other national leaders at EU summits. Usual scenario: the UK wants one policy, all the other countries want something else.* Requirements for universal assent ought to prevent the UK from getting run over, but the EU staff usually find a way around that. This happens over and over again, leaving me a lot less puzzled than I had been as to why Leave won the referendum, but despite everything Cameron wants to Remain, on the grounds that it's better to have a seat at the table than not, regardless of how badly you're losing. But then at the end he undercuts this by looking on the bright side of Brexit by seeing it as an opportunity to forge a new relationship with Europe.

But the book is more than detailed accounts of issues and negotiations, wearisome though they are. Cameron puts in a fair amount about his personal life, notable especially for the illness and death of his small son, and how he felt about things, beginning with a description of his becoming PM (he then flashes back to his earlier life) focused on how he reacted and thought about what was happening. There's only so far he can go in that direction, but it's an attempt. Generally, Cameron thinks he was a pretty good PM who got a lot done, and I guess he was broadly competent in a way denied to all his successors to date: five of them in a mere ten years, an unending succession of clown cars, though May and Truss he considers to have been competent subordinates of his own, and perhaps they were. He is critical of a few subordinates, notably IDS whom he keeps not firing from Work and Pensions because he's afraid of the right-wing backlash if he does, and Steve Hilton whose description as "one part brilliant to several parts bonkers" I've already quoted. At one point, and one only, I cheered, and that's when Cameron quotes himself defending same-sex marriage as a conservative policy if properly viewed, a perspective I share.

However, the main lessons of this book seem to be 1) Cameron's hopeless optimism about Europe; 2) his terror at offending the right-wing rebels, so extreme that he'll do anything they want to keep them quiet. Neither of these policies actually work very well, so perhaps a different approach might have been superior.

*At one point Cameron has one ally, but as it's Viktor Orbán it doesn't do him any good. The question, "Uh-oh, am I on the wrong side?" doesn't occur to him.

1 1/2 concerts

Saratoga Symphony, Sunday: This community orchestra gave a fairly rarified program under Jason Klein, the best-known piece being the Romanian Rhapsody No. 1 by George Enescu, played with sufficient liveliness and drive. Plus A Fugal Overture by Gustav Holst, which wasn't very fugal, and two unusual turn-of-the-20C tone poems, neither apparently ever played in the U.S. before: The Witch of Atlas by Granville Bantock, a character which in the Shelley poem it's based on is more of a benevolent angel than a witch, and which was accordingly represented in peaceful music with a lot of solos for violin and English horn; and The Isle of the Dead by the Swedish composer Andreas Hallén, one of numerous tone poems based on the Arnold Böcklin painting, but unlike any of the other composers, who treated it as dark and ominous, Hallén preferred to depict the consolatory aspect of death, and after a mournful beginning his composition turns gentle and even incongruously lush in a slightly Wagnerian manner.

San Francisco Conservatory Orchestra, Saturday: I attended this, or rather part of it, by livestream. Student conductors led Beethoven's goofy King Stephen Overture and Revueltas's Sensemayá, the latter with firm enough rhythm but nevertheless sludgy. Music director Edwin Outwater, a former assistant to MTT, dedicated the concert to MTT's memory, pointing out that all the pieces were ones he'd play, and led the orchestra in John Adams's Absolute Jest, his concerto for string quartet and orchestra, much better-balanced than the last time I'd heard it, but at which the Esmé Quartet were wasted as soloists, their exquisite approach to Romantic music having no role in Adams's jerky and rigid postmodernism. But I was too tired to sit in my work chair and listen to the concluding piece, Stravinsky's Rite of Spring, so I skipped it.

movie not finished

The Power of the Dog (2021)

An article on the best movies on Netflix said that this was "not just one of the best movies on Netflix right now: It’s one of the best movies ever." Unfortunately it turned out to be great only in the sense that some of those "great novels" I had to read in literature class were great, i.e. totally wretched.

The main characters in this one are a pair of brothers who are cattle ranchers together in Montana (played by New Zealand) in the 1920s. One of them, Phil (Benedict Cumberbatch) is a hard man. Though they've worked together for decades, he considers his brother George (Jesse Plemons) to be something of a wimp. George is sweet on the widow lady (Kirsten Dunst) who runs a cookhouse where the ranchers often eat. Phil doesn't think much of her, the more so as her late husband had committed suicide, which Phil evidently considers a rather wussy thing to do. As for the widow's teenage son (Kodi Smit-McPhee), who has artistic leanings, Phil thinks he's a total pansy. This is all played out as if it were written in neon signs.

George is incredibly awkward courting the widow, the more so after they suddenly up and get married, which George doesn't even tell Phil about until afterwards. Uh-oh, there's trouble ahead, forced on the story by the contorted plot. I stopped watching at this point and consulted the Wikipedia plot summary, which I'd previously avoided. Yup, there's trouble ahead. I'm glad I didn't have to watch any more of this tortured pretentious mess.

eh

I made one more stab at trying to find a Terry Pratchett novel I might like. I read somewhere that Night Watch is considered one of his very best, perhaps the finest fantasy novel of the then-nascent (it was published in 2002) 21st century, and more serious than Pratchett's wont - which was encouraging, as I generally find his humor tiresome and unfunny.

Well, I actually enjoyed the first couple pages, about an assassination student who's incompetently trying to tag the hero. It was funny, which the rest of the book isn't. The hero is cast back in time 30 years, and for reasons unclear takes on the identity of his own mentor, whom he doesn't know has died at the time he first uses the name. The scenes in which someone or something - it's not clear who or what this entity is - explains at length to the hero how time-travel works were extremely overlong, tiresome and tedious; I skipped over much of it. The hero is a policeman, and once the time-travel stuff is over, it looks like the book is going to settle into a serious novel about the hero instructing his callow younger self in how to be a good cop. I'm not interested in a police procedural about instructing cops, so I'm quitting here, about a third of the way in, though that's a lot farther than I've gotten in any previous attempts at reading Pratchett.

ticket purchasing follies

I've written before about strange experiences getting tickets. Here's another one.

I wanted to attend a concert being given by a small new-music outfit. A news release linked to their concert page. But there was nothing on it about buying tickets.

At first, I assumed they'd be selling tickets only at the door, and I prepared to get there early. But then one day while I was looking at the page again, I noticed that the name of the venue was a link. I clicked on it, and found a list of concerts, every one of which had a ticket-buying link except for this one.

Uh-oh. So I called up the promoting outfit. I had to leave a message, but a man called back almost right away. I said there was no ticket-purchasing link on the concert page; he went to look at it and was surprised that I was right. I said I'd been afraid the concert was sold out. He said, "No, we've sold very few tickets, and I guess now I know why." He said they'd put a purchase ticket link on the page (they have) and he e-mailed me a direct link.

I bought my ticket, and I'm going to this.

decoined

Another reason I lost interest in coin collecting is the decreasing use of coins in our society. As recently as the end of the state quarters program in 2008 I would always have a fistful of coins in my pocket, and could search through any new arrivals for state quarters.

But now I rarely have coins at all, and I tend to decant any I get on arriving home. I just don't need them any more.

This is partly because of the decreasing value of coins. It's been years since you could buy anything, except maybe an hour on a parking meter in a low-congestion district - and they're mostly coin-free now - for a quarter. If you use coins at all, they're just markers on the way up to a greater value.

But just as much it's the move to cards. I was at the Freight & Salvage on Saturday for a concert by a Scottish folkish band called Gnoss (silent G) - it was all right, typical fiddle-driven fast music with occasional slower songs - and I stopped by the food counter for a snack. I picked up a bag of peanuts, $1.10 with tax. I remembered I had a dime in my pocket as well as a dollar bill, and I was reaching to pull them out when the clerk said "We're cards only." So, I now have a credit card charge for $1.10. Sheesh.

coined

My late grandfather was a coin collector in a small way. His usual technique for collecting was to sort through the coins in his pocket, looking for issues that he didn't already have. The oldest coin in his collection was an 1878 silver dollar, which I doubt he found in his pocket, but I don't know how much business with coin dealers he may have done. Probably not a lot. He kept his main US collection in Whitman coin folders, and none of them were complete.

He also had a miscellaneous box of foreign coins, which he'd picked up on world travels in his later years, and some varied currency notes of both US and foreign issue, as well as a number of US proof sets, mostly encased in plastic shells.

I showed some interest in this coin collection, and so when he was downsizing his possessions in the 1980s, he gave it to me. What I liked about collecting coins was the serried arrays they came in: otherwise identical coins with heads of presidents on them, marching down, distinguished only by year of issue and mint mark - mustn't forget the mint marks, of such vital interest to collectors. This is why I never got interested in collecting stamps. Though much prettier than coins, they didn't come in serried arrays.

For some time after receiving the collection, I kept it up by sorting through my own pocket change, but gradually I gave that up, mostly because the new clad coinage was less interesting than the old silver issues. My last spurt of interest came with the state quarter series of 1999-2008. I had great fun looking for those in my change - to my mind, buying one from a dealer would have been cheating - and eventually I got them all, and bought a folder to keep them in. But I discovered that collecting them had been more fun than having them. I rarely looked at the complete set, and if I was interested in the designs I can see them more clearly displayed on websites.

So now that I in turn am downsizing my possessions, I decided that selling the coins would be a good plan, a decision facilitated by my recent discovery that my once-keen eyesight had deteriorated in detail to the point where I couldn't read the mint marks and sometimes even the dates on the smaller coins. I once had a device that would magnify a coin but it never worked very well. If I were still interested in keeping up coin collecting I could look for a better one, but I'm not.

Just last week, then, an ad turned up in my mail that one of those antiques roadshow outfits would be setting up shop in a nearby hotel conference room for a few days to buy coins and jewelry. Perfect. I went down on the first morning to find it nearly empty: three buyers and no more than two other customers at a time (one of whom looked disconcertingly like the late Dave Rike). They carried the heavy box - which I'd put in the car in installments - in from the car and sorted through the contents. The buyer was especially pleased to find a couple of late 19C silver dollars with Carson City mint marks, plus an item my grandfather had been particularly proud of: an uncut sheet of six $5 bills of National Currency bank notes, series 1929. The buyer said this form of uncut sheets was rare. He paid a pretty penny for that and the lot of miscellaneous stuff, even taking my collection of aluminum tokens from the Shell gasoline presidents and states coin games from the 1970s. And so all that has found a home.

not just Cupertino

There's an article in the Mercury News, the local paper, on the effect that Apple Park, the giant ring-shaped "spaceship" headquarters, has had on the city of Cupertino, where it's located, since it was completed nearly a decade ago.

The thing is, though, that - though other cities are barely mentioned - it's not just Cupertino. Tax revenues - the small part that goes to cities - does indeed go to Cupertino and affect it. But housing prices and especially traffic have more effect on the neighboring cities.

Apple Park is located in a tab of Cupertino that sticks up to the north on the east side of the city. The houses immediately to the north and west of it are in Sunnyvale; the ones to the east are in Santa Clara. They're the ones most directly affected by Apple Park. There's a photo in the article of the spaceship looming up behind what the caption says is "a home on Lorne Way in Cupertino." Lorne Way isn't in Cupertino. It's a block north of the spaceship in Sunnyvale.

What is in Cupertino? The only housing in Cupertino in the immediate area is an apartment complex to the sw that was already there. My mother lived there at one time, but she was glad to be out before construction of Apple Park literally tore up the entire neighborhood.

South of the spaceship is its parking area, and behind that the freeway. On the other side of the freeway is a shopping district. There are homes in Cupertino not far away, but they're not directly under the spaceship's shadow, and access to the neighborhoods is mostly detached from the roads that Apple traffic backs up on.

I'd like to know more about what impact Apple Park has had on Sunnyvale - where I live, about a mile further west - and Santa Clara. But no, it's in Cupertino, we have to talk only about Cupertino.

concert review: Philharmonia Baroque

I don't often get to Philharmonia Baroque concerts, even when the traveling program does get down the Peninsula, which it doesn't always do. However, this one, which landed at the Concrete Tent in Palo Alto, I couldn't resist. It consisted of works by and inspired by C.P.E. Bach, and as C.P.E. (often called that to distinguish him from his colossal father J.S.) is one of my favorite 18C composers, I figured I had to go.

The C.P.E. work was No. 3 in F of his four Hamburg symphonies (Wq. 183), here being conducted by Philharmonia Baroque's former music director. It is, as the program notes point out, a quirky symphony both structurally and harmonically, but to my mind it's the tense and dark quality of the outer movements, a style called "Sturm und Drang" when other composers like Haydn took it up, though I suspect that C.P.E. invented it, that most appeals to me.

And this performance emphasized that. Led from the violin by guest conductor Shunske Sato (that is, though standing in front, he played along with the first violins for the whole concert, and let the orchestra pick up his directions from that), it was heavy, intense, even vicious, despite the small size of the orchestra.

Much the same quality was brought to the rarely-heard Mozart work, the entr'acts from his incidental music to the play Thamos, King of Egypt, and a bit even to Beethoven's Symphony No. 1, a work as quirky in form and harmony as C.P.E.'s symphony. The work that didn't quite fit this format was Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in D Minor. This is the other Mendelssohn violin concerto, not the famous one, the one he wrote when he was only 12. It's partly like a Baroque concerto, evoking the generation before C.P.E., and partly like the Mendelssohn to come.

Anyway, a good concert.