Attila at WCO

Raphael's Vatican fresco of Attila meeting Pope Leo, part of the series on 1st Millennium Christianity WIN.

For its fall show this past Friday, Washington Concert Opera presented Verdi's Attila headlined by John Relyea and Brenda Harris and an excellent supporting cast.

I missed out on the Muti-led Attilas at the Met last season so this was really my first experience with it. Musically, its neglect is certainly unfortunate--lots of colorful orchestral writing, a string of excellent if not quite top-40 arias, and some thrilling ensemble/chorus numbers. Libretto wise, however, its curiosity status makes a bit more sense. Editing isn't the problem--Attila is all business in banging through its plot points--but rather that the dramatic possibilities of the characters aren't quite realized to the point where they take off.

Attila is really the most interesting and, in a way, sympathetic character onstage. Being a Hun and all, he starts the opera indifferent to anything that doesn't involve pillaging, but is moved by Pope Leo to renounce his plan to sack Rome and ends up making a short-lived truce with the Italians. But, Michael Corleone style, he is pursued by his past wrongs and ultimately gives into and is undone by his thirst for blood and power. That arc also comes with a love story--part of his attempt to be a better barbarian is his love for Odabella, daughter of the general of the town he has just destroyed when the opera starts--but she of course has sworn her revenge and ultimately stabs him. Certainly a lot to work with in the tragic anti-hero department, right? But Attila's best music passes without much in the way of psychological engagement and he is virtually a bystander for Acts II and III until he is unceremoniously dispatched. Perhaps Verdi hasn't quite invented the signature introspective baritone aria that serves his later works so well, or perhaps the sublimated political agenda that runs through the work precludes any stronger sympathy for Attila. Either way, the piece feels like it revolves around a missed opportunity.

The same limitations afflict Odabella's character as well. The setup is clutch: she is introduced with that powerhouse aria about the badassery of Italian women which perversely attracts her father's killer to keep her in his camp. The potential for some internal conflict between her need for revenge and some mutual attraction with her captor is high, especially after we meet her wet blanket of a boyfriend (Foresto). But again, Odabella is largely sidelined after her aria opening the first act (a strong showpiece but emotionally static). These possibilities keep the drama interesting for a time, but ultimately do not move the plot.

* * *

Washington Concert Opera's production, if not quite a homerun on par with their Werther last spring, had lots to recommend it. Antony Walker excelled in demonstrating how much more there is to this score than oom-pah, and shepherded some riveting climaxes with the massed chorus and principals.

As discussed above, an Attila is somewhat disadvantaged by the material he has to work with, but John Relyea still seemed underwhelming. Its a fine voice certainly, and he turned in engaging readings of the main arias, but he lacked the authority required to give Attila much a commanding profile. His voice is probably not ideal for this work, which would benefit from some blacker flavor than his very pleasing instrument delivers. But still, it was a bit casual.

Brenda Harris made the strongest impression of the principals--here is one of those remarkable voices that is just naturally at home at its loudest. On the evidence of that killer first aria, I was a bit concerned that she actually didn't have a viable piano. But those fears were dispelled in her first Act aria, a smorgasbord of chilling effects, which, if not always the priddiest, were deftly executed and made for the evening's second biggest showstopper.

As whiny boyfriend Foresto, Arthur Espiritu brought a sweet beguiling tenor and fine sense of Italian diction and style (as I understand these things at least) that made his multiple arias a musical highlight, even if the drama could benefit from a lot less Foresto. That said, I see where Anne Midgette is coming from here--a sound like Espiritu's is more suited to an Ernesto than, say, a proto-Manrico, and there's certainly an argument to be made that the role should lean heavier.

James Stearns' Ezio (this Italian buddy of Attila's that ends up conspiring against him who also gets a questionable amount of stage time) was a strong player as well, bringing a rich baritone to the role and good command of the role.

Kudos as well to the assembled chorus, who offered the kind of precision that allows one to really take notice of the choral writing.

Next up, Saturday night's WNO opener...

Yuja Wang

Great recital here from last year's Verbier festival courtesy of medici.tv. She plays Liszt transcriptions of Schubert songs, the Symphonic etudes, a variety of Scriabin preludes, some Prokofiev, etc. I love what a grand time she seems to have while playing--then as soon as she gets up to bow she can't get out of there fast enough.

Also note that her dresses here would probably also be scandalous if they weren't floor length. That means this whole kerfuffle is about acceptable hemlines. C'mon grandmas. Get over it.

Gross

Zachary Woolfe has done a great service in digging into the backstory on the Met's shutdown of Brad Wilber's Met Futures page, for fifteen years(!) an invaluable source of information about future Met schedules (also h/t to parterre, of course). Reuters' Felix Salmon, primarily known for patiently explaining stuff about bonds to me, also weighs in.

The Met's pretense was that possible errors on the site somehow gave them the legal whatnot to request he take the site down. As Woolfe's piece makes clear, this is basically a gentle way to say "you are contrary to our corporate directives to control all information and you wouldn't last a second contesting this":

“I don’t know the facts of the situation involving the Met,” the noted First Amendment lawyer Floyd Abrams said in an email, “but as a general matter the Met has no legal right to control what is said about it unless the material published is libelous or written in a way to suggest falsely that the Met itself is the author. Material in the public domain may freely be described so long as the copyright laws are adhered to and non-defamatory material from sources may be published whether or not it was confirmed.”

I mean, obviously. In what America could a site like that be "libel" while the RNC's press releases circulate freely?

Not that it's a hill to die on or anything--its opera, and there are more important things in the world, etc. But that's what's so gross about it. Here's a site for the hobbyists, for the hard core that don't do the institution any economic favors but nonetheless carry the flame for opera as a great tradition for the listeners, not just the musicians--as an art form too beloved to be contained in the glossy morsels served up by one PR department. Its proof that the enterprise has a "constituency" and not just a subscriber base. And it's part of what makes New York far and away the greatest opera city in North America. (You don't see anyone committing to a Lyric Futures do you?)

But the Met's behavior isn't surprising or unique here--its just another symptom of the increasing dominance of marketing and PR prerogatives among classical music institutions. To the extent that "buzz" is a factor in reeling in an audience, it's nothing the machine can't generate on its own--and the machine can ensure that buzz is delivered in slick luxury packaging consistent with overall branding principles. One would like to be able to make some sort of statement about how an institution treating its most devoted fans like crap can only make for bad business but it doesn't quite wash. Opera's "fanboys" just don't deliver the goods.

But to channel a little Sandow: it's also hard to see how the increasingly hermetically sealed worldview of big-time classical PR, with its inexorable drive to erase all vestiges of a critical faculty in its audience, its flagrant abuse of superlatives, its need to turn the dark, messy, somewhere on the autism spectrum world of classical music into a Louis Vuitton handbag ad--its hard to see how that kind of PR will ever be terribly successful in facilitating new audiences' love for the art. Those who love it will still come, of course--but they'll love it in spite of its packaging.

P.S. Apparently Opera Tattler seems to be keeping up with San Francisco's futures seasons, albeit less comprehensively. Beware!

Re: Porgy

Stephen Sondheim's epic burn on the "Porgy and Bess" production being helmed by Diane Paulus with new material by Suzan Lori-Parks raises some natural pushback about whether Sondheim is getting behind excessive traditionalism here. So it seems appropriate to reiterate what is cool and what is not cool when producing new versions of old plays:

1. Productions supplying an existing text/score with stage business that radically departs from the traditional production: COOL. Here's the space for your Regietheater, your modern dress productions, your severe minimalism--you don't have to like it, but this is a valid way to present an existing play in a new light, draw new inferences, keep things fresh. As long as you allow some leeway with stage directions, there's really no theoretical daylight between a "traditional" version produced 100 years after the fact and a "nontraditional" version.

2. Productions that add/subtract elements of the body of existing text in an attempt to get closer to what they believe is an authoritative/performance friendly version: COOL. Yes, this gets tricky, and people can have heated arguments in good faith about what belongs in an authoritative/performance friendly version of a work. But its just in the nature of work written for the theater that "authoritative" is open to debate. Especially in opera, of course, we also have a long tradition of performance cuts. The current trend towards performing more rather than less of a score is a good one, but where cuts are kept, they are kept out of expedience or tradition, not some larger agenda, and constitute a relatively minor sin.

3. Productions that use substantial elements of an existing text but are unmistakably a new work: COOL. Here's the category for theatrical "mash-ups" of all sorts (provided ludicrous copyright laws aren't an issue).

4. Productions that substantially change the source material but could easily be mistaken for the original: NOT COOL. And that's what this new Porgy production sounds like. Go ahead and create a new play that is "about" Porgy and Bess. Call it "Porgy 2000". Proviso #3 says that's fine. But the whole enterprise of revival has to do with grappling with a text and trying to offer what is worthwhile about a work to a present-day audience. Without the bright line of the Text, the temptation to serve the lowest common denominator of current tastes to leverage an existing brand is too great, and surely that is a recipe for the most dishonest kind of art.

Others have suggested that what's really going on here is Paulus/Parks' attempting to be diplomatic about while softening "Porgy's" undeniably racist trappings for a modern audience. But why not just have that conversation outright instead of criticizing the quality of the work? If "Porgy" has more merit than other racist works of the period that have been justifiably consigned to the dustbin, that should be apparent in a good production. If it doesn't have merit beyond the catchy songs, then do a production that questions and interrogates that content (or do a highlights CD). What's not OK is sending the original material, with all its complexities, down the memory hole, and assuming that you can pass off something more palatable as the original.

Dept. of ridiculous child prodigies

Wait for the bow...

Unions

Nice to see Michael Kaiser coming out against those who would blame arts organizations' travails on unions and be done with it:

It is absolutely true that when income falls precipitously, as it has for many arts organizations, costs must be realigned. And it is also true that unions, in protecting their workers, fight tooth and nail to maintain their members' standard of living and work environment. That is why there are unions in the first place.

But the key issue is: why has revenue fallen so far for so many arts organizations?

It is not the fault of union members that we are selling fewer tickets or raising less funds. We can blame a terrible economy, lack of arts education in our schools, substantially lower government grants at every level and new forms of entertainment that compete for the time and resources of our audiences for much of the reduction in resources available for arts organizations. A recent study, for example, found that contributions for the arts fell much farther during the recession than had previously been expected.

There sure has been a disturbing amount of union-bashing in the last year or so. Not that one isn't allowed to disagree with specific unions' actions or policies, mind you--these are fallible institutions seeking their constituents' interests like any other, and any specific case will have multiple perspectives. What's distressing are the kneejerk suggestions that have nothing to do with a specific case but just generally assume collective bargaining practices are incompatible with economic reality.

The implication here is that union workers have been able to extract, and refuse to give up, salaries so unreasonable that they are a major impediment to institutions' financial health. Hence all the unseemly public dissection of middle and upper-middle class incomes and pundit handwringing over whether some other citizen "deserves" their morsel, a frequent note in the debate around public employees in Wisconsin as well as the orchestra performers in Detroit.

But this is just acquiescing to what anti-labor conservatives would have us believe: that workers are are entitled to no more than how the "market" prices their labor. This may sound good in econ 101, but in the real world negotiations do a much better job of ensuring workers get their fair share. Amidst capricious labor markets, stagnant wages, and persistent unemployment, its a bit alarming that so many are ready to believe unions have outlived their usefulness.

Update: Lisa Hirsch drops some truth bombs about some of the classical institution crises du jour in this post right here. Also see today's podcast from Andrew Patner.

More Liberals and the Arts

CAP's Alyssa Rosenberg delves into the issue of whether the arts should do more to align themselves with progressive politics (and by extension the Democratic party) to shore up a more durable position from which to protect its funding. She sees the appeal of this idea, but also wisely points out the costs:

But powerful outside groups have had to use hot pincers to obtain much of the support labor and women’s organizations have obtained from the Democratic lawmakers, and still experienced dramatic contractions of labor rights, union memberships, and abortion access. Throwing in with a political party may get the arts community access to machinery and infrastructure—but it would require arts organizations to build formidable new organizations and fundraising capacity to earn a seat at the party table, much less a favorable slot in the list of Democratic priorities.

The cultural sector in America possesses nothing akin to the organizations these other causes use to translate supporter dollars into lobbying might. And while there are an endless number of enlightened notions precious to progressive Washington, only the ones that line up along some angle of money and constituency actually precipitate action and taxpayer dollars.

That aside, how likely of a fit are the arts for progressive politics? Rosenberg calls it a "tough sell" because progressives, despite their best intentions, still have a hard time sticking up for controversial art, a big roadblock given conservatives' undimmed enthusiasm for culture war stunts.

But I think this underplays the real challenge: that liberals have serious misgivings about whether even the non-degenerate arts warrant government funding. Certainly there is a large swathe of liberals (who probably intersect with public television and radio contributors) that consider arts funding a virtuous use of taxpayer dollars. We observes this milieu, compares it to the narrow-minded, anti-intellectual strain of conservative zealotry now (still) ascendant, and assumes that liberals must be on the side of culture and by extension whatever government can do for it. But that fight is really about free speech and cultural tastes (i.e. letting people express themselves vs. being a reactionary asshole); it tells us very little about how different political persuasions feel about government's role in subsidizing the arts.

So in the interest of figuring out where liberal-minded people really come down on that question, I submit four concerns/suspicions that a lot, if not the majority, of liberals probably have about government funded sponsorship of the arts:

1. Arts subsidies have some fundamentally anti-populist features. This is the protest one hears against government support when aligned with bastions of "high" culture--that the government shouldn't be in the business of supporting culture that is experienced by relatively few people or culture that, despite subsidies, still charges for entry.
2. Unsubsidized culture is satisfying enough. If you don't mind largely excluding a few sectors (i.e. classical music), it is the case today that a liberal-minded person in a big city can live a highly fulfilling cultural life without ever consuming (or more importantly perceive that they are consuming) a piece of art that has received any direct government subsidy.
3. Arts subsidies' effect on societal welfare is weak to nonexistent. After 40 years of fighting a rearguard action against conservatives who would drown government in the proverbial bathtub, liberals are highly protective of the narrow but unimpeachable space in which justified government action exists. As an economic welfare enhancing activity, the arts may well have some value, but it falls somewhere below the already dubious value of state-sponsored sports stadiums and well short of preferred investments in infrastructure, health care, etc.
4. Arts subsidies go to works without redeeming social/political content. This is sort of the liberal counterpart of conservatives' anger over taxpayer dollars spent on "degenerate art"--a sense that, if the people are going to fund art, then it should at least advance the peoples' aims. More fundamentally, it is a rebuke to the (not unfounded) concern that governments sponsor art in order to perpetuate the dominant culture.

Save perhaps for #3 and probably #4, you'll recognize these as points that Greg Sandow makes frequently. What arts (and especially classical music) inclined folks need to confront is that he's not playing a classical music provocateur when he channels these ideas, but as a liberal trying to reconcile his enthusiasm for the arts with his gut reactions.

Follies at the Kennedy Center

Big caveat: I am a Follies virgin as far as a staged production goes--listened for years, read my share, etc., but suffice it to say this is going to include a lot of half baked speculation of what Follies "should" be. Fair warning and all.

Its not a huge mystery why this show is problematic. The central story of Ben and Phyllis and Buddy and Sally--the now-tortured couples who met thirty years ago while the women were chorines in the last days of the fictional "Weisman Follies"--requires the highest caliber acting if it is to be believed amidst the book's flimsy framework. And then there is the massive score that demands its army of supporting players deliver the pastiche songs with such a range of particular shadings that the probability one production will get them all right approaches zero. And, perhaps most troublesome, the production numbers can't just coast along on empty dazzle, how they are presented and their effectiveness are integral to the success of the show.

The current Kennedy Center production, directed by Signature Theatre's Eric Schaeffer, does well on point 1, not so good on point 2, and quite strongly on point 3. And when it is firing on all of these cylinders--as it might more frequently in a less fallible world--it is truly a thing of terrible beauty.

Even by Sondheim standards, the four principals in Follies each has a daunting acting challenge. Among these, Sally, the 49-year-old living out a 19-year-old's fantasy world, is surely the heaviest lift, and Bernadette Peters follows her down the emotional rabbit-hole fearlessly. This is the Sally the book really asks for--damaged goods from the start and often an unlikable wreck, even as she breaks your heart. On the whole, this is a very successful interpretation, set back only by the fact that BP looks more spectacular than any downtrodden housewife has a right to. Also, the Act I numbers, particularly "Too Many Mornings", are clearly a bitch to sing, but they may lie in an especially unfriendly portion of BP's voice and she has not quite figured out how to navigate them successfully.

The slightly weak link among the principals is Ron Raines' Benjamin Stone. Raines brings a fine, strong voice to the part that makes Ben's numbers a lot more attractive than when done by an older voice (i.e. John McMartin on the OBC). But its also difficult to take his travails seriously--rather than a man thoroughly broken by the evening's end, this Ben doesn't seem to fully believe the claims to agony coming out of his own mouth.

Jan Maxwell's Phyllis and Danny Burstein's Buddy are recommended without reservation. Her "Could I Leave You" and his "God-Why-Don't-I-Love-You-Blues" (hon. mention to "The Right Girl") are probably the finest instances of the Sondheimian art on view in this production, each delivered with a blistering, spot-on intelligence.

On the second point: Can I make a somewhat glib blanket statement about the problems with the supporting cast? Older actresses may not be old enough to make Follies work properly anymore. The haunting magic of the show is rooted in a central conceit that is just a little bit grotesque: elderly people inhabited by the ghosts of their former selves to the point where they, and the audience, can't quite tell where the person ends and the ghost begins. The idea is that as we age we must learn to cope with our accumulated spectral pasts--the protagonists of Follies are pointedly middle-aged to explore the problems of succumbing too early to those ghosts against the backdrop of the older performers who may be in closer communion with them. But the dramatic effect of this contrast doesn't really take off when everyone onstage resides in that robust, perpetual middle-age which we now take for granted.

For instance, Linda Lavin sings"Broadway Baby" here as though she has no plans of quitting show business any time soon. Lavin sounds and looks great (in a classy purple cocktail outfit), and gives a stirring performance of the song, but that's just the trouble. "Broadway Baby" isn't a feel good showstopper to demonstrate the actress has "still got it"--set properly in the context of the show it should have clear pangs of discomfort, where the key lyric "Maybe someday/All my dreams will be repaid" is poignant and dark (though the degree to which the character delivering it is in on the irony may be ambiguous).

Unfortunately, this is largely the MO for all of the Act I character numbers, not least of all a very unconvincing "I'm Still Here" sung by Elaine Page. Schaeffer stages them as cute crowd-pleasers and the audience is duly pleased, but the thread of loss, wistfulness, delusion, and gritty determination that should run through these sequences and define the mood of the show is rarely found.

That leaves the final leg of the Follies three-legged stool: the production numbers. And on this count the Kennedy Center production does very well. "Mirror, Mirror" is an early success. A largely faithful recreation of Michael Bennet's original choreography (so I gather), the interplay between the ghost dancers and the aging stars is complex and fluid, producing the unnerving effect of the boundaries between past and present being crossed.

The main event--the Loveland sequence in which the leads' intractable emotional mess is transfigured into a half hour musical theatre extravaganza--is an acid delight from beginning to end, a winning spectacle that rivets your attention with its blend of bravado and emotional nakedness. The one weak link may be Peters' "Losing My Mind". She offers a devastating, emotionally fraught performance in line with the characterization she has marked out, but it feels out of step with the fantasy of "Loveland", where the characters are supposed to be burrowed into characters within themselves until Ben's epiphany breaks the spell. "Losing My Mind" should be Sally as wounded chanteuse, not Sally as wounded housewife.

Update: Just in case it's not clear, that IS a recommendation to go see the show. If it isn't quite the elusive unicorn Follies one dreams of, it is nonetheless a very serious, rewarding attempt to grapple with the show and one that invests the level of resources necessary to present a legitimate full-fledged production. Not to be missed if you love Sondheim and can manage (it closes June 19th)...

Get comfortable

Oh lord. Well, clearly the brave new world of balance sheet repair in our classical music institutions is going to involve more B'way and pops, if the recent reports from Philadelphia and the WNO are any indication.

I think most people would agree that schmaltzy arrangements and, as Downey puts it, "half-ass Broadway" are two pernicious trends which our civilization could do with less of (not that whole-ass Broadway indicates a professional show with all the trimmings mind you, just that ulterior motives like hoodwinking people into the opera house tends to make for bad theatre). Without too much tiresome wringing of hands, though, I'm interested in what these strategies really accomplish.

In WNO's case, they haven't done anything yet of course, and even then it's not the end of the world--more prestigious companies have gone down that road and a forgettable musical production here and there will be easy to ignore or muddle through (FZ, I will go if you do Sondheim but I'm not sitting through a poorly staged Showboat). But nonetheless there's something to quibble with in bringing up musicals and "accessibility" in a conversation about new directions for a financially challenged opera company. As far as I can tell, lots of people are accessing the WNO despite its persistent stinginess with tickets under $50--the problem isn't poor attendance, but rather the murkier problems of an inadequate donor base, poor financial planning and excessive operating costs. Yet readers will see "WNO considering musicals to dig itself out of its financial hole" and come away with the tired old narrative that classical music needs to increase its appeal by...not offering classical music. So go and do it if you like, but let's be clear that 1) it isn't a response to some massive unsatisfied demand, and 2) it doesn't really belong on a list of exciting "new directions" for an opera company.

Whatever the merits of its bankruptcy, the Philadelphia Orchestra sales situation is clearly more dire, and so my question here is non-snarky--I can see where pops shows do well on dedicated occasions and as special alternative programs, but what has the experience been with expanding these seasons? Is there a large untapped audience for listening to Star Wars in the concert hall that will keep showing up if you keep feeding them new shows? How often does a new pops concertgoer show up at a regular symphony program? Again, honest questions, though I will say that making the Philadelphia Orch do medleys or whatever seems a lot crueler than using the KC opera house to put on a show (perhaps owing to some unexamined opinions about the relative scrappiness of singers vs. elite instrumentalists).

Werther at WCO

Washington Concert Opera offered a very fine presentation of Massenet's Werther Sunday--a work which I'm sorry to say I was relatively unfamiliar with beyond some assorted Youtube clips, a review here and there, and the occasional fits of snark it seems to inspire. And indeed, the first two Acts really don't do too much more than hang a lot of balls-out tenor writing on the fairly static and unmoving story about how Werther is a total bummer. But the revelation in Acts 3 & 4 that his love for Charlotte is not unrequited makes things far more interesting. Sorry, Werther fans, if this should be obvious--it's very possible Massenet is dropping this plot all through Act II and I just failed to pick it up. But regardless, the drama that comes into focus in the second half is unexpectedly taut, and by the end, quite moving.

In fact, I found Werther much more emotionally direct and engaging than Manon, where one's sympathy for the central character suffers a lot by the end on account of the relentless slut-shaming. Clearly Werther has a better time in Europe these days, but I was surprised to find it loses out to Manon by a hefty Margin judging by the Met Opera Database scorecard--a whopping 257 to 73.

Mind you, that discrepancy may have something to do with the relative paucity of leading men who can make Werther an event in America's diva-oriented opera culture. And so it was the WCO audience's good fortune to have Giuseppe Filianoti, in superb voice, bring his Werther to GW' Lisner's Hall this past Sunday.

I last saw Filianoti live in 2005, during his spectacular run of Lucia's at the Met, and since then, the heartbreaking story of his battle with thyroid cancer has read like the script to one of those tearjerkers about a young gifted opera singer facing adversity, finding out who his real friends are, and ultimately returning in triumph (why can't we have this? why?). I've heard some broadcasts in that period that definitely revealed his challenges, and indeed, the Rigoletto's that just wrapped up at the Met may have demonstrated that he is not entirely out of the woods if caught on the wrong night.

But forget that noise. Filianoti's Werther was a thing of triumph through and through. After the slightest hint of a warm-up period, he locked into form, offering page after page of ardent, thrilling vocalism--indeed, until costar Jennifer Larmore got some real stage time in Act III it was more or less a matter of impatiently waiting for Filianoti to shuffle on morosely from stage left and open that golden throat. More than just the unique beauty of his sound, though, Filianoti possesses some of that old time magick I mention from time to time. His sheer commitment raises the stakes of everything that happens onstage.

Oh, there were a few quibbles--the high A that closes high B towards the end of the second Act (h/t Downey...that'll teach me to be fancy) didn't work out so hot and, unless I was misinterpreting some death noises, his stamina flagged a tad at the very end. Also, and I may be wrong about this, but I suspect his open Italian vowels may not have played well with the French at a few points, producing some off-message sounds here and there. But again: quibbles.

Filianoti had a great partner in Jennifer Larmore, who I don't think I've ever seen before. Her moody, back-to-back arias at the beginning of Act III demonstrated her capability to create a stunning range of colors with her by turns airy and dark-hued mezzo. Throughout the second half she matched Filianoti in passion, realizing Charlotte's tortured frustration and pity for Werther with biting intensity.

The rest of the cast was strong as well, particularly Joelle Harvey's skillful, big-voiced presentations of Sophie's difficult coloratura material and Timothy Mix's thoughtful Albert. Antony Walker led a fine performance in the "pit" from the WCO band, bringing a lot of gravity and transparency to the effects Massenet uses to build the emotion behind his story, and making the pretty parts plenty pretty, too.

Update: Here's Joe Banno in the Post, and Downey's take is here.

NSO in NIELSEN! and also perhaps Beethoven and Sibelius I guess

Had a chance to hear Nielsen's 4th symphony live last night--the first performance, the program tells us, done by the NSO since 1985, which is decidedly f'd up. Because upon hearing it one is left with little doubt that Nielsen's symphony is a completely remarkable piece of music, and that its tremendous impact really must be experienced live.

Nielsen is a master of many things--of suspense, of ecstatic climax, of dazzling harmonic invention--but to think the 4th symphony is only fireworks (and dueling timpani!) is wrong. It is also a work of Brahmsian melancholy and deep introspection. It's a work that reminds us why we go to the symphony.

How it is still relatively unpopular in this country should be a great mystery (nice rundown from A. Ross here). Nielsen's appeal to the Kennedy Center audience was palpable, the electric energy of the "Inextinguishable" far more than they had bargained for with the sedate first half pairing of one of those national-flavored tone poems by Sibelius and the Beethoven 4th piano concerto (played with much fleetness but frequent unpleasantness of tone by Nikolai Lugansky).

As led by Thomas Dausgaard, the NSO played the Nielsen with fearless abandon, clearly reveling in its novelty and its challenge. Our (my) experience with the Nielsen 4th is limited, of course, but its hard to imagine anyone walking away from this NSO performance with less than a desperate hunger to hear more Nielsen on American programs.

The last time I looked at the seating chart, coverage looked fairly grim, though the house was respectable on Thursday night. For those of you considering attending tonight (Saturday) what with the discount tix and all, you should obviously do it--you won't see another NSO concert this exhilarating for a while...

Update: Anne Midgette spends a lot of time on the flaws of the Beethoven, but does have this to say about the Nielsen:

It’s a piece that grabs you by the throat and leaves you flattened, culminating with a pitched battle between two full sets of timpani, positioned at opposite sides of the orchestra, that evokes nothing so much as trench warfare (the piece was written during World War I) [...] Dausgaard couldn’t get the orchestra to play with all the finesse one might have wished for, but he got a lot of blunt force out of them, and muscled the concert back into the realm of the viscerally exciting where it had begun.

Paul Appleby at the Kennedy Center

Vocal Arts DC presented up n' coming tenor Paul Appleby with pianist Steven Blier last night, hot off his run in the Luisi-DiDonato-Urmana Ariadnes at the Met, where he is in the Lindemann Young Artist Development program (you want buzz? at least one parterre chat room lurker called out his Brighella during the b-cast last week).

Appleby boasts a warm, very fresh sounding tenor of moderate weight that is always appealing and frequently striking. In this rewarding program of off-the-beaten-path songs, he also demonstrated a wide ranging musical intelligence. Steven Blier, his voice coach and collaborator (nice profile by Justin Davidson here), served as a robust and fascinating partner at the piano, if the balance was perhaps a shade more competitive than I find ideal.

The opening set presented three unfamiliar Italian songs from Verdi, Mascagni, and Pedrotti. These were hard to dislike, given their natural fit for Appleby's voice and his engaging sense of Italian style. Yet, perhaps a casualty of their lead billing, his sound was also frequently unfocused and and a bit careless. The following two sets, songs by Zemlinsky and Roussel, were the meatiest of the program, and Appleby made a persuasive case--particularly in the anxious eroticism of the Roussel numbers.

Perhaps the strongest selections opened the second half, however--Latin American songs by Carols Guastavino, Carlos Lopez-Buachardo, Pixiguinha, Piazzolla, and Villa Lopez. Here Appleby offered an exquisitely controlled and seductive sound, as well as thrilling climaxes, as in the penultimate showstopper, Villa-Lobos' "Samba Classico". I find, when listening to vocal recitals, that the degree to which I ignore the translations can be a sort of perverse indicator of how well things are going: I can assure you I have basically have no idea what's going on in these Latin pieces.

Unfortunately, the American songs which closed the program were decidedly less successful. The one art song in the set, "Evening Song" by Griffes, was overstuffed and forgettable (not entirely Appleby's fault, to be sure). In the remainder, jazz/standard selections by Gershwin, Porter, Hoagy Carmichael and Thelonious Monk ("'Round Midnight" with appended lyrics) Appleby fell short of the crucial test for opera singers doing pop/rock/what have you: whether a reasonable person can forget they would rather be hearing a native pop/show interpreter doing the song. Appleby's voice didn't stop sounding great, of course, but his interpretations are as yet contrived--jazz/pop affectations artfully arranged rather than attempts at real communication.

Things did not improve in the two somewhat indulgent encores--a rather twee rendition of Bruce Springteen's "Fire" and a take on Paul Simon's "American Tune" that substituted generic pop dramatics for that song's haunting humility.

Update: Here's Downey in the Post with a mixed review (though not so bad as the title implies).

Iphigenie at WNO

WNO pulled out the big guns Friday for an Iphigenie en Tauride that was no doubt the most significant musical presentation of the season (not to downplay the many fine qualities in other recent shows, mind you). I've managed to see it twice before, in that celebrated Met Wadsworth version with Domingo, Graham, and Paul Groves, and the '06 Lyric run with Graham and Groves (which I remember as total dullsville production-wise though apparently I had some kinder words for it at the time)--but I'd venture that this outing made me appreciate anew what an incredible work it is. Some superficial flaws aside, this WNO revival makes an excellent case for the taut drama, involving psychology, and disarming music of Gluck's work. As Charles Downey's preview notes, this is a work that thrives the closer it gets to the sensibility of the Greek drama at its source. Where those afore-mentioned productions sometimes traded in heavy melodrama at the expense of clarity, the WNO production does a fine job of letting the plot unfold on the strength of the characters' own motivations and intelligence, and allowing the audience to really engage with the play.

Racette, in a role debut, sounds glorious in this music, if some of the trickier transitions are as yet a bit clumsy and the top thins a bit. This is a more thoughtful, reserved Iphigenie than Susan Graham's desperate refugee--the stern, almost desensitized authority Iphigienie must project in her public capacity clearly contrasted with her private anguish. The second act was gripping throughout, though I think she has room to dig deeper into the possibilities afforded by Iphigenie's arias in the first act, which were beautiful to listen to but somewhat perfunctory.

Shawn Mathey's Pylade turned in a fine first act, including a soaring "Unis dès la plus tendre enfance" (trans. "Oreste, I am totally gay for you"). He remained pretty committed through the second act (I imagine it is tough for most people not to seem just a bit aloof next to his stage bro), though vocally seemed to hit an increasing number of rough patches and was working awfully hard for it by the end. At his best he delivers a warm passionate sound, and his middleweight (vocal) size is a solid fit for the part, even if I find myself wanting something heavier at times.

And of course, Placido Domingo is onstage. I mean, there's just no getting around the fact that hearing him live continues, against all odds, to be one of the greatest gifts you can give to your ears (love this old Sieglinde post from the 2005 Met Walkure's intimating that the dark arts are at work). But even more than that, one pines for the immediacy of what he does with that big wonderful voice. On a stage of sensitive method actors, Domingo is old-school Hollywood--there's little chance of him disappearing behind Oreste, or Lohengrin, or what have you, but that doesn't mean what he's communicating isn't true. His tortured bravado, and the sad tender moments between him and Racette were the dramatic highlights of the evening.

As noted above, the dramatic action between the principals was well choreographed and communicated, and included some striking visuals like the red fabric representing the altar in the finale and the "blood" pursuing Oreste during his great monologue, though there were also a number of needlessly artsy/fussy moments. As choices go, the first act ballet was one of the more intriguing bits, a creepy interlude performed by four dancers in bathing suits and disco mirror caps plus a guy on hoof-like shorty stilts.

Before the half, the physical production flirted dangerously with the sort of unappealing hodgepodge concept we've been seeing a lot of here. But the second half brought enough successful moments to temper, if not entirely reverse, that assessment. The set is your basic "abstract antiquity" theme which, if somewhat static, gets the job done, and things vastly improved after the shiny black terrazzo wall that dominated the first half was retired. Costuming was a kind of lazy nondescript modern dress, trenchcoats for principals, sequined smocks for the chorus--you fill in the blanks. This sort of aesthetic muddiness doesn't really detract from the overall impact, but doesn't do it any favors either.

Oh and PS, if you are seeing the production, do note the whole aria Pylade does by the light of Marcellus Wallace's briefcase...

Update: Here's Anne Midgette's Post review...and Downey weighs in at DCist...and here's Tim Smith.

Aimard plays Liszt, Scriabin, Berg, Wagner

Had the chance to hear Pierre Laurent-Aimard live for the first time Thursday evening at the 6th and I synagogue. I know calling someone's approach "clinical" can imply you are accusing them of being a robot pianist, but it's really a compliment here, I swear. Aimard's masterful refinement of tone and color allow him to create insightful, intense readings full of precise detail.

Hearing Wagner's non-operatic music is always kind of disappointing in an interesting way (the Siegfried Idyll and to a lesser extent the Wesendock lieder excepted, of course). Aimard's placement of his Sonata in A Flat Major between two Liszt pieces (La lugubre gondola I and Nuages gris) brought those impressions into high relief. The takeaway: while in no way bad to listen to, Wagner's small bore pieces come off more or less like a Wagner-highlight CD, lots of unbearable priddiness and heaving, but very little of the magic that makes people really like Wagner. But played with Aimard's severe commitment, Liszt's pieces start to sound a lot like what Wagner's should, and what makes his operas so great--the sense of suspended time, the visceral power of the smallest detail, the reliance on overwhelming atmosphere rather than statement. The other two highlights of the first half was Berg's Piano Sonata No. 1, from which Aimard extracted many beautiful moments, and Scriabin's Piano Sonata No. 9, the "Messe Noire". Aimard plays Scriabin with little of the ephemeral, shadowy flavor to be found elsewhere, but what is lost in mysticism is gained in clarity.

The second half was devoted to the Lizst B Minor Sonata--my second hearing this Spring after Kissin's March recital. Where Kissin brought forward the Sonata's emotional sweep, Aimard seems wary of layering too much sentiment on top of this beast, and seemed most at home in its blackest most terrifying moments. Also, the finale was ridiculously impressive. No encores after that, though the audience certainly tried...

Update: Here's Charles Downey and Joe Banno in the Post...

The cost disease and classical music

Here's Greg Sandow on the "cost disease" afflicting symphony orchestras:

The principle -- generally accepted by economists -- is simple enough. Suppose you're a company that manufactures things (or, these days, contracts to have them manufactured). As time goes on, the manufacturing process gets more efficient. Productivity rises. So you spend less money to make more widgets.

This happens more or less through the entire economy. So we all (very generally speaking) get richer. (Obviously, I'm leaving out such factors as glaring income inequality, which normally I care a lot about.) Because we're richer, we can have things we didn't have before. Computers. iPhones. More sophisticated cars. More varied clothes and food. We take these things for granted. They're part of our lives. We expect to be paid enough so we can buy them. Which, if we work for a company that shows increased productivity, isn't hard for our employers to do.

But some big players in our economy get left out of this. These are institutions (very typically nonprofits) that don't show productivity gains. Orchestras, for instance. It takes just as many musicians to play a symphony now as it did 50 years ago. Or hospitals. Or universities.

Orchestras, in fact, are less productive than they were, because (see above) they need larger staffs, for marketing and development. And so orchestras fall behind the rest of the economy. Their costs keep rising, just everybody else's do. Just like General Electric, or Ralph Lauren, they have to pay higher salaries than they used to, so their musicians -- and the people on their staff -- can buy computers, and nicely varied food.

A nice summary of the notion, as articulated by its main proponent William Baumol in a 1966 book and subsequent papers, can be found here.

There's something seductive about this idea: a nice graph pops into one's head in which the cost line mercilessly rises past the income line, something like those graphs of Medicare spending if we don't get our shit together fast.

But some things also seem fishy. Like, just how long does this cost-death take, anyhow? Private symphonies and opera companies in some semblance of their modern administrative forms have been around for at least 150 years. Compared to other horror stories of obsolescence by productivity (banister carvers and carriage whip makers anyone?), that seems like a pretty balmy fate. Also, the crux of the cost disease argument seems to come back to the idea that industries which cannot improve the unit productivity past some point are doomed--once you can't reduce staff or increase product volume any further, rising wage costs mean you're dead in the water. Yet we seem to be surrounded by business models that would also fail this test, like any independent urban restaurant that is predicated upon the labor that goes into food production and service, rather than the simple distribution of increasingly cheaper foodstuffs to a larger audience.

Tyler Cowen touches on many of these issues in a 1996 critique of the "cost disease" notion here, focusing on a couple of key points:

1) In economist speak, the "cost disease" hypothesis posits that substitution effects swamp income effects, i.e., the desire to switch away from the low-productivity symphony sector to a higher productivity substitute dominates decisions. But a scenario where increased incomes cause individuals to consume more of the symphony sector, even if it is more expensive, is no less plausible.

2) Why should we assume that the symphony orchestra and other performing arts organizations are fundamentally incapable of increasing their productivity? Baumol's example which Sandow repeats--it still takes the same 50 dudes to play symphony x it did in 1780--seems far too narrow a way to conceive of the musical services a modern arts organization is capable of rendering with the technology available to distribute their product. Recordings, and recent developments in live broadcast, are the obvious innovations, of course. But consider as well the ways that modern travel and communications allow the most modest string quartet to tour the globe. Even the ubiquity of large modern concert halls represent advances in distribution.

3) Finally, Cohen argues that the "cost disease" hypothesis ignores improvements in product diversity and quality and illuminates nothing more than rising nominal costs. Today's orchestra has a few hundred years of extra repertoire to offer relative to that 1780 orchestra, and large improvements in the quality of performance that create real additional value for orchestra consumers--value that can't be easily compared to the 'value' gleaned from cutting the timpani section.

Obviously, performing arts organizations are having a hard time of it right now, and I'm not saying that any of these things are a silver bullet or "prove" that everything is alright. But the cost disease idea and its predictions of inescapable economic annihilation for the performing arts seem just a bit too convenient for those who indulge in classical music pessimism. Blaming the current troubles on theories about the economic exceptionalism of arts organizations rather than understanding them in the context of the larger economy seems counterproductive.

Update: Matthew Guerrieri has a great post on the "cost disease" here (and kindly links to the above)...

The New Walkure

So…about that Walkure premiere last Friday. Not a home run, music wise, but a lot going for it:

Voigt confidently meets the role’s basic demands (this premiere should really silence the shrillest doubters) and, for sheer vocal appeal, is clearly in a superior class than your Gasteens and your Watsons. But if her top notes can still capture that steely purity, further down the staff things grows hollow and pinched. More problematic was the fact that her reading Friday was fairly pedestrian; passages meant to bloom with careful dynamics came off as secure but blunt. Hopefully this is attributable to needing some time to grow in the part (and the run) and not a sign that the level of security she achieves comes at the price of the finesse that really makes the part exciting. Her Brunnhilde wasn’t quite as superficial as fall’s dramatically flat Salome’s in DC, but the overall impression just isn’t terribly authoritative as of yet.

As expected, Terfel is much better served by the Walkure Wotan than the Rheingold one. While that coveted “deity timbre” is clearly not on the table, and the spectre of barkiness can never quite be dispelled, his interpretation offers some undeniable pleasures, like a bitter, haunted Act II monologue and a melting “Der Augen Leuchtendes Paar” that reminded everyone why his casting seemed like a good idea in the first place.

Kaufmann and Blythe are the principles that really deliver without reservation. My small quibble with Kaufmann is that his Siegmund has lots of potential for a great portrayal but would benefit from a bit more freedom and lacked something in the seduction department (Jimmy wasn’t doing him any favors in the pit, mind you). That said, if you see him don’t say anything because with that remarkable voice he should clearly be owning Met Siegmunds for the next decade or so. Blythe is a total pro in this music and offers the complete Wagnerian package—her booming Fricka combined spine-tingling sound with jumbo-sized doses of spite and indignation (I was up against the wall in Fam Circ and could hear her rattling the paneling). Westbroek’s Sieglinde sounded excellent in the first Act but was apparently ill—her fancy cover was Margaret Jane Wray who drove things home with little missed.

Hearing the Met Orchestra play this music with all their exceptional precision and warmth is always a privilege, though Levine turned in a somewhat subpar performance on the heels of his riveting Wozzecks. The problems, as others have noted, were most pronounced in the first Act, which never really managed to catch fire as it should. One can take slower tempos in Act I, of course, provided the payoff is a richer experience of the score, but Levine’s heel-dragging was carried out in rigid four-four time, largely smothering any opportunities for the sensuality and abandon called for. Acts II and III picked up substantially, but I still could have used a little more feeling and sweep in the big Act III moments.

* * *

As far as the production goes: sorry, but I’m out. I wanted to be a good sport about this new Ring, and last night’s Walkure made a much bigger effort than the fall’s Rheingold, but it also proved just what a mess the thing is.

To go back to basics: an opera production follows a certain aesthetic or conceptual frame in order to highlight and enhance intellectual and emotional aspects of the piece in question. In some productions, your Chereau Bayreuth Ring for instance, the visual language helps to articulate a fairly specific interpretation (the industrial revolution setting driving the audience to consider the political and historical currents in the Ring). In something like the New Bayreuth productions of the 50s, severe aesthetic parameters encourage a dialogue with the Ring's past productions and challenge the audience to appreciate it anew without all the baggage.

Even the hyper naturalistic Schenk Ring is far from “neutral” in its production values—it delivers emotional impact by heightening the romantic use of nature that permeates the piece (e.g. Wotan is like an awesome mountain, Siegfried’s puberty is like a sunrise, etc). Its claims to authenticity are as much a konzept as anything, engaging the audience in questions about whether an “authentic” representation brings us closer to or narrows our experience of the piece. And, of course, whether “authentic” is even a worthwhile or possible goal.

The aesthetic of this LePage ring is: “making the big set machine look like whatever we can manage, hopefully pretty”. It is an anti-production, a production without an idea in its head, and unified only by the constant desperation to pull off pleasing looking things within the meaningless parameters of its physical materials. Its most ambitious claim is simply that it can be done—that it will live up to vague promises to astonish. The experience of watching it, waiting Gollum-like for the meager thrill of a spinning plank or fleeting sparkly graphic, is intellectually deadening—an astonishing conclusion to reach while watching a piece so rich with dramatic and intellectual possibility.

Yes, on the surface it seems to be going for some of the same territory as the Schenk production, and there are some nice looking bits to be sure, particularly the trees/snow setup for Siegmund’s opening run through the forest. But any gestures in this direction are just a convenient way to provide some cover for its empty soul. No one really aiming to present beauty and nature onstage—implying an experience that is seamless, elegant, and inspiring to look at—could justify mounting a production which routinely asks the audience to watch the unadorned planks in all their horrible nakedness.

With the needs of the machine reigning supreme, it is perhaps not surprising the extent to which the normal considerations of stagecraft are sacrificed or neglected in this production. The machine generally constricts the singers’ playing space to 10-15 feet between the raised apron and the whirling planks of death, and within this narrow band they are choreographed with a shoddiness embarrassing for such a major stage. Key blocking moments (i.e. the final Brunnhilde/Wotan moment) are played clumsily and have little emotional impact; elegant solutions of routine staging challenges (i.e. how to make Brunnhilde’s getaway at the end of Act II mildly plausible) are simply not attempted (she stares at Wotan’s back for 90 seconds from two feet away before slowly gathering her things and walking off).

Also, the lighting is bad—for long stretches the singers look like they are being illuminated by the Met’s work lights. Even when things are a tad more deliberate, the lighting design does little to evoke the dramatic locale or moment. Consider the Valkyrie horse gimmick: so, yes, the Valkyries each “ride” a plank that bobs up and down kinda like a big horse head. But that’s it. They are bobbing up and down on a uniform brightly lit set that does nothing to evoke a night sky or horses or whatever. The point of this “coup-de-theatre” is not to bring to life this improbable moment onstage—it is to “inspire” the audience to clinically examine the bobbing motion, determine it is like horses, and applaud. Theatrical illusions are supposed to awe by persuading the audience that extraordinary things (helicopters landing, cats flying tires, etc) are happening onstage—LePage’s Ring defines illusion down.

Another complaint: even more so than Rheingold, this Walkure features a number of moments in which one fears for the safety of singers or extras. That’s not to say they are sacrificing singers’ safety for the production—I’m sure everything is on the up and up—but it points to how the design team’s concerns lie with creating apparent thrills rather than real visceral excitement. Audience members may be impressed that you hung someone upside down 30 feet in the air, but if done poorly they don’t actually enjoy it. Take the final scene on the rock: stunt double Brunnhilde is shuffled to the top of the machine, gingerly laid down (attached to some kind of invisible harness) and then very slowly lifted to be upside down and vertical, to get the effect of the audience looking down on top of the mountain, with the whirring planks doing a poor imitation of fire on all sides. By the end of the whole clumsy set up, shown in excruciating detail with little sense of surprise, the audience is simply glad that not-Voigt hasn’t fallen to her death.

But I’ll stop there. I have no problem with a “traditional” Ring, and certainly not a “traditional” Ring that tries to get where it is going with novel means instead of papier-mâché boulders. But there needs to be a destination—some vision for the 17 plus hours of the Ring that gives it a life or meaning that could never be achieved on a concert stage. The disturbing thing about LePage’s Ring is that it isn’t derived from any vision for the Ring, but a narrow vision for a spectacle which isn’t even very spectacular.

Urban Arias III: Glory Denied

Before saying a word about the final Wozzeck performance at the Met last Saturday, I just want to give a shout out to Tom Cipullo's "Glory Denied", the last installment in Urban Arias inaugural season, which I neglected to review after the fact.

Suffice it to say, this was a great way to send off the first round of what promises to be a very enjoyable institution for DC. The piece, for a quartet of singers and chamber orchestra, deals with the story of Jim Thompson, the longest held Vietnam POW, and his wife, Alyce, who left him for another man during his captivity, and is a fine example of the dramatic and musical possibilities of the form. The cast led by Michael Chioldi in a commanding performance, made a strong impression as equal to both the dramatic as well as musical demands of the piece, while the orchestra under the direction of Robert Wood achieved fine balance with the singers without sacrificing the many interesting details in Cipullo's score.

If I could register two quibbles, they would be Jim's bitter aria on his return to a changed country--I'm sure one day the rhyming list of postwar cultural touchstones will be acceptable again but for now its hard to take these things seriously when it just puts "We Didn't Start the Fire" in your head. Here the gimmick seems too glib and out of place with the otherwise earnest, plainspoken libretto. Also, Urban Aria's otherwise efficiently and elegantly staged production suffered from a stream of intrusive, poor quality overhead projections. I get that this is tempting when dealing with quasi-documentary material, but it just never works, people.

Anyhow, looking forward to seeing what next year's season will be...

P.S. For a more detailed discussion of the opera, see this Parterre review of a Chelsea Opera production from the fall.

Urban Arias II: Green Sneakers

So, second evening at Urban Arias, for another piece by Ricky Ian Gordon entitled "Green Sneakers", was decidedly less successful than the first installment, though certainly a well put together production.

The show's problems largely have to do with Gordon's piece itself, a very personal meditation on his partner's death, and honest and serious work that is nonetheless limited by a fundamental mismatch between the content he draws on and how he executes it. The trouble isn't the music--Gordon's musical language here, call it "sentimental Britten" (I mean that in a nice way), is perfectly engaging on its own terms. But unfortunately it is a limited way to convey the dramatic material he is working with, a series of scenes from the period leading up to and following his partner's passing.

I'm afraid there's no way to do this without a lot of bad generalizations, but here goes. The musical language of opera and its derivatives communicates a lot of things well--desperation, ecstasy, what's on deities' minds--a result of opera's closer alignment to abstract music. Opera's strength, first and foremost, is direct communication via music (for this reason, opera librettos can suck pretty hard and not impair the overall effectiveness of a work). Does that mean dramatic content isn't important in opera and we'd do just as well to listen to Traviata with everyone singing solfege? Of course not. But the content exists more to signify a dramatic corollary to the music than engage us directly in its language and details, in the manner of a play.

Which is all well and good, but not very ideal when it comes to communicating highly specific, contextual emotions, like say, the mixture of resentment and pity that derives from being in a stupid mall shopping for athletic wear for your terribly sick partner when you really need to get back to rehearsals for the show you have opening, to take one of the poignant episodes Gordon describes. The image of this scene, not the music, is what is what is primarily memorable, and turning operatic firepower on that image just results in a lot of bluster where there should be simple, effective clarity. Fortunately, we have a whole art form that is attuned to just these situations: the modern musical theater song.

Now obviously there is a wide gray area between these "opera" and "musical" archetypes where the actual art gets made, so I'm not saying that the painful details of Gordon's work would be better expressed through showtunes or crappy imitation rock songs. But on the grand spectrum of drama + music, Gordon has chosen a position that is too abstract for the familiar, intimate details he has gathered, details that a style with greater focus on text and the accessible, specific emotional gestures of modern musical theater writing would excel at bringing forward.

I know there is a lot of baggage wrapped up in these claims and I really ought to go back to office work, but I'll mention one revealing moment near the end of the piece that cemented my thinking: Gordon's character sits at the piano and plays a scrap of piano melody that hews closer to a musical theatre sound than anything we have heard so far, and the emotional impact of the piece seems to click into place immediately, and makes us realize just how emotionally inert the rest of the piece had been up to this point.

Baritone Ian Greenlaw, who sang the role of Gordon's character, offered a likeable stage presence and warm baritone well-suited to the conversational style (although he strained noticeably at the upper end of his range). But in a story like this we need some sort of coherent personality to engage with emotionally, and in large part due to the issues described above, he simply never registered as a credible character. The dramatic effect of this is offputting, as the confessional details of the monologue become information conveyed by a third party, rather than the testimony of a specific person the audience can identify. The Adelphi String Quartet provided a reading of strong Gordon's score that demonstrated a lot of musical interest.

Excited to check out the final Urban Arias installment, "Glory Denied", on Sunday!

Urban Arias I: Orpheus

Imma be late to the party on this one. Saw the last perf of the inaugural show of a very exciting new development: a company called Urban Arias devoted to presenting chamber opera (mind you, this should not prevent anyone from naming their urban demographic-targeted romance novel the same).

So, it probably gets old when reviews of chamber opera always start with some fawning about the joy of hearing big time voices in lil' spaces, but for people who live in places where the motherlode of their operatic experiences occur in auditoriums that could credibly host professional basketball tournaments, the necessity of small-scale stagings like this "Orpheus and Euridice" by Ricky Ian Gordon needs to be acknowledged.

Gordon's piece, for soprano (Euridice), clarinet (Orpheus), and piano is distinguished most by the exquisite writing for its constituent parts--Elizabeth Futral's aching soprano and the remarkable emotional range of Todd Palmer's clarinet weave about each other and combine to thrilling effect. Gordon inhabits the unassuming musical language he lays out with great skill--but is this derivative or lightweight (Midgette makes note of such sentiments here)? One grows tired of interrogating every tonal piece of new music for whether it is sufficiently "hardcore", or *gasp* "Broadway". Suffice it to say that I think Gordon has very little interest in cheap musical appeal in this piece and every commitment to creating something that is both enriching and honest.

Experiencing Futral up close was a delight. This was a very fine vocal performance, but I was particularly struck by the quality of her overall characterization. I know there's been talk about opera singers' acting skills recently. But to some degree, the kind of acting available in a theatre or movie just isn't possible for opera singers, who must work through their voices and through gesture rather than characterization. But Futral demonstrated her ability to give both a compelling vocal performance and the kind of physical acting critical for a production like this.

Moreover, the stage direction (by Kevin Newbury) achieved precisely the level one hopes for in a work like this--understated in accordance with the modest forces but confident and inventive in its stage craft.

Butterfly at VA Opera

So, DMV opera companies (or at least 2) seem to be all about redeeming themselves with solid Butterflies this spring. And with the cherry blossom madness upon us (as indicated by the crappy traffic by the river and the chicken "cherryaki" on the Old Ebbits menu) what can one do? VA Opera served up a satisfying version yesterday, as driven by an excellent cast.

Sandra Lopez does not hail from the school of Cio-Cio San's concerned with producing a sound that always comes from a beautiful place, such as the Cio-Cio San Catherine Naglestad presented at WNO earlier this year (sorry, going to be that kind of review, its in my head). That means that her first act included a bit of a rocky warm-up and a Love Duet that was solid but not especially notable. But about three minutes into Act II, one realized how fully she was to own the emotional center of this show (as your Cio-Cio San should, of course, but there's a big difference between "should" and really doing it). With her chief weapon a throbbing, commanding upper register that fully embodies the tortured emotional swells of Puccini's score, Lopez created the kind of high stakes vocal (and emotional) intensity that Butterfly thrives on. I quibbled that WNO's Act III dragged a tad, but there was little danger of any dragging when Lopez was onstage--she is a vocal actress to watch.

Brian Jagde, heard at SFO in Vec Makropoulos in the fall, brought the most luxe voice to the cast, distinguished by a velvet middle and secure, passionate top, even if the journey up there is still a bit eager. His sound is a pleasing middleground between your slightly less than credible barnstorming Pinkertons and your super sweet lightweight Pinkertons--a combination of vigor and plushness that makes me eager to hear his Alfredo or Edgardo. I only wish his characterization had incorporated a bit more of the self confidence justly earned by that killer voice.

The rest of the principals were also noteworthy. Levi Hernandez offered a fine, lyrical Sharpless, and Magdalena Wor's rich mezzo imbued her Suzuki with the necessary gravity. The high musical standard was matched by the pit, where Joseph Walsh led the orchestra (members of the Richmond Symphony) in a reading that credibly plumbed both the sensitivity and savagery of the score.

If the WNO's Butterfly (sorry again) production exemplified the Butterfly-by-the-numbers aesthetic at its most elegant, the VA Opera was generally that same approach at its most serviceable, and risking garishness at times with great washes of pink and turquoise on the all white surface of the set. The periodic introduction of a large cherry blossom branch added some much needed texture.

Dramatic direction was solid, particularly in the choices of the blisteringly staged climax: Suzuki mans up and ends up handing Butterfly the knife, who doesn't kill herself until after Pinkerton's cries. He then runs in, rips down a screen, and finds her slumped over. But some of the more substantial indulgences didn't hang together. Points are due for allowing an actual curtain between Act II and Act III, and for the thoughtful choice of staging the instrumental opening of Act III as Butterfly's dream during the night. But the dream sequence didn't have much to offer in terms of interesting stagecraft--instead we get Trouble, and a dude in a suit billed as 'Future Trouble', chasing butterfly props (groan). The piece gives us just about enough of opera's most famous child prop to tug at our heartstrings without becoming total tripe--I'm afraid any more time spent pondering his fate just serves to dilute the main drama.

Pinnock Plays Landowska Tribute Show at LOC

I am trying to start this review without some dull generic observations about "the harpsichord" but that is proving difficult, so... It strikes me that it is very hard to lie on a harpsichord, which is a good thing. Yet the harpsichord as solo instrument suffers much the same fate as the organ in its accessibility to modern ears, i.e. neither gets a fair shake on record. To get into the harpsichord at length, you really need to hear it live, whereas a modern piano recording, if not the same as a live performance, is pretty persuasive on its own.

As for the program...Trevor Pinnock is just a delight, and peppered the concert with background on Landowska and fascinating introductions to the works. His playing is infectious and charming in a DIY sort of way. He finds the singing or dancing line in a piece and lets the rest coalesce around it. Also, he is not about to let a little gold leaf deter him from doling out the punishment that bad keyboard deserves.

Highlights of the program included a Handel Chaconne and Variations opener, picturesque pieces by William Byrd and contemporaries (Bells, Birds, that sort of thing), and a mid-17th c "Lamento" of Jonah Froberger that evaporated into an exuberant reading of the Bach French Suite No. 5. The second half featured some elegant French numbers and three Scarlatti sonatas, austere and grave on the harpsichord in a manner quite different from their usual impression on the modern keyboard.

Also onstage was one of Landowska's own pleyel harpsichords, a beast of an instrument with *4* sets of strings (the extra is basically a 17th c subwoofer) and somewhere between 6 to 14 pedals below. Like a harpsichord but with teeth. Pinnock demonstrated the instrument at the close of each half, and had a good chuckle with the audience over a number of false starts from difficulty maneuvering his feet (good sketch fodder for the nerdiest variety show ever, mind you). The effect when he eventually got it right was quite special though, adding additional dimensions of depth to the sound, to which he attributed some of the "grandeur" Landowska communicates in her recordings.

Update: Migette's review here, also check this very instructive matchup she posted of Landowska and Pinnock playing Bach. Downey has great resources here.

Brewer!

Christine Brewer, last noted for her much lamented disappearance from the last Schenk Ring cycles in 2009, and last heard doing some paint removal at Lyric Opera in their 2007 Frau Ohne Schattens, presented an extraordinary recital with Craig Rutenberg at the Kennedy Center Terrace Theater Wednesday.

This was really a highlight of the year, I think, so apologies in advance for any unpalatable fawning. The sheer splendor and depth of her voice, which, impressive from the back of the opera house, is exhilarating at close range, makes this a rather different experience than your regular thoughtful, tasteful recital. Brewer's pleasures are maybe just a bit passe: she delivers great art to be sure, but a key vehicle for that is the sheer visceral thrill of her generous instrument.

The program was an interesting mix of American songs. I loved the first selection, Gian Carlo Menotti's Canti Della Lontananza, though the interpretations did not always seem as polished as selections later in the program and there was some finding of footing during the first pieces. Rutenberg's playing was especially distinguished in the lovely piano part here, and by the final two songs Brewer had arrived in force. The other cycle in the first half was a knockout. The work, by a contemporary composer, Alan Smith, uses texts from the love letters of a soldier killed in World War II, and Brewer delivered a chilling and deeply moving performance. One moment that will not soon be forgotten: the text of the final song is a transcription of the telegram that announced the soldier's death to his wife--the sound that Brewer unleashed on "Secretary of War" is something very few singers are capable of, I think.

The second half had some trouble competing with the wrenching drama of the first, with more of a grab bag program. Rutenberg offered a nice selection of the piano music of Virgil Thompson as a segue to the final aria from Thompson's "Mother of us All", of which Brewer offered a towering, account. Then some Ives songs, by turns sublime (Shall we Gather at the River) and nutty (the Operahouse song).

The program closed with selections from a new Brewer CD, a tribute to encore numbers favored by divas past, i.e. Flagstad, Traubel, Farrell, etc. Some of these were a bit slight, but all fairly hard not to like. The bluesy Harold Arlen number, "Happiness is Just a Thing Called Joe" was perhaps the highlight, demonstrating Brewer's substantial abilities in theater/non-classical/etc songs. This kind of thing is so hard to do in a way that would ever convince a reasonable person they wouldn't rather be hearing a theater voice do it. Given all the firepower at her disposal, Brewer would be about the last singer I'd imagine successful in this material, but she pulls it off through some skillfull modulation of her sound and deep instincts about how to properly communicate these songs. This was confirmed in her second encore, a charming and remarkably unaffected rendition of "Mira" from the musical Carnival. The other encore was Ives' arrangement of "In the Mornin'."

Update: Midgette nicely captures what a pleasant and relaxed affair the whole thing was here.

More update: BTW, not sure where Midgette was going with her last graf quibble about this being a "not altogether stirring" evening in the review above. An inconsistent presentation, I'll grant you, but if this doesn't qualify as stirring for a vocal recital I'm not sure what does.

Downey has no reservations about what's up, and includes a ton of great links and context for the interesting selections on the program...

Boston in DC, sans Levine

Very nice program from the Boston Symphony Saturday despite Jimmy's unfortunate absence--Roberto Abbado did guest conducting duties instead, and Peter Serkin joined as a soloist for a program of Haydn, Bartok and Beethoven (a wholesale revision of the Levine program, I believe, but I'm not going to go digging out my old WPAS mailers). Hearing awesome orchestras that one has never heard before is always a treat, and Boston did not disappoint. Everything that separates the men from the boys was on display here: a distinguished sound with great depth, unerring balances, consistently fine winds and brass across the board, and skillz to spare when it comes to executing precision moves.

I find my reasons for liking or disliking lead-off Haydn (No. 93 in this instance) somewhat mysterious, but this I liked. Perhaps it was largely just my first chance to really hang with their sound for a while, but the whole thing had a gravity and deliberateness that was hard not to admire, though Abbado maybe let things get a bit four square at times compared to the more organic Haydn to be had elsewhere.

The Bartok piano concerto No. 3 was certainly the most eagerly anticipated thing on the program, but I'm not sure if it entirely succeeded. The first movement unfolded with a romantic heaviness that seemed at odds with the work--one need more of that mercurial Bartok flavor to really capture the flickering textures of the music. The second movement was closer to the mark--Abbado's glacial pacing and Serkin's solemn reading nicely capturing the elemental qualities of nature or folk people and stuff tapped into here. The finale was exhilarating to be sure, with some truly astounding playing by Serkin, though again, the propulsion seemed derived from sheer force of will, not Bartok's babbling rhythms.

After the half was Beethoven 5, and, well, you really can't go wrong with a great orchestra playing that, now can you? I will take this opportunity to reprint a bit of that famous E.M. Forster passage in case you haven't seen it in a while (extended passage at Sandow here):

"No; look out for the part where you think you have done with the goblins and they come back," breathed Helen, as the music started with a goblin walking quietly over the universe, from end to end. Others followed him. They were not aggressive creatures; it was that that made them so terrible to Helen. They merely observed in passing that there was no such thing as splendour or heroism in the world. After the interlude of elephants dancing, they returned and made the observation for the second time. Helen could not contradict them, for, once at all events, she had felt the same, and had seen the reliable walls of youth collapse. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! The goblins were right. Her brother raised his finger; it was the transitional passage on the drum.

For, as if things were going too far, Beethoven took hold of the goblins and made them do what he wanted. He appeared in person. He gave them a little push, and they began to walk in a major key instead of in a minor, and then--he blew with his mouth and they were scattered! Gusts of splendour, gods and demigods contending with vast swords, colour and fragrance broadcast on the field of battle, magnificent victory, magnificent death! Oh, it all burst before the girl, and she even stretched out her gloved hands as if it was tangible. Any fate was titanic; any contest desirable; conqueror and conquered would alike be applauded by the angels of the utmost stars.

And the goblins--they had not really been there at all? They were only the phantoms of cowardice and unbelief? One healthy human impulse would dispel them? Men like the Wilcoxes, or ex-President Roosevelt, would say yes. Beethoven knew better. The goblins really had been there. They might return--and they did. It was as if the splendour of life might boil over and waste to steam and froth. In its dissolution one heard the terrible, ominous note, and a goblin, with increased malignity, walked quietly over the universe from end to end. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! Even the flaming ramparts of the world might fall. Beethoven chose to make all right in the end. He built the ramparts up. He blew with his mouth for the second time, and again the goblins were scattered. He brought back the gusts of splendour, the heroism, the youth, the magnificence of life and of death, and, amid vast roarings of a superhuman joy, he led his Fifth Symphony to its conclusion. But the goblins were there. They could return. He had said so bravely, and that is why one can trust Beethoven when he says other things.

The first three movements were played beautifully, if without too many distinctive touches, besides perhaps a grittier sense of the drama in places. But Abbado's breakneck finale (with the BSO hardly breaking a sweat) was simply fantastic, irrepressible music-making, reminding all how much visceral power there is in this music, no small accomplishment given its familiarity. Walking out of the auditorium, I realized that the version on my ipod for a while now is some burnished Karajan snoozer and well, after hearing Beethoven like this, that just won't do.

Update: Downey a shade less enthusiastic about both the band and Abbado here. Given the comparison he draws with the NSO and BalSO ("the playing remained at a very high level...although not so far above our two local orchestras as one might have expected"), I would add that "boys" above is general and not meant to impugn any local teams. Downey also suggests that the problem might not have been less Bartok flavor, but rather inferior Bartok product.

Midgette is a more admiring of the Bartok and likewise measures Abbado's professional readings against Eschenbach's more emotionally involved approach here...

Goerne, Eschenbach, NSO in Zemlinsky

A quick note on last night's Lyric Symphony with Matthias Goerne, Twyla Robinson, and the NSO. And I shall only speak about the second half because I mistook the early start time for a 7:30 rather than a 7, and missed Eschenbach playing and conducting Mozart piano concerto something or other. I find the penalty box only barely acceptable for opera, and it is beneath consideration for something like a concerto, so I enjoyed a cocktail and the nice weather on the KC terrace.

The audience was on board, judging by some kind of encore that turned a half hour Mozart appetizer into a 50 minute first half, but I'm thinking Eschenbach is going to be around for a while, so there should be other chances to hear him play. And not that anyone is listening, but the unfortunate practice of programming Mozart as the least interesting thing on the program continues unabated. I get it, of course, and the reportedly abysmal attendance at last week's un-partnered Messaien just goes to show that unfamiliar works all by their lonesome continue to be box-office death. But I feel no good can come of making audience members attracted by more ambitious programming come to disdain Mozart because his works are the price of admission just to get to what they really came for.

Anyhow. Zemlinsky's Lyric Symphony is being presented as part of the Maximum India Festival which wraps up this week, as the texts for baritone and soprano are taken from a German translation of the Bengali poetry of Rabindranath Tagore. As you probably know, the musical language is right in that sweet spot of lush German early 20th century tonality, high on drama and sweep, with that big everyone-gets-to-play approach to orchestral texture akin to Mahler and Strauss. Eschenbach and the NSO certainly got the precision and depth of texture, but there was something lacking in the drama. I was sitting pretty close, I'll admit, but there was something a bit static in the dynamics and a tendency to drive the volume and pace rather than letting things play out naturally that detracted from the impact.

The biggest hook for the evening was Matthias Goerne, recently forced to bail on the upcoming Met Wozzecks for knee surgery, much to everyone's chagrin. Goerne needs no introduction of course, he brings a unique combination of vocal beauty and artistic intelligence to his work, and this is a great piece for him, showcasing his interpretive skills in a great range of settings, from the despondent opening song to frenzied heights and back again. Yet he remained credible and involving throughout while offering a number of beautiful moments. And of course, where many other fine baritones would descend into shoutiness in material like this, that Goerne magic keeps things buttery and on point all the way through.

Soprano Twyla Robinson was a strong partner, with an inviting sweetness to her voice and power where required. Her bio highlights work in Strauss and it was easy to hear how this would be a natural fit. She was less than convincing in places, particularly her first number about the "junge Prinz" but standing next to one of the preeminent recitalists of our time and dealing with kind of weird subject matter is not a recipe for success. I appreciated that she tried to incorporate some idiosyncratic effects to heighten the characterization, though some might not...

Update: Takes from Downey (including an appraisal of Eschenbach so far) and Midgette...

Kissin at the Kennedy Center

Evgeny Kissin brought some of the old-time magic to the Kennedy Center yesterday, in the all-Liszt program he is touring with (here's John von Rhein's take on the Chicago stop). One goes to a Kissin show expecting technical brilliance, of course, but comes away with so much more. In their finest moments, his concerts let you experience the overwhelming possibilities of the instrument in a way that no one, at least that I've heard live, can.

Kissin excels most in the work of the composers who are the true keyboard animals--hence his association with Chopin, and here, Liszt. This was a program to upend the preconceived notions of the Liszt averse, skeptical and indifferent alike. Kissin demonstrates the extraordinary breadth of this music and is able to exploit its reaches like few can, from surging rage to heart melting poignance.

He kicked things off with an aching Ricordanza from the Transcendental Etudes, followed by the main event--the B Minor Sonata--a consuming voyage that brought shivers and some less than dry eyes in the house, as well as some terrifying climaxes that no doubt ensured some overtime for the Kennedy Center piano tuner. The second half-opener Funerailles perhaps lacked some of the blackest recesses to be found elsewhere, but I was sold by the end. A deeply felt Valse d'Obermann followed, and was probably a personal favorite of the afternoon. Regulation play ended with three selections from Liszt's Venezia cycle, perhaps the least ambitious Liszt on the program, profundity-wise. Kissin demonstrates however, that if you're not utterly charmed and seduced by these pieces, someone is doing it wrong.

I was going to crib the identities of the encores from someone else but the reviews are slow in coming so I'll just have to admit that I can only call the last and most obvious one off the top of my head: a tender, valedictory Liebestraum.

Update: The coverage is starting to come in...here's Thomas Huizenga (NPR)...Tim Smith...Downey (who notes the other two encores as Liszt's arrangement of Schumann's "Widmung" and a movement from his "Soirees de Vienne")