Fabio Luisi, conductor
Orchestra Hall, Chicago IL
November 16, 2008
Strauss Don Quixote
Jan Volger, cello
Brahms Symphony No. 4
This concert was an amazing experience. Dresden Staatskapelle is one of the oldest orchestras in the world, and that tradition came through in a very clear way to the audience. Sound and phrasing were the elements of magic that this orchestra brought to their performance, weaving an aural narrative unlike any orchestra I had ever heard. Jan Volger was also quite good, playing Don Quixote with sincere and convincing characters, a beautiful sound, and a very sturdy technical approach to his instrument. The Brahms, however, was the crown jewel of the concert.
The fine American orchestras that I have heard all have the ability to play with phenomenal ensemble, gorgeous sound, and control of color. Dresden played very well in those respects, though maybe not quite at the highest quality of the best American orchestra. They did, however, play with a collective vulnerability which was quite arresting. The thing that was extraordinary about this was that it was done by each and every member of the orchestra, and in a very personal and individual way. Which meant that every note and every phrase was felt by every member of the orchestra. This was most evident in the rests. Rather than count, or wait, the orchestra breathed and felt. It was the most extraordinary feeling to be in the audience when this happened. The air in the hall felt so tender and delicate—so held. And when the sound would start again, it was as if it was emerging from something inside that had been there all along.
On an analytical level, this type of engagement within the orchestra allowed some fairly amazing things to be done with phrasing in terms of time. This was especially apparent in all of the “hauptstimme” material that the first violins played throughout the symphony. The section was able to play with the abandon, intensity, and seeming spontaneity of one soloist because the idea of each phrase was internal, and the timing and color of it came from a unified consensus on how it should be felt. I’m not sure American orchestras and musicians are trained to start all music from an internal place. Rather, we look for the directions in the score, think about what stroke, where to take time, and how to accomplish whatever color. It’s similar to how college orchestra students finally learn that in order to play together, we all have to start from the string. Dresden Staatskapelle seems to work from the mentality that, in order to play together, everyone must be together inside, where the impetus for the music starts.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Guarneri Quartet 10/31/2008
University of Chicago Mandel Hall
October 31, 2008
Kodaly String Quartet No. 2, op 10
Mozart String Quartet in d minor, K 421
Dvorak String Quartet in F Major, op 96 “American”
The Guarneri Quartet has been playing together for 44 years, and is finally going to retire in 2009. I had never before had the opportunity to hear this group live, and this chance looked to be my last. Before arriving at the concert, I was nervous, as I sometimes am, about what I was going to hear. As usual, I was nervous that my high expectation for supreme greatness might not be met. In our culture of recordings doctored and spliced to perfection, one can sometimes end up with a less than real idea about how a performer or group will sound in person. I was also nervous, as I often have been, to hear great musicians who are in the sunset time of their careers. As a player gets older, the music inside of them does not change, only its ability to get out. The idea that I might be sitting in a room with one of the greatest musicians of my lifetime and that he or she might not be able to play for me all that they once could because of the natural decay of the human body makes me extraordinarily uncomfortable and anxious. So it was with trepidation, but with excitement, too, that I sat down to hear this concert.
I think a lot about music, and I think a lot about how to talk about music. But I truly feel that there is no way that I could put the quality of the music I heard that night into any kind of writing which would do it justice. So I will just tell. The ensemble of the group was unreal. It was as if they could think each others thoughts. After 44 years of playing together, they matched each other, rather than each other’s sounds or strokes. By this, I mean that they matched each other on the inside, and then probably did negligible physical matching, so that the impetus for each color, dynamic, articulation, and character came from a completely unified and utterly organic place. I first noticed this when I watched the violins play together. It was so together and so matched, yet so not artificial or manufactured. Sometimes in chamber music, we find ourselves playing from a slightly mechanical perspective for the sake of unity—so that “we all do the same.” These violinists played in a way that was so seamlessly matched that it made every other attempt I had ever seen at matching look like a joke. And yet, there was absolutely nothing mechanical to it. Every single note was felt and committed to personally on a individual basis within the group. Never before had I ever heard anything like it.
Never before had I experienced such a unified commitment to line and to interpretation from a quartet, and I have heard some extremely fine quartets. Because of that, the Guarneri Quartet played like one very exquisite and refined instrument. Their performance of the Dvorak “American” quartet was especially wonderful. Never before in my life had I felt any kind of meaningful connection with that piece, but the Guarneri Quartet played it in such a way that I will never forget it.
Although Arnold Steinhardt’s bow arm is no longer smooth the way I know it once was, the music was still all there. The sound, phrasing, commitment and character still all came through boldly and beautifully. I hope I never forget the way the quartet sounded that night, and someday I will tell my students that I heard them live, when I myself was just a student.
October 31, 2008
Kodaly String Quartet No. 2, op 10
Mozart String Quartet in d minor, K 421
Dvorak String Quartet in F Major, op 96 “American”
The Guarneri Quartet has been playing together for 44 years, and is finally going to retire in 2009. I had never before had the opportunity to hear this group live, and this chance looked to be my last. Before arriving at the concert, I was nervous, as I sometimes am, about what I was going to hear. As usual, I was nervous that my high expectation for supreme greatness might not be met. In our culture of recordings doctored and spliced to perfection, one can sometimes end up with a less than real idea about how a performer or group will sound in person. I was also nervous, as I often have been, to hear great musicians who are in the sunset time of their careers. As a player gets older, the music inside of them does not change, only its ability to get out. The idea that I might be sitting in a room with one of the greatest musicians of my lifetime and that he or she might not be able to play for me all that they once could because of the natural decay of the human body makes me extraordinarily uncomfortable and anxious. So it was with trepidation, but with excitement, too, that I sat down to hear this concert.
I think a lot about music, and I think a lot about how to talk about music. But I truly feel that there is no way that I could put the quality of the music I heard that night into any kind of writing which would do it justice. So I will just tell. The ensemble of the group was unreal. It was as if they could think each others thoughts. After 44 years of playing together, they matched each other, rather than each other’s sounds or strokes. By this, I mean that they matched each other on the inside, and then probably did negligible physical matching, so that the impetus for each color, dynamic, articulation, and character came from a completely unified and utterly organic place. I first noticed this when I watched the violins play together. It was so together and so matched, yet so not artificial or manufactured. Sometimes in chamber music, we find ourselves playing from a slightly mechanical perspective for the sake of unity—so that “we all do the same.” These violinists played in a way that was so seamlessly matched that it made every other attempt I had ever seen at matching look like a joke. And yet, there was absolutely nothing mechanical to it. Every single note was felt and committed to personally on a individual basis within the group. Never before had I ever heard anything like it.
Never before had I experienced such a unified commitment to line and to interpretation from a quartet, and I have heard some extremely fine quartets. Because of that, the Guarneri Quartet played like one very exquisite and refined instrument. Their performance of the Dvorak “American” quartet was especially wonderful. Never before in my life had I felt any kind of meaningful connection with that piece, but the Guarneri Quartet played it in such a way that I will never forget it.
Although Arnold Steinhardt’s bow arm is no longer smooth the way I know it once was, the music was still all there. The sound, phrasing, commitment and character still all came through boldly and beautifully. I hope I never forget the way the quartet sounded that night, and someday I will tell my students that I heard them live, when I myself was just a student.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Anne-Sophie Mutter 4/13/2008
Anne-Sophie Mutter, violin
Lambert Orkis, piano
Sunday, April 13 2008
Orchestra Hall, Chicago IL
Brahms: Sonata No. 2 in A Major, op. 100
Brahms: Sonata No. 1 in G Major, op. 78
Brahms: Sonata No. 3 in D Minor, op. 108
This was a performance at the very highest level. Anne-Sophie Mutter, who has been playing internationally for thirty years, appears to be at the height of her prime. Her recital, which featured all three of the Brahms Violin Sonatas, highlighted not only her complete and total technical mastery of the instrument, but a deep conviction to a specific musical vision. Mutter’s fidelity to this vision allowed her to play completely effortlessly and totally convincingly, which in turn allowed her audience to sink into Brahms’s thoroughly sublime works, along with the irresistible and compelling flavor of expression of the performers.
So what exactly was Mutter’s vision? Primarily, it was one concerned with sound. All boundaries regarding timbre, color, dynamic range, and articulation were obliterated, leaving Mutter a three-dimensional, limitless sound world to explore. She went to every corner of this world, and did it in a way which remained true to the score, and which allowed each sonata to be performed with cohesion. One of the main reasons this was successful was because of Mutter’s interminable technique, which allowed her execute any idea with total control and clarity. For example, a phrase in the third sonata containing a dotted note followed by sixteenths was played twice in a row, once at the heel of the frog and then again at the very tip of the tip. This allowed her to use a lot of bow on the dotted note, and to sustain it to the end, instead of having to retake it. The thing that was most amazing about this phrase was that the articulation and the sound density and color were exactly the same at the extreme tip and at the extreme frog. The control of the bow which allowed Mutter to make this bowing choice also allowed her to shape the phrase in a way that I had not heard before. It sounded amazing. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw where in the bow she was playing.
This technical control of the bow allowed Mutter to reach extremes in dynamics that one might not have ever imagined for the music of Brahms. The palette of softs, in particular, was especially impressive. Mutter’s overall spectrum of colors was not unlike those which have been utilized by Lynn Harrell, in regard to scope. Absent in her playing, however, was the almost gaudy emotionalism which can sometimes be present in Harrell’s sound. Mutter had a similar range of color and dynamic, and character too, but with a more even approach to expression. Her expression, in fact, looked backwards to Beethoven, to classicism—just as Brahms did. Just below the surface was an ache and a longing, which hinted at the possibility of what all could be there. Especially in the third sonata, that possibility was made more visible, but never to the point where the audience could tell exactly how much Mutter was capable of. This created an oceanic quality to the performance—even though we couldn’t feel it all, we could sense the endless depth beneath everything we heard.
Lastly, the musical and stage rapport between Mutter and Orkis was quite wonderful. The way they played together in such a completely intertwined way indicated that each was living every note of the other’s part at all times. They approached their work on Sunday afternoon with such solemn grace and decorum that one could not help but share in their reverence for the music, and listen with sincere and open ears.
Despite the rumors that Mutter may soon be retiring, I for one will eagerly await her next performance.
Lambert Orkis, piano
Sunday, April 13 2008
Orchestra Hall, Chicago IL
Brahms: Sonata No. 2 in A Major, op. 100
Brahms: Sonata No. 1 in G Major, op. 78
Brahms: Sonata No. 3 in D Minor, op. 108
This was a performance at the very highest level. Anne-Sophie Mutter, who has been playing internationally for thirty years, appears to be at the height of her prime. Her recital, which featured all three of the Brahms Violin Sonatas, highlighted not only her complete and total technical mastery of the instrument, but a deep conviction to a specific musical vision. Mutter’s fidelity to this vision allowed her to play completely effortlessly and totally convincingly, which in turn allowed her audience to sink into Brahms’s thoroughly sublime works, along with the irresistible and compelling flavor of expression of the performers.
So what exactly was Mutter’s vision? Primarily, it was one concerned with sound. All boundaries regarding timbre, color, dynamic range, and articulation were obliterated, leaving Mutter a three-dimensional, limitless sound world to explore. She went to every corner of this world, and did it in a way which remained true to the score, and which allowed each sonata to be performed with cohesion. One of the main reasons this was successful was because of Mutter’s interminable technique, which allowed her execute any idea with total control and clarity. For example, a phrase in the third sonata containing a dotted note followed by sixteenths was played twice in a row, once at the heel of the frog and then again at the very tip of the tip. This allowed her to use a lot of bow on the dotted note, and to sustain it to the end, instead of having to retake it. The thing that was most amazing about this phrase was that the articulation and the sound density and color were exactly the same at the extreme tip and at the extreme frog. The control of the bow which allowed Mutter to make this bowing choice also allowed her to shape the phrase in a way that I had not heard before. It sounded amazing. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw where in the bow she was playing.
This technical control of the bow allowed Mutter to reach extremes in dynamics that one might not have ever imagined for the music of Brahms. The palette of softs, in particular, was especially impressive. Mutter’s overall spectrum of colors was not unlike those which have been utilized by Lynn Harrell, in regard to scope. Absent in her playing, however, was the almost gaudy emotionalism which can sometimes be present in Harrell’s sound. Mutter had a similar range of color and dynamic, and character too, but with a more even approach to expression. Her expression, in fact, looked backwards to Beethoven, to classicism—just as Brahms did. Just below the surface was an ache and a longing, which hinted at the possibility of what all could be there. Especially in the third sonata, that possibility was made more visible, but never to the point where the audience could tell exactly how much Mutter was capable of. This created an oceanic quality to the performance—even though we couldn’t feel it all, we could sense the endless depth beneath everything we heard.
Lastly, the musical and stage rapport between Mutter and Orkis was quite wonderful. The way they played together in such a completely intertwined way indicated that each was living every note of the other’s part at all times. They approached their work on Sunday afternoon with such solemn grace and decorum that one could not help but share in their reverence for the music, and listen with sincere and open ears.
Despite the rumors that Mutter may soon be retiring, I for one will eagerly await her next performance.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Chicago Symphony Orchestra 3/13/2008
Chicago Symphony Orchestra
Thursday 3/13/2008
Manfred Honeck, conductor
John Sharp, cello
Verdi—La forza del destino
Saint-Saens—Cello Concerto No. 1
R. Strauss—Ein Heldenleben
This was an interesting concert because there were moments of great profundity and great perfunctory. The program opened with a Verdi Overture, which was played effortlessly by the orchestra. A standout moment was a pianissimo section at the end, in which all of the strings were playing so quietly and with so little hair that their bows were barely moving at all. The sound effect was very cool.
The Saint-Saens Concerto was executed very cleanly by principal cellist John Sharp. His control of the instrument was to a fault, unfortunately, in that he seemed to privilege clarity over expression, which left the audience wondering who John Sharp was. The music also sounded silly, as it was a composition of desperate character being played by a totally square 50 year old guy who kept his head down the whole time. Also disappointing where the occasional and half-hearted “Harrell-istic” slides and gross uses of vibrato. They only contributed to a louder asking of the question, “Who is John Sharp?”
Luckily, the audiences ears were cleansed by an amazing performance of Richard Strauss’s Ein Heldenleben. The strings sounded phenomenal. Concertmaster Robert Chen’s solos were wonderful. Dale Clevenger played with the suave of the entire Rat Pack. The winds and brass, overall, were in rare form. This concert made up for the disappointment I felt when I heard the CSO play Alpine Symphony last February, which was kind of a mess. This performance of Ein Heldenleben reminded me of the performance the CSO gave of Petrushka a few weeks ago with Boulez—all of the disjointed sections came together in a cohesive way, which suggested that the whole orchestra was on the same page. It made for a very effective performance.
Thursday 3/13/2008
Manfred Honeck, conductor
John Sharp, cello
Verdi—La forza del destino
Saint-Saens—Cello Concerto No. 1
R. Strauss—Ein Heldenleben
This was an interesting concert because there were moments of great profundity and great perfunctory. The program opened with a Verdi Overture, which was played effortlessly by the orchestra. A standout moment was a pianissimo section at the end, in which all of the strings were playing so quietly and with so little hair that their bows were barely moving at all. The sound effect was very cool.
The Saint-Saens Concerto was executed very cleanly by principal cellist John Sharp. His control of the instrument was to a fault, unfortunately, in that he seemed to privilege clarity over expression, which left the audience wondering who John Sharp was. The music also sounded silly, as it was a composition of desperate character being played by a totally square 50 year old guy who kept his head down the whole time. Also disappointing where the occasional and half-hearted “Harrell-istic” slides and gross uses of vibrato. They only contributed to a louder asking of the question, “Who is John Sharp?”
Luckily, the audiences ears were cleansed by an amazing performance of Richard Strauss’s Ein Heldenleben. The strings sounded phenomenal. Concertmaster Robert Chen’s solos were wonderful. Dale Clevenger played with the suave of the entire Rat Pack. The winds and brass, overall, were in rare form. This concert made up for the disappointment I felt when I heard the CSO play Alpine Symphony last February, which was kind of a mess. This performance of Ein Heldenleben reminded me of the performance the CSO gave of Petrushka a few weeks ago with Boulez—all of the disjointed sections came together in a cohesive way, which suggested that the whole orchestra was on the same page. It made for a very effective performance.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Alban Berg Quartet 2/29/2008
Alban Berg Quartet
Friday 2/29/2008
Mandel Hall, University of Chicago
Haydn: The Seven Last Words of Christ, op. 51
Berg: Lyric Suite
Schubert: String Quartet in G Major, op. 161
Here in 2008, it is becoming rapidly clear that we are knee-deep in the “new era,” and that the last vestiges of the “old era” are rapidly disappearing. This axiom could apply to many, if not all of the orbits we all encounter each day as part of the human race—but it applies, in my opinion, most gravely and solemnly to the world of string-playing and music-making. The Alban Berg Quartet is, literally, THE last vestige of an old style of playing, characterized by commitment to sound, honesty of expression, intentionality of phrasing, and what I would call a sensitivity to the three-dimensional nature of time. And now, at the end of their career, The Alban Berg Quartet (ABQ) made one last final trip to the United States, to give us one last look at what has come before us.
Having never heard the ABQ live before, I was thoroughly impressed. On a basic level, the matching, listening, and general sense of ensemble in the group was phenomenal. For example, the first note of the Haydn had an extremely soft, gentle beginning to it—the four of them snuck into the sound of that note at exactly the same rate, sound, color, and with a unified sense of character and balance. The exceptional thing was how this way of playing released the music that was on the page into the hall. What an extraordinary way to begin a program! That first note, and the many, many other detailed moments like it during the concert, are the kind of things in music that are very difficult to write or talk about. The only way to achieve mastery over such things as a quartet is to feel the music, the instrument, and each other in emotional, physical, and intuitive ways, respectively. This is so incredibly different from the dominant playing and training of today, which tends to focus on either intellect or intuition, expression or musicality, and technique or physicality. All of these elements converged in the music played by the ABQ to create an other-worldly experience for the listener. This was an experience marked by heartfelt clarity, and musical decorum, above all else.
One of the more impressive qualities of the ABQ, not related to their status as being from the “old era,” was their ability to sincerely sink into very different styles of sound as called for in the different styles of music that they played. The overall sound concept that the group had for each piece was radically different, as mandated by each composition. The contrast between the sound in the Berg and the Schubert was especially striking. The Berg called for a broad palette of extreme sounds—from the very quiet and airy, to the grotesquely forced and aggressive. The Schubert called for an equally broad palette of sounds, but within a much more limited sound world. The ABQ was therefore able to play the Berg with a variety of sharply contrasting sounds, while the Schubert was played with hundreds of very subtle color changes.
This approach to sound, as being mandated by the score, may be the entry point that the ABQ takes in getting to the heart of each piece. Because of this conceptualization of the role of sound in interpretation, each work appeared to have a discrete identity separate from the identity of the ABQ, and from the identity of the tradition and historical era from which each work came. The things that the ABQ did with phrasing and timing—i.e., the “music-making”—had more clarity than anyone could have hoped for in their wildest dreams, and all because of the sound concept within which each impulse was cushioned. This was accomplished in a unique way with each work performed.
What an honor and a joy to hear this group, for the last time, in live performance. There will of course always be recordings, but the tangible, visceral memory of witnessing and feeling the web that was spun that night by the Alban Berg Quartet will always stick in my memory.
Please go out and support live music!
Friday 2/29/2008
Mandel Hall, University of Chicago
Haydn: The Seven Last Words of Christ, op. 51
Berg: Lyric Suite
Schubert: String Quartet in G Major, op. 161
Here in 2008, it is becoming rapidly clear that we are knee-deep in the “new era,” and that the last vestiges of the “old era” are rapidly disappearing. This axiom could apply to many, if not all of the orbits we all encounter each day as part of the human race—but it applies, in my opinion, most gravely and solemnly to the world of string-playing and music-making. The Alban Berg Quartet is, literally, THE last vestige of an old style of playing, characterized by commitment to sound, honesty of expression, intentionality of phrasing, and what I would call a sensitivity to the three-dimensional nature of time. And now, at the end of their career, The Alban Berg Quartet (ABQ) made one last final trip to the United States, to give us one last look at what has come before us.
Having never heard the ABQ live before, I was thoroughly impressed. On a basic level, the matching, listening, and general sense of ensemble in the group was phenomenal. For example, the first note of the Haydn had an extremely soft, gentle beginning to it—the four of them snuck into the sound of that note at exactly the same rate, sound, color, and with a unified sense of character and balance. The exceptional thing was how this way of playing released the music that was on the page into the hall. What an extraordinary way to begin a program! That first note, and the many, many other detailed moments like it during the concert, are the kind of things in music that are very difficult to write or talk about. The only way to achieve mastery over such things as a quartet is to feel the music, the instrument, and each other in emotional, physical, and intuitive ways, respectively. This is so incredibly different from the dominant playing and training of today, which tends to focus on either intellect or intuition, expression or musicality, and technique or physicality. All of these elements converged in the music played by the ABQ to create an other-worldly experience for the listener. This was an experience marked by heartfelt clarity, and musical decorum, above all else.
One of the more impressive qualities of the ABQ, not related to their status as being from the “old era,” was their ability to sincerely sink into very different styles of sound as called for in the different styles of music that they played. The overall sound concept that the group had for each piece was radically different, as mandated by each composition. The contrast between the sound in the Berg and the Schubert was especially striking. The Berg called for a broad palette of extreme sounds—from the very quiet and airy, to the grotesquely forced and aggressive. The Schubert called for an equally broad palette of sounds, but within a much more limited sound world. The ABQ was therefore able to play the Berg with a variety of sharply contrasting sounds, while the Schubert was played with hundreds of very subtle color changes.
This approach to sound, as being mandated by the score, may be the entry point that the ABQ takes in getting to the heart of each piece. Because of this conceptualization of the role of sound in interpretation, each work appeared to have a discrete identity separate from the identity of the ABQ, and from the identity of the tradition and historical era from which each work came. The things that the ABQ did with phrasing and timing—i.e., the “music-making”—had more clarity than anyone could have hoped for in their wildest dreams, and all because of the sound concept within which each impulse was cushioned. This was accomplished in a unique way with each work performed.
What an honor and a joy to hear this group, for the last time, in live performance. There will of course always be recordings, but the tangible, visceral memory of witnessing and feeling the web that was spun that night by the Alban Berg Quartet will always stick in my memory.
Please go out and support live music!
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Chicago Symphony Orchestra 2/21/2008
Chicago Symphony Orchestra
Thursday 2/21/2008
Orchestra Hall, Chicago IL
Pierre Boulez, conductor
Mitsuko Uchida, piano
Pintscher- Osiris
Bartok- Piano Concert No. 3
Debussy- Images
I could hardly believe I was at this concert—between Boulez, the CSO, Uchida, and the world premier of a piece co-commissioned by the CSO, Carnegie Hall, and the London Symphony Orchestra, I felt like this was the kind of performance someone would read about in a music history book twenty years down the line. I was mostly excited to see Boulez in action again, three weeks after performing a completely different program with the same orchestra (Berio, Berlioz, and Stravinsky). Though this program did not awe me in the quite the same way that the previous one did, there were still many remarkable aspects to it.
As young classical musicians today, I think it is our business to check out the music that is being newly commissioned (and automatically celebrated) in our field. A piece commissioned by the CSO and LSO, premiered with Boulez at the podium, demands our attention if we have any interest in where classical music might be going in the future. Pintscher’s piece, based on the story of Osiris found in Egyptian Mythology, was quite effective in many ways. However, the melodic language of the piece, and to a lesser extent, the rhythmic language, seemed to present a big challenge to the orchestra. The piece began very ethereally, with thin layers of sound stacked perfectly on top of one another. As the piece went on, many different characters were introduced. At the height of the piece, the first violins played very demanding foreground material—and for quite some time. Never before have I heard the CSO first violins play less than confidently. In this piece, however, there was the slightest smell of tentative playing, as well as noticeable and sustained discrepancies pertaining to pitch and rhythm within the section. Granted, the piece had never before been played before, by any orchestra. But that said, one could be sure that the CSO and Boulez rehearsed it with that knowledge in mind. The only real explanation is that Pintscher’s piece is simply a very demanding work. I would love to hear another performance of this piece in three or four years, once the work has had a chance to settle in the collective ears of musicians, listeners, and conductors.
It is worth noting, however, the trombone playing of Charles Vernon in the Pintscher work—it was absolutely stand-out. Vernon had foreground material of the same character and caliber as what the first violins had, and he played with a visceral, natural impetus. He played with clarity and with life, and his energy made me want to literally jump out of my seat and run around through the isles. I so enjoyed his playing.
The 3rd Bartok Piano Concerto was played very finely by Mitsuko Uchida—before this concert, I had only heard her on recordings, playing Mozart. She played, first and foremost, with great technical, and musical, clarity—clarity that was matched by Boulez and the CSO, on both counts. I missed, however, the same level of clarity in her expression. There were times when I wanted her to sink in deeper, and express something supersonically—in a way, literally, that was greater than through the sounds she produced. The one place in the piece where I felt like she did do this beautifully was in the opening solo of the second movement. Titled Adagio religioso, Uchida’s playing did indeed take on a serious, introspective, and deeply honest quality—a level of expression that left me yearning for more. One thing that I dislike about her playing, especially in the more energetic sections, was the way she used her body. Uchida’s upper body was tight, and to get big sound, she used force. There is not a doubt in my mind that she could coax louder, more energetic sound out of the piano if more parts of her body were in a greater state of release. When she went for the loudest sounds, she certainly looked intense, but that intensity was not always matched in her sound.
Lastly, the Debussy Images. I anticipated this piece more than any other piece on the program. Pierre Boulez changed the way the world thinks about, hears, and plays Debussy with the recordings he made in the 1960s—I could not wait to experience that live. And it was wonderful. I have always been impressed with the general clarity I hear from the Chicago Symphony—especially in terms of pitch, balance, and sound. All of that was present, but to a much greater extent than usual. I heard a textural clarity in this performance that I don’t think I’ve heard anywhere before, ever. And most importantly, there was a clarity of form present in this performance which was so profound that it re-informed every piece of Debussy I had ever heard before. Boulez’s understanding of the architectural and temporal construction of the music was presented so very convincingly—for lack of better descriptors, the piece flowed in a completely organic way. How was this accomplished? After much speculation, this writer has a theory. Boulez’s ability to express the form of a piece in a clear way is achieved in two basic ways. First, he highlights the exoskeleton of the piece, i.e., the form as it would be obvious to the discerning listener. The thing that is special about the way Boulez does this is found in the way he handles transitions—he appears to treat them as the joints of the exoskeleton, meaning that they are deeply, logically, and fundamentally connected both to what comes before and after. Additionally, each transition is its own entity in the space between what comes before and what comes after, regardless of how big, small, important, or unimportant. Secondly, Boulez takes a consistent approach to each element of the music within each piece. It sounds as if he dissects a small textural or rhythmic or intervallic detail in rehearsal with the orchestra, and then transfers that detail so that it ends up applying throughout the work. I’m sure that every conductor does that to an extent, but not to the extent that Boulez appears to. When these two elements combine, the effect is a deeply clear and natural interpretation of the piece, which therefore allows, I would argue, the greatest opportunity for expression. The CSO took that opportunity, thanks to Maestro Boulez, and played beautifully.
Please go out and support live music!
Thursday 2/21/2008
Orchestra Hall, Chicago IL
Pierre Boulez, conductor
Mitsuko Uchida, piano
Pintscher- Osiris
Bartok- Piano Concert No. 3
Debussy- Images
I could hardly believe I was at this concert—between Boulez, the CSO, Uchida, and the world premier of a piece co-commissioned by the CSO, Carnegie Hall, and the London Symphony Orchestra, I felt like this was the kind of performance someone would read about in a music history book twenty years down the line. I was mostly excited to see Boulez in action again, three weeks after performing a completely different program with the same orchestra (Berio, Berlioz, and Stravinsky). Though this program did not awe me in the quite the same way that the previous one did, there were still many remarkable aspects to it.
As young classical musicians today, I think it is our business to check out the music that is being newly commissioned (and automatically celebrated) in our field. A piece commissioned by the CSO and LSO, premiered with Boulez at the podium, demands our attention if we have any interest in where classical music might be going in the future. Pintscher’s piece, based on the story of Osiris found in Egyptian Mythology, was quite effective in many ways. However, the melodic language of the piece, and to a lesser extent, the rhythmic language, seemed to present a big challenge to the orchestra. The piece began very ethereally, with thin layers of sound stacked perfectly on top of one another. As the piece went on, many different characters were introduced. At the height of the piece, the first violins played very demanding foreground material—and for quite some time. Never before have I heard the CSO first violins play less than confidently. In this piece, however, there was the slightest smell of tentative playing, as well as noticeable and sustained discrepancies pertaining to pitch and rhythm within the section. Granted, the piece had never before been played before, by any orchestra. But that said, one could be sure that the CSO and Boulez rehearsed it with that knowledge in mind. The only real explanation is that Pintscher’s piece is simply a very demanding work. I would love to hear another performance of this piece in three or four years, once the work has had a chance to settle in the collective ears of musicians, listeners, and conductors.
It is worth noting, however, the trombone playing of Charles Vernon in the Pintscher work—it was absolutely stand-out. Vernon had foreground material of the same character and caliber as what the first violins had, and he played with a visceral, natural impetus. He played with clarity and with life, and his energy made me want to literally jump out of my seat and run around through the isles. I so enjoyed his playing.
The 3rd Bartok Piano Concerto was played very finely by Mitsuko Uchida—before this concert, I had only heard her on recordings, playing Mozart. She played, first and foremost, with great technical, and musical, clarity—clarity that was matched by Boulez and the CSO, on both counts. I missed, however, the same level of clarity in her expression. There were times when I wanted her to sink in deeper, and express something supersonically—in a way, literally, that was greater than through the sounds she produced. The one place in the piece where I felt like she did do this beautifully was in the opening solo of the second movement. Titled Adagio religioso, Uchida’s playing did indeed take on a serious, introspective, and deeply honest quality—a level of expression that left me yearning for more. One thing that I dislike about her playing, especially in the more energetic sections, was the way she used her body. Uchida’s upper body was tight, and to get big sound, she used force. There is not a doubt in my mind that she could coax louder, more energetic sound out of the piano if more parts of her body were in a greater state of release. When she went for the loudest sounds, she certainly looked intense, but that intensity was not always matched in her sound.
Lastly, the Debussy Images. I anticipated this piece more than any other piece on the program. Pierre Boulez changed the way the world thinks about, hears, and plays Debussy with the recordings he made in the 1960s—I could not wait to experience that live. And it was wonderful. I have always been impressed with the general clarity I hear from the Chicago Symphony—especially in terms of pitch, balance, and sound. All of that was present, but to a much greater extent than usual. I heard a textural clarity in this performance that I don’t think I’ve heard anywhere before, ever. And most importantly, there was a clarity of form present in this performance which was so profound that it re-informed every piece of Debussy I had ever heard before. Boulez’s understanding of the architectural and temporal construction of the music was presented so very convincingly—for lack of better descriptors, the piece flowed in a completely organic way. How was this accomplished? After much speculation, this writer has a theory. Boulez’s ability to express the form of a piece in a clear way is achieved in two basic ways. First, he highlights the exoskeleton of the piece, i.e., the form as it would be obvious to the discerning listener. The thing that is special about the way Boulez does this is found in the way he handles transitions—he appears to treat them as the joints of the exoskeleton, meaning that they are deeply, logically, and fundamentally connected both to what comes before and after. Additionally, each transition is its own entity in the space between what comes before and what comes after, regardless of how big, small, important, or unimportant. Secondly, Boulez takes a consistent approach to each element of the music within each piece. It sounds as if he dissects a small textural or rhythmic or intervallic detail in rehearsal with the orchestra, and then transfers that detail so that it ends up applying throughout the work. I’m sure that every conductor does that to an extent, but not to the extent that Boulez appears to. When these two elements combine, the effect is a deeply clear and natural interpretation of the piece, which therefore allows, I would argue, the greatest opportunity for expression. The CSO took that opportunity, thanks to Maestro Boulez, and played beautifully.
Please go out and support live music!
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Mostly Other People Do the Killing 2/17/2008
Mostly Other People Do the Killing
Sunday 2/17/2008
The Hungry Brain, Chicago IL
Peter Evans, trumpet
Jon Irabagon, saxophone
Kevin Shea, percussion
Moppa Elliott, bass/composition
I went to this show knowing only that my friend Peter Evans was playing. Most of the times that I have gone to hear him play, the music has been very freely improvised, structured by timbres and energies which end up falling into some kind of spontaneous and convincing arc (that’s how I hear it, anyway). Upon arriving at the Hungry Brain on Sunday night, and being informed by Peter that the group that night would be a “jazz quartet,” I was excited. I’ve enjoyed Peter’s playing every time I’ve encountered it, and I was really interested to hear what “jazz quartet” meant for him. I sat on the couch in the front row of the space with my friend Eric and some whiskey, and I waited expectantly.
The show was amazing, to cut right to the chase. Mostly Other People Do the Killing is a band of four well-matched creative and dirty improvisers who can all play the pants off their instruments. The group really is a jazz quartet—they played original tunes (all written by bassist Mappa Elliott) with the recognizable form of a head, solos, and some kind of ending. The playing, however, especially the solos, tore the tunes to shreds. Here I heard a lot of the things I’d heard in Peters playing before, with regard to timbres and colors and energies and just weird sounds, but in a differently-structured context—that is, within the context of a jazz quartet tune. And it was amazing.
I also got to hear Peter play in a way I hadn’t heard him play before. He played some solos that were more tonally-based, and in some ways more traditionally virtuosic than what I’ve heard him play before. I had recently talked with a good friend of mine who is also a jazz trumpet player, who had just met Peter and had heard him play. He pointed out that Peter’s technique on the trumpet is extremely good. Being a string player, I had kind of been oblivious to this way of listening, except to note that everything was obviously working quite well. Listening to Peter play on Sunday night, I tried to see if I could hear anything special about his technique. Yes I could. When I hear Peter play, I usually get completely sucked into whatever type of energy he is putting out, because it comes through so incredibly clearly in his playing. This might seem like it’s not that big of a deal, but getting an internal energy to come out through an piece of metal or wood can actually be really difficult and sometimes frustrating to a musician. With Peter, it’s like the energy exists in its purest and clearest form when it’s coming out of his horn. Thinking about technique as I listened, I noticed how every single note Peter played was really really played, and was thus able to be heard and felt very clearly by the audience. Also, in thinking about how exceptionally freely he is able to be expressive in his playing, I realized that Peter is in absolute and total control of his instrument. Only at such a point can a musician be truly free to do anything.
Another highlight was the playing of drummer Kevin Shea, who I learned many things from, even though I am a cellist. By imitating the energy of his sound in his physical gesture, he achieved some really fine music-making. I especially enjoyed his extended solo at the end of the set.
Lastly, The Hungry Brain is a great venue. It was the perfect place to hear Mostly Other People Do the Killing, and it was great to see such a full house of Chicagoans on a cold Sunday night. The Hungry Brain is doing something right, if they’re attracting full houses of listeners, from Chicago Symphony Musicians to broke college kids to hear improvised music. I’ll definitely go back there.
Check out Mostly Other People Do the Killing on myspace: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=128558398
And Peter Evans: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=108280971
Please go out and support live music!
Sunday 2/17/2008
The Hungry Brain, Chicago IL
Peter Evans, trumpet
Jon Irabagon, saxophone
Kevin Shea, percussion
Moppa Elliott, bass/composition
I went to this show knowing only that my friend Peter Evans was playing. Most of the times that I have gone to hear him play, the music has been very freely improvised, structured by timbres and energies which end up falling into some kind of spontaneous and convincing arc (that’s how I hear it, anyway). Upon arriving at the Hungry Brain on Sunday night, and being informed by Peter that the group that night would be a “jazz quartet,” I was excited. I’ve enjoyed Peter’s playing every time I’ve encountered it, and I was really interested to hear what “jazz quartet” meant for him. I sat on the couch in the front row of the space with my friend Eric and some whiskey, and I waited expectantly.
The show was amazing, to cut right to the chase. Mostly Other People Do the Killing is a band of four well-matched creative and dirty improvisers who can all play the pants off their instruments. The group really is a jazz quartet—they played original tunes (all written by bassist Mappa Elliott) with the recognizable form of a head, solos, and some kind of ending. The playing, however, especially the solos, tore the tunes to shreds. Here I heard a lot of the things I’d heard in Peters playing before, with regard to timbres and colors and energies and just weird sounds, but in a differently-structured context—that is, within the context of a jazz quartet tune. And it was amazing.
I also got to hear Peter play in a way I hadn’t heard him play before. He played some solos that were more tonally-based, and in some ways more traditionally virtuosic than what I’ve heard him play before. I had recently talked with a good friend of mine who is also a jazz trumpet player, who had just met Peter and had heard him play. He pointed out that Peter’s technique on the trumpet is extremely good. Being a string player, I had kind of been oblivious to this way of listening, except to note that everything was obviously working quite well. Listening to Peter play on Sunday night, I tried to see if I could hear anything special about his technique. Yes I could. When I hear Peter play, I usually get completely sucked into whatever type of energy he is putting out, because it comes through so incredibly clearly in his playing. This might seem like it’s not that big of a deal, but getting an internal energy to come out through an piece of metal or wood can actually be really difficult and sometimes frustrating to a musician. With Peter, it’s like the energy exists in its purest and clearest form when it’s coming out of his horn. Thinking about technique as I listened, I noticed how every single note Peter played was really really played, and was thus able to be heard and felt very clearly by the audience. Also, in thinking about how exceptionally freely he is able to be expressive in his playing, I realized that Peter is in absolute and total control of his instrument. Only at such a point can a musician be truly free to do anything.
Another highlight was the playing of drummer Kevin Shea, who I learned many things from, even though I am a cellist. By imitating the energy of his sound in his physical gesture, he achieved some really fine music-making. I especially enjoyed his extended solo at the end of the set.
Lastly, The Hungry Brain is a great venue. It was the perfect place to hear Mostly Other People Do the Killing, and it was great to see such a full house of Chicagoans on a cold Sunday night. The Hungry Brain is doing something right, if they’re attracting full houses of listeners, from Chicago Symphony Musicians to broke college kids to hear improvised music. I’ll definitely go back there.
Check out Mostly Other People Do the Killing on myspace: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=128558398
And Peter Evans: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=108280971
Please go out and support live music!
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