Felsenmusick

Dig Me!

2010-05-27T21:03:00.000-07:00

Hey, I'm in the New York Times; Hey I'm in the New Yorker

End of a Long Winter

2010-05-18T15:54:00.000-07:00

What a semester...seriously.

I hate sometimes that I'm occupationally forced to think in terms of semesters--makes me feel like I'm in the 37th grade or something--but alas it works. It's been a doosey. A lot of writing, an overwhelming amount of teaching, a personal life not without it's ups and downs (mostly ups) and several long, onerous articles written. But I'm happy to say the tunnel is festooned with a light at the end--at least a little.

Of course, blogging is always the first thing to go (especially since I write elsewhere) but I have made a New Year's Resolution (it is always a new year somewhere, right?) to be more vigilant. I like Felsenmusick, and hate frustrating readers.

Here's a query for you both, then: can music--not the topic of the lyrics, not the images it accompanies, but the actual pitches and rhythms that make up a score--be "dangerous"? There's a reason I'm asking--any thoughts?

Oh, and if you missed this from ages ago, please read my little Article in the New York Times about the land from whence I hail.

Barber with a Beat

2010-03-07T09:14:00.001-08:00

Who knew the Adagio for Strings had such a following? Apparently Johanna Keller did, and wrote about it in The New York Times. It's an interesting cultural phenomenon, the impact of this piece, and I think she absolutely nails the accross-the-board appeal of the work. To quibble, of course I wish Marin Alsop, Orlando Cole and the Ying Quartet had been a little more front-and-center in the piece, but I get the "Appeal to the Youth" aspect of this article.

And I wish Samuel Barber a Happy 100th--it's coming up on Tuesday. Maybe we can all celebrate by listening to his other works as well? And I'll be sitting here, longing for the day when the Piano Sonata, Cello Sonata, or the Second Essay for Orchestra are lined up for their respective remixes. In fact, I dare someone...

As a side note, I am also glad the Army has seen fit to honor Barber as well.

Some Thoughts on Chopin and his Attendant Project

2010-02-12T15:45:00.000-08:00

I love Chopin. I think he was One of the Greats. It seems a too-obvious thing to say, he’s clearly one of The Great Composers. Nobody made the piano sound as much as he did, before or (arguably) since. And what’s more, he’s one of the rare composers that knew his limitations—never venturing further from his instrument, despite what must have been enormous pressure from whatever the “establishment” of his day (read: the whole Music of the Future set) must have pressured him to do. He retreated, he dealt, he had some kind of affair (or did not) and he wrote his “sugar dusted” salon piano pieces which contain so much contrapuntal depth, so much washed-ashore feeling, the quiet and deeply rebellious spirit of the age. A true D.I.Y. composer before there was such a thing (well, I count Berlioz as the progenitor of this; many will, of course, argue. But who else? And Chopin kept it small) A complex persona and a composer of genius, no question.

I’ve always believed deeply he deserved better than Hugh Grant.

So here it is, 2010, the bicentennial Chopin-iversary. One in a long series “year of the…” celebrations of. Leafing through the Lincoln Center Great Performers Catalogue, I found that the absolutely fantastic pianist Garrick Ohlsson is launching what he calls his “Chopin Project.” Automatically this excited me, because I always thought the Polish composer got a bad gradschool rap, and I hoped, secretly, that something with the tantalizing moniker of “The Project” would engage the dead composer in a living way. (I have my own “Project” going, b/t/w.)

Instead I offer the programme complete, of his all-Chopin concert:

Three Nocturnes, Op. 9  Two Polonaises, Op. 40  Sonata in B-flat minor  Four Mazurkas  Waltz in A-flat major  Scherzo in B-flat minor

Before I proceed, this does sound like a concert I’d enjoy. I love a lot of these pieces—the mazurkas (all of them) just kill me, the Waltz, the sonatas, any nocturne (which does my insomniacal heart good; I’ve never had the courage to write a nocturne, much as I’ve aspired and even tried, largely because of Chopin’s). But come on, is this a “Project” or is it just another all-Chopin concert? What makes this distinct? As much as I’ve no doubt this pianist will play a fantastic concert, one we should all run out and see/hear, I wonder why the special designation.

This morning, on Twitter, I sighed digitally over this matter: why not celebrate Chopin in a different way than merely playing his not unavailable music? Allow me to enlarge on that one for a moment. If this were a Holmboe anniversary, or a Biber anniversary, then yes, a concert simply devoted to their works might be worth noting. After all, these are two great composers (bring it, because I believe it on both counts, and I also love Nielsen) who are indeed in need of a good musico-cultural dusting off, and simply playing their music would qualify as a “project” because its new, or at least uncommon. But in the case of Chopin, I bet there are 239,043 pianists playing one of his pieces in some kind of public capacity as I type this. He’s here to stay. Agree with the diagnosis of his greatness or not, you don’t have to go far to hear his work. Even if you want to stay home, how many recordings of his complete oeuvre can you own? Too many cherished outings to count. Chopin is a part of the landscape.

I don’t want this to turn into one of those program-more-new-music-or-fear-the-wrath-of-the-composer-you-cowards screeds, because I honestly believe people should be able to play what they want to play, to drink deep draughts of the music that moves them, and if Mr. Ohlsson wants to play a lot of Chopin I’m not going to look down my nose at it because Chopin is old and I am the new and I’m sitting here wondering how this kind of programming relates to what I am interested in. Hardly. Not every concert needs to include something new. It is a big world, with multiple musics contained within, and there is a lot of room for every Chopin Nocturne.

What I suppose I lamented to fellow Twitter-travelers was the lack of creativity in the labelled “project.” Chopin, after all, is a kind of mother’s milk to pianists, and since most composers (including yr. blogger here) came up playing the piano, Chopin has flowed through most of our fingers. Does this mean he’s been an influence? Who’s to say, but he—or his work, I should say—has certainly been there. And I don’t think it would be too grand a stretch to say he’s been in the mind of just about every composer who set out to write in any kind of sexy, romantic way for the piano—how could he not? He all-but invented it.

My question was: if you want to examine Chopin as a cultural phenom, It seems like just running down a smattering of his works (even rarities or chestnuts of his canon) wouldn’t do him justice, not in 2010, not two centuries since his birth. We live in a different time, a “project” ought to reflect that. Otherwise it’s just a concert.

OK, so when Twitterers (I just cannot get with the word “Tweeps,” and I don’t have the moxie of one Mellissa Hughes to say “Tweethearts”) responded, some posed the question of what a fitting tribute might be. Allow me to enlarge on that. Brace yourself for a deeply impractical finance-free Chromatic Phantasy on the idea: as someone who does not program concerts for a living (save for those dedicated to my work alone) I am obviously playing Monday Morning Quarterback here. But consider me a blogheur for a moment, hear my longing, and understand that if the odd job of making The Chopin Project in my own image was suddenly hoisted upon me by Lincoln Center (“Oh yeah, Felsenfeld, you think you could do this better than us, well alright, the job is yours”) this is where I might begin.

Commence with a non-musical reaction. Chopin had a long-standing involvement with George Sand, a writer of prominence (and occasional critical displeasure). Why not start there? Why not look into poetry of the era and pair it with pieces? Or, for that matter, why not engage poets of this era and commission them to react to pieces, projecting their words onto a screen, publishing them in a book, bringing Chopin into the 21^st Century through the eyes of those so-called Unacknowledged Legislators? I’d love a program, say, with each prelude or each nocturne assigned to a living poet, and that poet showed up and read their words before the piece? Talk about your souvenir, the booklet from that concert, especially if it were only available to the attendees or published in a limited run.

Why not build a short-subject Chopin film a la Fantasia? Take the nocturnes, the scherzi, any sequence of pieces (perhaps chosen by Mr. Ohlsson) and have some of our great animators or poets of the cinema make short pieces to accompany? I think that would be a special event, especially if a hybrid SACD-DVD were released. How thrilling would that be?

And of course, we come to the inevitable end: commission twenty four composers to make a whole new set of preludes, each assigned to react to a specific work (much like Orpheus’ brilliant take on the Brandenbergs). I can imagine a whole panoply of composers of multiple styles who write well for the piano—John Corigliano, Michael Nyman, David Rakowski, Tobias Picker, David Lang, Philip Glass, Ned Rorem, David Del Tredici, William Bolcom, Louis Andriesen, and (maybe) even venturing slightly far afield to the piano-playing rockstar with even a small dog in this fight like Tori Amos, Rufus Wainright, Amanda Palmer—each making a fitting tribute. And of course, my next idea would never happen, but it would be completely an amazing experience if these pieces were written on condition that they never be recorded, instead making the scores available to be performed by as many pianists (and in any order) possible.

(Now that I think about it, it might be also good to include some younger composers who have a way with the piano: Ken Ueno, Mason Bates, Marc Mellits, Adam Silverman, Paola Prestini, Beata Moon, Cornelius Duffalo, hell, I’ll tackily insert myself here. Perhaps I’ve schemed two sets of new preludes?)

Any (or all) of these ideas might qualify as a project, a long and far reaching look at this composer who has had a quiet (or not so) influence on everyone who’s sat down at the piano since. And obviously these ideas far exceed the character limit.

Sting, Reading, Schumann

2009-12-03T13:56:00.000-08:00

Tonight I'm thrilled to be attending a Screening of Twin Spirits with the film's stars--Sting and Trudie Styler--in attendance. I have more than a soft spot for Mr. Sting, from his years with The Police, his solo records, his forays into early music, hell even his performance in the movie Dune (which yes I know ages me). I saw him in concert in Los Angeles, in New York, in Italy, in London, and I've not forgotten any of it. More to report tomorrow, but looks to be a fascinating film wherein the letters of Robert and Clara Schumann are read accompanied by their music. The greatest love story in Classical music this side of Britten and Pears (tongue both in and out of cheek there, those relationships both being long-standing yet fraught), I'm looking forward to this flimic coceptualization.

More tomorrow. Now I have to figure out the HopStop to WNYC's Jerome L. Greene space--and sister moon will NOT alas be my guide.

Pretender to the Throne (?)

2009-11-18T11:06:00.000-08:00

Fantastic little piece about a very clever fraud (I'm OBSESSED with frauds: art forgers, Tristan Foison, Welles' move F for Fake) who fooled the smart people at the Ojai Festival by impersonating Steve Mackey. Weird. But compelling.

So Much, So Much To Do

2009-11-17T20:03:00.000-08:00

Here's just a few things going on:

Tomorrow night, November 17, I'll be astage at Le Poisson Rouge playing the piano once again as part of John Wesley Harding's final Cabinet of Wonders of 2009 (more to come in 2010, you can be sure!). Which is a mixed blessing because I'll not be able to hear my friend, the astoundingly gifted Jody Redhage perform her show with her band Fire in July that night at Roulette. My loss, though the cabinet promises to be excellent, with a fascinating roster of guests.

The following night, I'll have to miss The Metropolis Ensemble (also at LPR) in order that I might be at Galapagos Art Space for the 21cLiederabend concert with a whole roster of awesome people and excellent composers and ensembles, not least of which are Opera On Tap, Vision Into Art and Ethel.

Friday, lord knows what I'm forgoing to see Don Giovanni at New York City Opera, directed by my friend Christopher Alden. Rave reviews in the Times for this one!

Busy but amazing few days.

Once Again, A Return

2009-11-16T19:30:00.000-08:00

Yes, Felsenreaders, fallen of. Missed me? Given up? Wondered if there was no meaning to your life since, well, where's all the goodies on Felsenmusick? Believe me, I've missed being here, and so, with a few key clicks and a tip of the wireless mouse, I return. Some good things coming up: an opera in the bay area, a sinful concert in Brooklyn, new monodramas with a brilliant playwright, opera-ish things, piano works, a concerto all around the country, performances by not one but two of my favorite ensembles on this G-d's Green Earth, some curatorial responsibilities, a whole new slew of Cabinets of Wonders with John Wesley Harding, those songs that make you go insane because you can't kick them, program notes, liner notes, articles, blogs, tweets, status updates, you NAME it, all coming your way, all duly hawked on Felsenmusick. The Doctor is, again, in.

Auspicious Beginnings

2009-08-23T21:35:00.001-07:00

Summer winds down, the hiatus ends, and its back to composing, teaching, writing, reading and of course blogging. And what better way to start the coming year than with a nice mention by one Alex Ross on the New Yorker's Web site.

I loved Alex's article on fictional composers (being one myself from time to time, as he mentions) and wish I could offer a link, but as its for subscribers only, you'll just have to pick up a copy of this weeks New Yorker or subscribe to read it. Wholly and completely worth it!

Sometime soon, I'll blog about this summer, some cool concerts (Costello and Cohen for starters) some excellent books (Inherent Vice) and a whole heap of Steve Erickson) some upcoming events and some thoughts, but for now I leave you join me in the basking of a Ross namecheck.

Passings

2009-07-27T20:35:00.000-07:00

I want to echo Alex Ross in mourning three passings this weeekend: Robert Hilferty, Michael Steinberg and Merce Cunningham. I could eulogize the latter two (whom I did not know personally) and recount some truly hilarious stories of Robert Hilferty, but I will just let their names stand as the sadness their loss represents. The world is lighter once again.

Another Return

2009-06-23T06:54:00.000-07:00

I'm back. Better than ever. And I have a bit of reverie--for the work of Peter Greenaway. I write because of a nice piece in the Times about his show at the Venice Biennale, which made me think of my happy accident a few years back of being in Amsterdam, in the Rijkmuseum, and stumbling upon his Nightwatching, which was utterly fantastic. His work has drawn a lot of ire over the years (once I recall a roomful of older composers giggling at me when I said I was a fan, in that "doesn't-HE-have-a-lot-to-learn-about-the-world" way, or the lobby of a cinema some years ago featuring very pretentious man discussing loudly how pretentious Mr. Greenaway was) but it is work to which I always return. Basically I think he might be the smartest man on the planet. To say I love most of his films (the day Prospero's Books or Drowning by Numbers finally become available on DVD will be expensive but wonderful) is an understatement. To me these films define what art can and even should do, a touchstone: they have unparalleled depth, seek to explore, go beyond their medium while not expecting to be noteworthy simply because they go beyond their medium, and are as learned and seeking as any work out there. And I love his themes, which include conspiracies (from the water tower to the deaths of composers by mysterious means), the body, sex, death, writing, blood, art, beauty and vomit--to him, there is little difference between these things. His operas with Andriessen are divine and strange (maybe Rosaand Writing to Vermeer will come to DVD on that same glorious day).

I am being general, because I've just not the weeks it would take to be specific.

To return to Nightwatching, it was an amazing "show" wherein the famous painting by Rembrandt was suspended in the middle of the room. The lights dimmed, and for twenty minutes an audio track played which told the story of this great work through illuminating certain bits of it from the front and from behind, turning a staid and unmovable image into a vivid storyboard (about, yes, a conspiracy contained within the work). It was breathtaking--and oddly unfilmable. (Which leads me to the point that Greenaway is always referred to as a filmmaker and yet he's not made a picture in years, focusing instead on installations like these). From what the article seems to say, the show at the Biennale sounds like this experience writ large. Alas, I'll not be there--unless a generous reader would like to fund my expedition!

Needless to say, it's nice to be back.

Allow Me to be the Last

2009-04-20T13:36:00.000-07:00

...to congratulate Steve Reich on a long-overdue Pulitzer Prize. And I am also happy to hear that Harold Meltzer was a runner-up.

Grammar

2009-03-31T09:43:00.000-07:00

I hate to go all Jay Leno, but I have to gawk at the mixed meaning behind this headline (found on Google News):

Iran, in gesture to US, promises help on drugs

I mean, really, think about it...

Music = Brain

2009-03-29T08:11:00.001-07:00

Every so often a study gets released explaining how music has a positive effect on one's mind, especially the complexities of classical music. It makes you smarter, better at math, and some say younger. Its hard to disagree, and it is even harder to disagree with the sprit of these undertakings because, well, since math is the smartest way to be smart in our No Child Left Behind culture because it is the most quickly quantifiable, music must therefore be good for US because it is good for that.

So today in the Times there is an appropriately skeptical piece by Matthew Gurewitsch about prescription music, music written specifically to have a desired effect on a specific brain. Its even handed, well written, and takes on this odd little practice with the right kind of attitude: that of the objective journalist. It ought to be read.

What I found most intriguing--and I mean that last word in its fullest spy-thriller resonance--is the presence of the guardedly anonymous composer in the mix. You go for your study, someone writes you a piece to suit your specific mental needs (apparently we all need Glass or Riley redux?) but the hand is silent; we are never to know. This strikes me as the oddest notion of this entire questionable (but not necessarily wrong) practice: there's someone, or a team of someones, who are writing music to have an effect on your brain and their name(s) is (are) a well-kept secret.

Of course, being a composer myself, I begin to wonder who it might b, which of my colleagues has landed the no-doubt lucrative dayjob of writing music to put troubled minds be at ease? And why, I wonder, is the whole practice intentionally shrouded in a veil of mystery? Do these composers feel they are doing the wrong thing? (They are not.) Do they fear the repercussions of the world knowing that they--gasp--might need to supplement their income? Or is this whole practice a little questionable, and when later it becomes known do these composers want not to be associated with it? I think that alone would be such a distraction, for me, from any possible efficacy of this study.

I say, if you're going to do it, do it: cop to it, and let us know how it works and why. There is nothing to be ashamed of, no need to hide. Hell, I think it would make an interesting companion piece in the Times to send a music journalist to accomplish a piece of derring-do and smoke out just who is behind this particular curtain. Music Therapy's Greatest Composers UNMASKED. Composers working in an underground laboratory somewhere to make the world a better place are revealed for what they are, dramatically and on television. I'd watch it.

Shining Brow Release

2009-02-11T05:44:00.000-08:00

On March 18, this is where I will be. This piece--the seminal work of an amazingly gifted composer (and I am proud to say, friend)--will be available, finally, on a CD (insert usual praise to Naxos, who just sees to it that important things don't go unreleased) and is deserving of a big loud fete for the launch. Make your reservations early. See you there.

Glorious Mayhem

2009-02-08T08:25:00.000-08:00

This Wednesday night, February 11, at 10pm I will be a gleeful participant in the first installment of John Wesley Harding's CABINET OF WONDERS at (where else?) Le Poisson Rouge. This week's lineup is certainly star-studded, including Rick Moody, Jonathan Ames, Eugene Mirman, Ambrosia Parsley, Carla Rhodes, and P.T. Walkley. I'll join JWH onstage to play a few tunes with him at the piano--he's a thoroughly amazing singer-songwriter who is not to be missed. Le Poisson Rouge is located at 158 Bleeker St. You may purchase tickets here.

The other CABINET OF WONDERS shows will be on March 11 and April 15, the latter featuring music composed by me, a piece JWH and I are writing together called Music Doesn't Want Me. Details on that to come, but do save those dates if you are interested. As you'll see below, those shows will also be very special and packed full of amazing people -- you can see all of the specifics for the shows below my signature. I am honored to be part of them.

I will also join Wes to perform on Friday, February 20 on WXPN's Free Noon at World Cafe Live in Philadelphia. Again, details below.

And I am sure I'll be sending out another email alert as some other things get closer, but below is a taste of a few things happening this Spring:

April 30
The PEN World Voices Festival Presents Collaborations/Elaborations, a concert of my music focusing on my work with writers. Joining me onstage will be authors Rick Moody, Wesley Stace (a.k.a. John Wesley Harding) and Mark Z. Danielewski. Performing will be Michael Zegarski, Amy Van Roekel, Jessica Miller-Rauch and Michael Morcotte, and Jody Redhage, with pianists Simone Dinnerstein, Blair McMillen and Charity Wicks. More on this to come, but look forward to world premieres, New York premieres, and very cool readings.

May 21
The always amazing pianist Blair McMillen will play my short but densely packed piece A Dirty Little Secret at the Greenwich Music House as part of the Keys to the Future festival.

May 30
At the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C., the world premiere of my oratorio Revolutions of Ruin, performed by the Congressional Chorus joined by the Great Noise Ensemble. The piece is a setting of texts by Mark Z. Danielewski, Rick Moody, Michael Chabon and Tara Bray Smith, for chorus, chamber orchestra and soloists.

Hope to see you at some or all of these concerts!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
ON JOHN WESLEY HARDING

Happy New Year Friends... we're a month into 2009 and really gearing up for a great year.

Before we launch into the news, let's back up just a bit to late 2008. Those of you who have placed orders for Who Was Changed and Who Was Dead cd and/or the t-shirts, dvds, signed print) should have those in hand. If you haven't had a chance to place your order, you can visit www.johnwesleyharding.com and see what's in the store. Order the new cd online and you will be send a free download code so you may begin listening right away. That will be followed up with a copy of the cd and bonus disc. Add-on the other goodies and we'll send those right along.

February 11 - Rick Moody (writer and member of duo "Authros" with JWH) Jonathan Ames (writer) Eugene Mirman (comedian) Shivaree (Ambrosia Parsley - wonderful singer) Carla Rhodes (ventriloquist) P.T.Walkley (musician you're going to love)

March 11 - Colson Whitehead (writer) Colum McCann (writer) Josh Ritter (musician, most recently heard with JWH at The Union Hall) Rosanne Cash (musician) Errollyn Wallen (composer, presenting US premiere of "From Eleanor to Sweet William") Eugene Mirman (comedian)

April 15 - Graham Parker (musician) Daniel Wallace (writer, last seen with JWH doing magic tricks in Chapel Hill) Dan John Miller (actor/musician - once of Goober and The Peas!) Sam Lipsyte (writer) Eugene Mirman (comedian) Daniel Felsenfeld (composer)

But these shows are too much to confine them to NYC. The West Coast is calling, the East Coast is begging. So, alright, if JWH must hit the road, he's taking Eugene Mirman with him and there will be other special guests along the way. The dates outside of New York for "Wes and Eugene's Cabinet of Wonders" are:

March 26 - The Brattle Theater, Cambridge MA (to be confirmed)
April 1 - Tractor Tavern, Seattle WA
April 2 - Mississippi Studios, Portland OR
April 4 - Largo, Los Angeles CA
April 5 - The Independent, San Francisco CA

More dates will be announced as they are confirmed.They will be posted on www.myspace.com/wesleystace.

In the meantime, JWH, in the company of Rick Moody, will be on Soundcheck on WNYC at 2:00 PM Eastern Time next Monday, February 9, performing songs from his new album, and talking about the Cabinet of Wonders:http://www.WNCY.org/shows/soundcheck/. That evening, he and Eugene Mirman will be on The Joey Reynolds Show, doing much the same, at midnight: http://www.wor710.com/.

And on Friday February 20, JWH will be playing live at WXPN's Free at Noon at World Cafe Live in Philadelphia, sharing the bill with M. Ward. That's free. For more information: www.xpn.org/concerts-events/free-at-noon.

Keep an eye on MySpace and the JWH Messageboard for news as it happens!

Today

2009-02-03T12:55:00.000-08:00

I am enjoying reading the fact that, according to many (and especially to Mr Don McClean once upon a time), "the music" died half a century ago on this very day. Long live the music, I suppose.

This Cursed Blog

2009-02-02T06:51:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I lament this blog simply because much of the time it bears the weight of bad news. I did not mention the passing of George Perle because I had gotten sick of writing how much lighter the world felt, but today I write in to lament the loss of Lukas Foss. A friend wrote, apropos of a despairing conversation he and I had been having, via email, about grants etc., wrote me that he had heard from Lukas' son that the great man had left the earth. Allan Kozinn has a respectful piece about it in the Times.

I met him only twice, and found him to be charming and brilliant. I thrilled to his pianism in his performance of Bernstein's Age of Anxiety and loved a lot of his music. More than anything, I liked the idea of him, as someone not hewn to any school of thought but rather a brave and inherently curious mind willing to try out anything for the sheer fun of it. I wish more composers were like that now.

So adieux Lukas and Mr. Perle (whom I never met, save once), the world truly is lighter now.

Klinghoffer

2009-02-01T10:06:00.000-08:00

I want to point everyone to Mark Adamo's excellent and well-reasoned essay on John Adams' difficult opera The Death of Klinghoffer. This piece is always incendiary, for many reasons, and I think Mark (as always!) brilliantly articulates why. Like the piece or not, agree with the politics or not, or even agree or disagree with the particular nimbus of criticism that surrounds that opera, Mark's intelligent and nuanced vivisection considers the work in a wonderfully specific way and ought to be read.

Gone Daddy Gone

2009-01-20T06:18:00.000-08:00

Goodbye to All That

2009-01-18T11:51:00.000-08:00

It has been a complicated week. On the one hand, as I write this, we've less than 48 hours left to witness the dying gasp (and no doubt spate of self-pardons) of this revolutionary putsch that has put America in dire Jeopardy for eight relentless years. Hoo-freakn'-ray to that, right? But as Obama's train makes its way from Philadelphia to what I and the majority of America hope is a new and brighter future, relentless sad news, fallout from the crash, keeps coming. For New Yorkers, this week saw the closing of the Zipper Factory, the Cutting Room, and Amato Opera. Three very different places where a range of very different people got to, for years, do very different--and for my money, extremely important--things. Insert sentence, appropriately, about the vast range of arts available in New York here. It certainly is true. This is of course part of the devastating cull of places and jobs and institutions that one can only hope is the ashes from which some kind of Phoenix rill be forced to rise. The words that keep going through my head as my heart gets broken over and over again: "Necessity is the mother of invention." (And as I am reading Dennis Dutton's pretty fantastic book The Art Instinct, I grow more convinced that what these places did service was not a want, a luxury, but a need.) But in the meantime, patience is, for me, an overtaxed virtue.

On a personal note, last April I was privelaged to be part of a small but mighty show called Opera After Hours at the Zipper Factory. We were the victims of New York Circumstance viz. the press in that our opening night coincided with the opening of Glass' Satyagraha at the Metropolitan Opera, which meant that literally every critic was busy that night. But I and Jennifer Griffith were blessed with a brilliant cast (that included Amy Von Roekel, Michael Zegarski, Constance Hauman and Jessica Miller-Rauch) an extraordinary pianist (Charity Wicks) and the absolute luxury of working with superstar director Chrisopher Alden. He spun our seemingly incompatible pieces--excerpts from an opera of mine based on Bluebeard as told from the heroine's point of view; three songs of mine, settings of poems by Philip Larkin, Djuna Barnes and Kate Gale; and two pieces of Jennifer's, The Dresser and Dream President--into a thoughtful hour of music and theatre that surpassed everyone's expectations as to how it would go off. Part of what made it so special, aside from the amazing personnel, was the space, Zipper's delightfully ramshackle theatre and elegant bar-restaurant (with excellent food). To top it off, the staff was wonderful and responsive, and we felt excellent working there. Sadly, I had plans to do much more there, and alas it is now not an option.

So farewell Zipper, Cutting Room, and Amato. You leave us bereft, and your loss will be felt. New York is simply less interesting without you.

Some Sad Passings

2009-01-12T16:48:00.001-08:00

In finally getting around to scouring some of the music news (I've been composing a lot, too much to spend a lot of time reading the news excessively), I found out two sad passings. The first, of course, the passing of Betty Freeman, whose extraordinary life is documented in a beautiful conversation with Frank Oteri here, mourned in the Times here , and appropriately lamented by Alex Ross here.

But today, also, apparently Amato Opera announced it will close its doors after six decades. This wonderfully quirky little company in the shadow of what was once CBGB (another fallen place now a John Varvatos outlet, sadly) has been a mainstay of the brighter side of New York Concert Life for its entire life. I am sure the sad paeans are to come from the opera community, but a quick summary of the facts can be found here.

As I've said before, our world is much much lighter now.

The First Day of the Rest of the Year

2009-01-12T16:14:00.000-08:00

Hello Felsenreaders!

So it has indeed been a while, but I've been storing it up, ending the year, suffering the letdown and the hangover and all the attendant things that come with a season where the year ends, I officially age another year, and snow begins to fall, the cold settling in. Many concerts to see, this week including City Opera's lone production, Antony and Cleopatra, about which I am very excited, almost breathless (despite the poor quality of my seats).

Other than that, there's much coming up, and now that I am back and blogging and on a tear (of sorts) I will be filling whomever is reading, if anyone is in fact reading, in.

Stay tuned.

Shoe Fly, Bye Bye

2008-12-14T13:59:00.000-08:00

I Am City Opera, I Say "Hip"

2008-12-11T10:13:00.000-08:00

A recent honor: I was interviewed along with a few hundred of my nearest and dearest by the New York City Opera grassroots campaign, titled "I Am City Opera." I am proud that my half hour or so speaking into the camera is distilled to one crucial word in this video. Watch, give.

300th Post

2008-11-25T00:42:00.000-08:00

I am proud to say that this is the 300th post on Felsenmusick. So thanks for reading, and as a reward,something truly remarkable (sent from my friend Jeff Buddle via Andrew Sullivan).

I think old Mozart would be proud.

As The World Unravels

2008-11-19T09:34:00.001-08:00

Spoke in very hushed tones is the impact of the Greatest Financial Crisis to Hit Our Country Since the Great Depression on the as-always dependent-on-the-kindness-of-strangers arts. And yes, daily sad news of our economic downward spiral--this bank closing, this corporation laying off hundreds of people, this Dow Jones somersault or crash--has become the same white noise as casualties in Iraq (never reported). But how will this affect us?

Here's a sad tidbit to give a general indication, from the Argosy Foundation, which is not giving any money out, not any more.

I suspect there will be a lot more to say on this one. Needless to say, in a few years, when those kind souls who usually donate don't feel up to it, who knows where we will all be...

Not Something I Do a Lot, But...

2008-11-18T16:24:00.000-08:00

When I started this blog, I swore off a few things save for only the most excruciating moments: left-wing politics (there are many many many others who do this far better than I), movies, and books, even though these things consume a fair amount of my time. But just having finished all-but one part of Roberto Bolano's newest (and sadly last; he died in 2003) book 2006 I am now not only about to break a rule by discussing, but I am also going to praise heavily a book I've not yet finished.

It looks daunting, weighing in at just under 900 pages, but whoa man does it fly! Borges meets Cormac McCarthy with double acts worthy of Pessoa or Charlie Kaufman. Lit crit, brutal murder, politics, film, all of it mixed into a gorgeous south-of-the-border bouillabaisse and roasted on high heat for just under a thousand pages.

More when I finish it, but for fellow New Yorkers who fear the simply wrist-crushing weight of the hardback, why not instead purchase the conveniently partitioned paperback boxed set?

And FYI, what got me to rush out was Jonathan Lethem's carefully considered and brilliantly written review in the Times.

Bernstein at Harvard

2008-11-15T12:58:00.000-08:00

I am very impressed that the American Scholar published what might be Leonard Bernstein's last speech. More later on its content, but read it here.

Dust Ring of Formalhaut

2008-11-15T08:29:00.000-08:00

According to the Times, we've just gotten our first glimpse at a planet outside of our solar system. Amazing news, especially as it seems our Mars rover has gone dark.

Seasonal Affective Disorder

2008-11-13T14:13:00.001-08:00

Allow me to be the last to weigh in on the confusing news of Gerard Mortier's non-departure from the post of director at City Opera. Private emails about this have been no doubt raging throughout interested parties in the New York music world, myself very much included. I myself dream of an opera house where an American piece is not exactly an event, where I can walk in and see Blitzstein's Regina or Porgy and Bess without it being some kind of touted, blessed event. Meantime, we all have to sit tight and not only see what happens across the pavement from the Met, but also in the economy at large. In those heated emails, the news is often not good, with grant-giving bodies unable to give grants and opera companies going belly up or scaling themselves back all over the place. Thanks Mr. Bush.

Meantime, my pal Mark Adamo has planned the new season for City Opera and has interviewed the new director. Buy it? I do?

Vote, Please

2008-11-03T18:23:00.000-08:00

Don't screw this up. Remember in 2000, Florida was called, many thought it was locked up and did not go to the polls. Remember Ohio, the Alamo of the last election. Heed the warning of evil genius Karl Rove, perhaps the funniest columnist not writing for The Onion and get out there to vote, even if you live, as I do, in a not-exactly-contested place. Vote, vote, vote, vote, vote. Wait as long as you need, bring snacks, a dog, a chair, an iPod, live animals (well...), homework, schoolwork, but please please please get out and vote.

Bring a book, wait calmly, report anything suspicious, but please do vote. We cannot take much more of this.

Lest We Believe

2008-09-29T12:45:00.000-07:00

I've often had trouble with the way the Times spins things, but I about fell out of my chair when I read this (please, it is the wording that troubles me, not the sentiment. In a article about the bailout not working, "The vote against the measure was 228 to 205, with 133 Republicans joining 95 Democrats in opposition. The bill was backed by 140 Democrats and 65 Republicans." Now my objection is subtle, but important, as this is the lead paragraph of the lead story: if 133 Republicans and 95 Democrats stand opposed, is it really fair to say that the majority joined the minority?

Alright, Come On...!

2008-09-27T09:39:00.001-07:00

Second Holocaust?

The World is So Much Lighter, Too Often

2008-09-13T19:10:00.000-07:00

I was shocked to come to my computer and find the news that David Foster Wallace had been found dead in his home. It looks like suicide. There is a too-short article in the New York Times, but i am sure there will be more later.

You might say I was a rabid fan, reading everything he ever wrote. I even lobbied hard to be part of a project in which he was involved (to no avail, but that's showbiz). Infinite Jest is a masterpiece plain and simple, as are his journalistic pieces collected in A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. But it is his Brief Interviews with Hideous Men, a work I recently reread, that will remain.

I did not know him, but I admired him, revered him. Words fail. The world is lighter tonight,

Even More Reviews

2008-09-13T12:26:00.001-07:00

Fantastic reviews keep coming in for Insomnimania. You can read the review from Buffalo News here and from Time Out New York here. I like that my work was called "wandering..." It is.

More Reviews are In!

2008-09-09T22:09:00.000-07:00

This from the Detroit Free Press on Jenny Lin's record Insomnimania. Click here to buy it!

There's also a very nice interview with Jenny on a blog called New York Pianist in which she has some kind words about me.

Quotable

2008-09-08T22:06:00.001-07:00

"Everybody says they hate ABBA. How come everybody goes to (the musical) 'Mamma Mia?'" -- John McCain

Reviews Are In

2008-08-30T14:20:00.000-07:00

I am very pleased with this review from Time Out New York of Andy Russo's Mix Tape CD (with two tracks by yr. blogger). I mean, when something you wrote is called a "cubist boogie-woogie," you know you've made it. You can get that CD here.

And Jenny Lin's Insomnimania CD is also pulling in some excellent press. There's a nice precis in the Cleveland Plain Dealer, which alas does not mention my work but gives her an "A" so how bad can that be? And another on a Web site called Culture Catch. That CD is available here.

A Vacation from Reality

2008-08-30T13:25:00.001-07:00

I wish I could occupy the same planet as David Brooks. Where he lives, we have few problems save for a slightly plasticized society where packaging is our biggest menace. The recession is in our minds, the war is just, offshore drilling solves everything, and qualifications to lead are about resume over policy. But alas, I am grounded here on Earth, for better or for worse, with our endless war, a serious recession, global warming, an assault on science that disagrees with the bible, etc. So if anyone knows of any cheap tickets, please pass the information on to me. I could use the break.

Have you no decency, sir? After long last, have you left no sense of decency?

All Hail!

2008-08-29T15:37:00.001-07:00

My good friend's new (and at-long-last, long-since-overdue) Web site: www.markadamo.com. The only thing that gives me pause is that Mark's extreme articulate wit and erudition, a treasure, something on which I've come to depend, has gone public. But I'll not be selfish, I'll share, and I do think we'll all be better for it.

Historic

2008-08-28T23:19:00.000-07:00

Back and Ready to Roll

2008-08-27T16:28:00.001-07:00

California seems a haze to me now as I return back to the swirling chaos of New York, to teaching, composing, living. Spent a glorious few weeks with my fantastic wife driving down the coast from San Francisco, seeing my old campus at Santa Barbara, and visiting old and new friends in Los Angeles. It was wonderful but exhausting. We ate a lot of mexican food (the best of which is only available on the opposite side from us, for some reason), checked out a little bit of a rehearsal for the Stewart Wallace/Amy Tan opera The Bonesetter's Daughter at the San Francisco Opera, saw a play about Beethoven (on which, more later), read good books, saw no movies nor spent any time in the water, and visited historic sites both of my own youth and of reality. Big Sur, the Henry Miller Library, a shopping center named after Huxley's forgetting drug. Enough said.

Thanks for patience, all of you, and I'll be updating regularly until the next vacation, scheduled tentatively for 2015.

One Last Thing: Mix Tape

2008-08-12T12:14:00.000-07:00

Today Andy Russo's brillant CD Mix Tape streets. The record is a fantastic melange of many composers (I am proud to be in this crew) reacting to various pop songs in their own way. David Lang, Phil Kline, Marc Mellits meet Steppenwolf, King Crimson, The Stooges. My own contributions: Toscanini's Glasses based on "Play that Funky Music" and Good Times Just Seem to Pass Me By based on the Velvet Underground's "All Tomorrow's Parties." Andy plays like a genius, like always, and the other pieces are varied, fascinating, and terrific. And dig the cool cool cover--as usual, the Russo CDs are visually compelling as well. Think of this record as a kind of new music "Basement Tapes."

Buy the CD here.

California Dreamin'

2008-08-12T11:21:00.000-07:00

For the rest of August, I will be off in California, North and South, to return in September with fresh blogging perspective for you all. Have a great August, enjoy, see you on the other side of summer.

Last Minute Felsenmusick PSA: Opera On Tap!

2008-08-06T08:34:00.000-07:00

Hello All:

As a bit of last minute good news, fantastic mezzo Jessica Miller-Rauch, one of the reining divas for the always-irreverent, always-wonderful Opera On Tap will be performing my song "To a Cabaret Dancer" as part of their evening tribute to Kurt Weill. And while I am not Weill (I know...), I am honored to be considered in his company, and of course my humble little song--a setting of a poem by Djuna Barnes, about a taxi dancer--pays deep homage to the master. Jessica does this number brilliantly.

The show is at the Parkside Lounge, Downtown New York.

Proud Blogger Keeps on Blogging

2008-07-29T13:39:00.000-07:00

I was honored--and a little shocked--to find that Felsenmusick was not only listed on a site called Blognoggle.com under their top 100 Classical Music Blogs (the other two categories being business or politics where, thankfully, I did not rate) but has also advanced up the ranks to No. 28 on Sounds and Fury's top 50, up nine from 37. Watch out Alex, Steve, Matt, Marc, Greg, Jeremy and A.C. Apparently my stock is rising. Consider this the dusting off of my tails and the preparation for the inevitable awards banquet. I'd like to thank all the little people...

In the meantime, I'd like to direct my millions to the blog of my friend Daron Hagen, who has some gorgeous words on Yaddo. In preparation for my visit this coming October, I was thrilled to read these lovely snowflakes of tribute to a place that means so much to all of us.

Beethoven's Best

2008-07-24T08:00:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Daron Hagen for this. Deligtful, hysterical. Never has a held tone been more effective or hilarious.

Palylist

2008-07-23T15:41:00.000-07:00

As my iTunes hilariously described what turned up on my doorstep today:

Act 1 Seen 1 3:51 Jhon Adums Flowrin Treee A Opra In 2 Axe Classical

1 Mornin 8:41 Jhon Adums Flowrin Treee A Opra In 2 Axe Classical

OMG 6:40 Jhon Adums Flowrin Treee A Opra In 2 Axe Classical

Seen 2 Floris Coris 2:43 Jhon Adums Flowrin Treee A Opra In 2 Axe Classical

Kumudah An Her Sistr 8:54 Jhon Adums Flowrin Treee A Opra In 2 Axe Classical

Seen 3 A Audience W Teh King!!1! 2:25 Jhon Adums Flowrin Treee A Opra In 2 Axe Classical

Mom ¿¿¿¿Y U Iz Hittin Us???? 4:43 Jhon Adums Flowrin Treee A Opra In 2 Axe Classical

Seen 4 Teh Weding!!! 3:50 Jhon Adums Flowrin Treee A Opra In 2 Axe Classical

Dey Broughted Her 2 5:38 Jhon Adums Flowrin Treee A Opra In 2 Axe Classical

Bride An Groomb!! 6:24 Jhon Adums Flowrin Treee A Opra In 2 Axe Classical

Her Face!! She Sanked It 5:46 Jhon Adums Flowrin Treee A Opra In 2 Axe Classical

Quotable

2008-07-16T19:39:00.000-07:00

"When we championed trash culture we had no idea it would become the only culture."--Pauline Kael

Queenan's Reich

2008-07-15T14:13:00.000-07:00

That self-proclaimed warrior on behalf of all that is good and true in culture Joe Queenan now writes a scathing review of about 1,000,000 pieces of music at least. His thesis: nobody wants to hear contemporary music.

Now, from the outset, I have to confess a broad ignorance of Queenan's work. I tried one book, but after the sixth comparison of pop culture to the onslaught of National Socialism in Germany within the first 30 or so pages, I was sickened and gave up. "That's not a polemic," I thought, "but a rant." And, as someone who does rant from time to time, I know full well that disagreeing is futile, and that rants--at least my rants--are somewhat selfish, along the "everything-would-be-so-much-better-if-everyone-in-the-world-were-a-bit-like-me" lines. So I let him scream between closed pages. But now he hits where I live.

He begins by citing a soprano (unnamed, but "famous") singing at the Met. Now perhaps her stated analogy is a little strained (people being willing to attend sporting events whose outcome is unknown but being unwilling to entertain new music) but his take on it is even more so. "The reason the sports analogy fails," writes Queenan, "is because when Spain plays Germany, everyone knows that the game will be played with one ball, not eight; and that the final score will be 1-0 or 3-2 or even 8-1 - but definitely not 1,600,758 to Arf-Arf the Chalet Ate My Banana. The public may not know in advance what the score will be, but it at least understands the rules of the game."

And yet...You go to the Met to hear, say, An American Tragedy or The Ghosts of Versailles, (or The First Emperor, or A View from the Bridge or The Great Gatsby)and in fact you do know the rules. There are arias, overtures, trios, duets, sopranos, an orchestra, sets, costumes, plots, an orchestra, an intermission, a proscenium arch, a lobby with drinks, the coat check, etc. And even if you go to see something a little less specific (say Satyagraha, which, incidentally, is quite different, even from the Met's newer fare) many of those things still exist, just done in a different way. So it's not like you set out to see an opera and end up hearing someone with an electric guitar played with a fish, to borrow a potential Queenan-ism. Hyperbole, I fear, but to what end?

He goes on:

"In New York, Philadelphia and Boston, concert-goers have learned to stay awake and applaud politely at compositions by Christopher Rouse and Tan Dun. But they do this only because these works tend to be short and not terribly atonal; because they know this is the last time in their lives they'll have to listen to them; and because the orchestra has signed a contract in blood guaranteeing that if everyone holds their nose and eats their vegetables, they'll be rewarded with a great dollop of Tchaikovsky and Mendelssohn."

With this sentance, he proves himself more interested in the strength of his rhetoric than facts. He speaks for all, for all those who barely tolerate the newer, shorter, "not terribly atonal" stuff, for you perhaps. If this piece is to matter, for this to be more than just an if-you-don't-think-my-way-you-must-be-really-dumb kind of piece (and, after all, this is the Guardian, so you'd think they'd have higher standards) an occasional fact or statistic, or perhaps an interview of another unsatisfied concert customer might be in order to lend legitimacy to his claim. He reminds me of those overzealous critics who smugly took on the newest Star Wars franchise simply to be contrary. But just disagreeing--or disliking--does not qualify as an opinion, unless you are, of course, blogging. In print, in a respectable place, we need a little more than one who dares to say the unsayable (sic). We need some kind of grounding.

Then he goes on to state what I think is the crux of his argument: he feels the sense of belonging to an elite simply because most of the people who attend concerts are stupider than he. "after attending roughly 1,500 concerts in New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Paris, London, Berlin and Sydney," he writes, "I no longer believe that fans of classical music are especially knowledgeable - certainly not in the way jazz fans are." So the plants in his terrarium are dying, and why? Because he's surrounded by ingrates. Not like those jazz fans. Now of course he is part right--there are people who attend these concerts as a sort of "thing" that occurs between dinner and drinks, out of some kind of sense of monied obligation. To him, however, all of them seem slightly dumb, or certainly not as smart as he is. How brave to say this.

But what of those who really know and love this music? What of the ever-increasing (and ever-more-talented) ranks of students who are dying to be part of this great tradition? What of the professionals, the record collectors, the thinkers? They do exist, Mr. Queenan, because I am not only one of them but I know a few hundred of them myself. Do they know nothing? "These people may think they care more about music than the kids who listen to hip-hop," he says, "but I've been eavesdropping on their conversations for 40 years and the results are not impressive. They know that Clair de Lune is prettier than Für Elise, that Mozart died penniless, and that Schumann went nuts. That's about it." Ok, please offer just a little proof, other than your eavesdropped recollections, which at this point, because of your condescending superiority, I am having a little trouble trusting. Again, your plants, your terrarium, and while I feel your pain, I wonder why it needs to be aired at my expense, because your bellicose tone is starting to sound a little personal. And when you begin to counterpoise hip-hop against a much older, less saleable quantity, I begin to wonder if you have not slipped into a slightly corporate way of thinking: that only the biggest and most impressive moneymaker need be admitted. And I also think you are doing what you berated contemporary music for doing earlier: not just comparing apples to oranges, but comparing apples to missiles, shoes, cars. It doesn't fly (and this is not to denigrate hip-hop; in fact, being wholly ignorant, I'll defer.)

He goes on to cite a concert he saw--the New York Philharmonic playing Berio's Sinfonia--which earned a rave in the Times but snores from the audience. Again, he attaches a lot of his own baggage to the audience to make a point: "I gazed down from the balcony," he say, "at a sea of old men snoring, a bunch of irate, middle-aged women fanning themselves with their programmes, and scores of high-school students poised to garrote their teachers in reprisal for 35 minutes of non-stop torture." I wonder, did you speak to the students to gauge their reactions properly or is this another broad and "edgy" presumption? Did the snoring men tell you what they thought? What did you want from the piece that it did not deliver? And mostly, does someone's private enthusiasm for a work have to be palpable to you in order for it to be believed? Is the mere fact that this piece is still being performed, recorded, and spoken about in the press not enough to persuade you that, while it might not be to your taste, it might be worth something? Or do you just presume that I, who found this piece not only powerful and influential but downright breathtaking when I heard Essa-Pekka Salonen lead the Los Angeles Philharmonic it some 15 years ago, have simply, to borrow from a current rhetorical flourish I suspect you've used, drunk the Kool-Aid?

And why, I wonder, is the professional critic supposed to figure audience reaction into their review? After all, the books are (cliche alert) full of scathing reviews of established masterpieces, or glowing reviews of forgotten works, or even of glowing reviews of pieces that few love but many in the know admit to being important. The critic's role is to sort out the work in context, not to glamorize those in attendance.

He goes on:

"When I was 18, I bought a record called The New Music. It featured Kontra-Punkte by Karlheinz Stockhausen and Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima by Krzysztof Penderecki. I was incredibly proud of myself for giving this music a try, even though the Stockhausen sounded like a cat running up and down the piano, and the Penderecki was that reliable old post-Schoenberg standby: belligerent bees buzzing in the basement. I did not really like these pieces, but I would put them on the turntable every few months to see if the bizarre might one day morph into the familiar. I've been doing that for 40 years now, and both compositions continue to sound harsh, unpleasant, gloomy, post-nuclear. It is not the composers' fault that they wrote uncompromising music that was a direct response to the violence and stupidity of the 20th century; but it is not my fault that I would rather listen to Bach. That's my way of responding to the violence and stupidity of the 20th century, and the 21st century as well."

Alright, now we're getting somewhere. You tried to eat your vegetables, you really did, you tried to get to the heart of a certain kind of music, and you feel like you might be dumb for not getting it, for not hearing the beauty in all that gloom, for just wanting a pretty melody. I applaud you for making the effort (and please, I do mean this with all my heart) and you of all people are entitled, after listening to your "tons of records," to your opinion. But there are names absent from your list, and I fear you might have been handed a modernist line as to what matters. "I am no lover of Renaissance Muzak," you write, "and own tons of records by Berg, Varèse, Webern, Rihm, Schnittke, Adès, Wuorinen, Crumb, Carter, and Babbitt: I consider myself to be the kind of listener contemporary composers would need to reach if they had any hope of achieving a breakthrough. So far, this has not happened, and I doubt that it will." But have you tried more than the standard "this-then-that" history books say is contemporary? Have you tried Barber, Britten, Copland, Weill, Rorem, Del Tredici, Puccini, Nyman, Rorem, Harris, Ives, Adams, Reich, Sondheim, Picker, Bernstein, Rakowski, Hindemith, Stalling, Ellington, Part, Chanler, Messaien, Fine, Schrecker, Gershwin, Laurie (and Leroy) Anderson, Strauss, Adamo, Rzewski, Davies, Debussy, Moravec, Hagen, Musto, Leon, Kraft, Hyla, Hoiby, Part, Stravinsky, Shapero, Shostakovich & c, & c...? Surely in this rangy list of composers--most of whom did not hew to what you call those "post-Schoenberg" ideals--must have some beauties for you. Or is your definition of "contemporary" based on a sound rather than on a chronology?

In a way, I feel your pain: you didn't like Stockhausen and you felt like you'd been left behind (and were, as I was, perhaps harassed for these opinions); I felt the same way, and I also tried. I hear about great composers whose work does not move me, and I wonder what I am missing--and even, from time to time, suspect that certain Emperors are not wearing much. But now you go on the attack, throwing out the baby with the bathwater, and in a way that is not too kind:

"Earlier this year, I attended a concert at Carnegie Hall by the National Symphony under the direction of Leonard Slatkin. Slatkin is a canny, industrious conductor and a champion of American music. His philosophy seems to be that if Americans do not support living composers, American composers will cease to exist - though if the best America can do is John Corigliano and Philip Glass and the dozens of academics who give each other awards for music nobody likes, this might not be such a bad thing."

OK, music nobody likes. I can't agree with that, not one bit, because I like it, some of it. And OK, you don't like Corigliano (who, incidentally, counters your example by selling out two runs of his opera at the Met some years back; audiences, those audiences you say hate everything, were raving and scrambling for tickets, but we can leave that for a moment) or Glass (whose very name can sell out just about every concert not to mention thousands of discs) but to say that this is the "best America can do" is pretty cruel, and while I am sure you are not advocating for anyone's death, but to say that because you don't like their music that Corigliano and Glass have little merit and deserve to perish along with all American composer is pretty insulting to all those people who flocked to Carnegie Hall to hear Circus Maximus and wept, or to the Met for Satyagraha. Were we all just duped?

Now you really go for blood, though: you attack "...an ambitious new work by a young American named Mason Bates." "This last piece, entitled Liquid Interface," you write, "examined "the phenomenon of water in its variety of forms", something Ravel and Mussorgsky never got around to." Poor grammar and a completely inexplicable sentiment, especially since Ravel in fact did address water, or at least a boat on an ocean (and let's not forget Debussy). "It featured wind machines and bongos and an electric drum pad and a laptop and a gigantic orchestra. It was bloated but thoroughly harmless, and the audience responded warmly; nothing thrills a classical music crowd more than a new piece of music that doesn't make them physically ill." Again, you do in your point with some open-throttled rhetoric that belies your seriousness. Physically Ill? Pardon me for being literal, but if you are going to damn a young composer (and a friend, admittedly) with faint praise, you might at least avoid such a meaningless--might I say, perhaps, bloated and therefore harmless--cliche.

For some reason I've stayed with you, despite your broadsided and overtly macho attacks, but when you say intimate that jazz is dying because it lacks funding to which classical music has access, I threw up my hands and began to say things like "what the hell are you talking about?!" to my innocent computer screen. Where have you been, Mr. Queenan? Don't you read the news: classical music is in fact dying; there's an article to that effect so often that it has become its own cliche. And when you tell me that the public has taken to abstract art but not to abstract music, I want to scream the words: WHAT PUBLIC? If you really like jazz more than new music, fine, go fund it, support it, there are a million ways. But when you scream it steals our funding simply because you like it better, this becomes less an article and more a blog post, and take it from me, just because something is available for all to read in writing doesn't make it worth terribly much.

And then you begin to insult my intelligence even more: "Would contemporary music attract more listeners if a truly great composer came along? The last time the American public got excited about a living composer was when Leonard Bernstein was in vogue; but Bernstein, a superb conductor and Broadway tunesmith, never developed into a great composer. At present, the American public seems most taken by anachronisms (Henryk Górecki, Arvo Pärt), infantilists (Glass), eclectics (Corigliano) and atmospheric neo-Brucknerites (John Adams). Even when the public embraces the new, what it is really looking for is the old. It is hardly surprising that so many composers simply throw in the towel and compose music that will be ignored in their own lifetimes, hoping it will find an audience with posterity."

Do you not remember that Verdi--VERDI!--said that as soon as you begin to look back you will have progress? Or do you think that those who love the greatest Italian composer of operas have been duped as well? (And I won't even get into your description of those composers, how easily you dismiss some truly electrifying work. To call Adams an "atmospheric neo-Brucknerite" is...) But you also latch strong onto something your book seemed to rebel against: the idea that what is popular is in fact what is best. In fact, you find that mode of thinking so pernicious that you compare pop singers to Nazi murderers. Hackles raised, but to what end? And here your perspective jumps the shark, because I wonder: are you a man of the people disgruntled with the elite? Or are you elite disgruntled with those below? Or are you, in the world of cliche as we are, trying to have your cake and eat it too? I simply cannot get a bead on you, and frankly I don't think it is because I am too dumb to understand.

Points for brio, I suppose, but overstuffed and edgy enthusiasm does not for opinion make. Instead, file under the reductive and populsit down "thumbs-up, thumbs-down" school of criticism--it pops, it makes you go "ooh, MAN!" but is it in any way useful to anyone except the author? Can it not be true that there are in fact beautiful things that move fewer people than other more established beautiful things?

Mr Queenan, I am prepared to forgive you because I think you are lost, and I whole-heartedly pronounce you off the hook: you've done your bit. But when you go into print and claim that I, who love a lot of the music you loudly and proudly hate, have been simply fooled despite my glittering musical credentials and a lifetime of not just listening but doing, you remind me of a current political trend wherein certain people who have enthusiasm for a certain candidate have simply "drunk the Kool-Aid" and are clearly not capable of formulating their own thoughts (despite our resounding majority) because of a clever snowjob we've all fallen for, that I cannot help but be made uncomfortable by your tack. Please, check out all the Bach and Beethoven and Brahms you like, I will not judge you. Skip the new stuff, set alight all your Berio records and trade them in for a shiny new Beethoven Cycle; you've earned that. I only ask for understanding in return. Perhaps you are right, perhaps all our work will be forgotten while Haydn will stand tall, perhaps I have in fact fallen for something that lacks substance. But I love it as much as you love what you love, and I am willing to take that chance. Just please, I ask you to clear the decks with grace, stand out of my way, and accept that there are other educated people who might have an evolved and equally enthusiastic perspective that is simply different than your own. Or, in the words of Goethe, who I am sure you will agree had a far superior mind than the two of us combined, "Tolerance should actually be only a transitional attitude: it must lead to acceptance. To tolerate is to insult."

Going Through the Boxes

2008-07-02T20:09:00.000-07:00

I've spent the last few days going through some old papers. For months now the papers in the closet--a stack of old sketches and scores, memorabilia, letters, etc.--threatened to overwhelm. So I've started the paging through, and am shocked at a few things I find. For one, I find pieces I don't remember writing, or just barely remember: a flute concerto called New York Panels (unfinished, but not by much), about six songs (settings of, of all things, Shel Silverstein), a few piano pieces, the start of two different operas, a prelude for chamber orchestra, an organ piece, and a huge setting (illegal; unfinished) of T.S. Eliot's "Rhapsody on a Windy Night" (this one rattled around in my head for years). I wonder what to do with these things: save them? Burn them? Cast them into the river? Bank them for ideas?

It is remarkable, for someone who feels so un-prolific, to see these towering stacks. So many hours, so much pain and sacrifice, so many tears and false starts. The sum total of my life--the last twist of the knife (?)

For now, I just enjoy the non memories.

New Versus "New"

2008-06-03T22:20:00.001-07:00

In a way, I could not be more thrilled about the upcoming season of New York City Opera (after it's year-long intermission) because many of my favorite pieces are being performed. Operas by Stravinsky, Janaceck, Debussy, Britten, and Messaien's massive St. Francis undertaking are all personal touchstones. But the slant given to the lineup in the Times makes me a little uneasy, especially the part where Reich's music is being "considered" for a concert performance alongside some Messaien and Britten in order to "prepare" New York for what lies ahead. Now, lest I seem like just another composer with a blog ranting about just another incident of something 30-50 years old being passed off as "new," I have to say that City Opera, in my short experience with it, has been pretty good about promoting new pieces, by which I mean actually truly new. And to look at their program forthcoming, whose only entry by a living composer appears to be Einstein on the Beach (for which I cannot wait, honestly), I worry about this whole idea of what is "new." I mean, City Opera has presented pieces by Wuronen, Adamo, Heggie, Bennet, Tan Dun, Levy, Torke, Beaser, Dratell, etc. So what makes this season especially adventurous, other than it lacks an abundance of chestnuts?

I know these are complicated decisions, and that it is easy for us bloggers on the ground to play Monday Morning Quarterback with these complicated trends; and I say it again, I am eager to see all of the pieces promised by Mortier in his first term (and even eager to see the small concerts built to tide us over) and I think it is going to be exciting and smashing, everything good. But new...?

The Office Takes Real Life

2008-06-03T15:57:00.000-07:00

In an episode of NBC's The Office, weenie boss Michael Scott is criticized by his corporate overseer via phone for blowing his office party budget on a Tsunami fundraiser that somehow managed to lose money. His response: "I was very clear, that was a fun raiser."

Well, art imitates life. This from Google News:

Alas, perhaps Senator Clinton could have used a little more of both.

Teaching, Loving

2008-06-02T19:20:00.000-07:00

A week or so ago, at the ASCAP Awards ceremony, I heard John Corigliano address the group of fiendishly gifted benighted young composers. He warned them about the potential dangers of attending music school, and urged them not to dismiss their own passion, a passion he heard strongly in the music. It can, he intimated, be trained out of you. I got to thinking: what did school do to me? Did it somehow deflate my own passion? I got to thinking about my own personal training.

Like most composers, I was always the direct beneficiary of great teachers. Early on, I studied with Orange County's town musical genius Lloyd Rodgers, a declared “post-modernist” (whatever that was) who taught me rigor, ferocity, and that can be both tense and enjoyable. He loaned me a CD which I still cherish--Michael Nyman's The Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat--and led me like a wise sherpa into the mysteries of Bach. He encouraged me to write out by hand Bach's 48. I spent hours in a Denny's off the 57 Freeway in Brea, California doing just this to the amazement of the staff, who had never seen a composer before. I was forced to reminded them that they still had never seen one because the word composer was, to me, a hard-earned title. I preferred "student of composition," and was quite the little pain-in-the-ass stickler about correcting people for the next decade or so. Humble to a fault, I suppose.

After a brief flirtation with becoming a psychologist (as well as literature professor, physicist, etc.) while earning a living playing piano throughout the Inland Empire at piano bars or in the pits of community theatre productions of Annie while studying with a man named Brent Pierce at a local community college, I enrolled at the University of California, Santa Barbara, where I was fortuitously accepted to a subsection of said university, the College of Creative Studies. This was a specialized program populated by a mere 200 students spanning seven disciplines, and I acquired a wild and bucolic notion of how my academic life would work. We were spoiled, with 24-hour access to two grand pianos, grad-student borrowing privileges, and no real grades to speak of, and we were constantly being told we were crème de la crème. Our passage through the program rested not on completing courses but rather on a substantial portfolio requirement. I would have to compose my little heart out.

It was here I studied with Margaret Meyer. She became my most profound early influence. Her own work was a cross between The Great Cannon and an edgy, California-style performance art. She urged me into odd directions that forced me to do things with which I was uncomfortable, capitalized on my inherent theatricality (I guess the nights with Annie did amount to something), and quickly and aggressively corrected some serious and onerous gaps in my unimpressive musical knowledge. (I remember her jaw audibly dropping at what I did not know: The Rite of Spring, Pierrot Lunaire, the Quartet for the End of Time, etc. She had me scurrying to the library for hours per week. I was 22 years old.) My favorite lesson with her was when she examined an art song I was writing--no doubt a setting of Dickinson—with lilting, triple-meter, C-major arpeggios that had taken me all week to contrive. She glanced to the floor, tapped her pencil on the piano, and sighed two words I will never forget as long as I live: "start over." In retrospect, this was the only criticism that could be meted out for this piece, no doubt difficult to administer to her little blue-eyed waif from the suburbs.

Margaret formed what she called an Industrial Music Ensemble, for course credit. This became everyone's favorite class. Each week a different person would "compose" some kind of "indeterminate" piece which the class would then perform. We had an unspoken competition to see whose could devise the wackiest. I believe I won this contest, but all because of Margaret’s performance. In my piece, which had the title of "Bogus Crap" or something dumb like that, we all took ceiling tiles to the middle of campus and banged heartily upon them with drumsticks, chanting. I was the chant leader, so all had to follow me, but as we were mid-performance in front of the administration building, the provost of the university appeared. This caused Margaret to chant, antiphonally, "I'm gonna lose my job" (the last word being a two-syllable descending minor third) to which we all responsorially added "she's gonna lose her job" (again with the minor third). The provost, whose name escapes me, came up and asked what we were doing. As the chanting continued, I explained, and offered her a tile. Being especially and unexpectedly game, she accepted, and before we knew it, the provost was leading our Industrial Music Ensemble in a newly-expanded version of "Bogus Crap." The words, were, I believe, “she won’t lose her job.”

Margaret instilled in me the idea that the academic way was not always the best way, and I continue to hew to this notion. Often, in fact, her devastating “start over” gurgles up, consigning much bad music to the fire. But when I left UCSB (why do people leave such places?) for the New England Conservatory, my whole life changed. I'd spent my time in college working to fill chasms in my learning, giving myself impossible listening assignments (three different Ring Cycles in a row; all the operas of Verdi starting with Falstaff and working backwards; all sixteen Beethoven Quartets in one sitting; the entire keyboard music of Bach; all of Schubert’s Songs), and working harder than I can even imagine now, composing twice as much as anyone I knew by the dint of the fact that I was putting in twice the effort. I worked indefatigably, and this was one of the happiest times I can remember. But I had to sort out how to do this: Margaret was not afraid to give me homework; learned how not to be afraid to do it. But even this was not enough. In heading out East to a venerated conservatory to get a Master’s Degree, I knew I had to change my thinking even more dramatically. The hardest work was, I knew, yet to come, and I white-knuckled the entire drive across country, terrified.

What is remarkable about Los Angeles and all of its attendant sub-locales (and in this I do include Santa Barbara, which is kind of the Angelino Hamptons) is both the sadness and the fecundity of that kind of isolation. When you live in Boston or Philadelphia, you are still in touch with New York; when you live in Los Angeles, you make your own rules, and out there things are, for lack of a better word, very Hollywood. This does not mean everything is shallow and meaningless, but it does mean that considering market, audience and money are is not a luxury, not the way certain people think. They are a mainstay, and you must entertain (no pun intended) these notions. I learned a lot crawling the balcony of the Dorothy Chandler Pavillion to hear Salonen conduct the Phil; I learned even more studying conducting with Mitch Hanlon, assistant to then-music-director of the Hollywood Bowl John Mauceri. In those places I was in the “swim” diametrically opposed to the Ivy League schools and hallowed Arts and Letters institutions that awaited me on planet East Coast. And now I was heading into what some people viewed as enemy camp. I had to be ready.

When I first arrived in Boston, I was dazzled. There I was in an actual city. I rode trains places rather than drive, I walked everywhere (rather than drive) and I stood on the steps of Symphony Hall shivering, not just from the unprecedented cold. It did not help me that the name of the subway stop was “Symphony” (always reminding me of what I’d yet to achieve); and the towering bronze statue of Beethoven in the school’s vestibule dished out daily doses of fear. Weekends spent occasionally in New York City revealed my own hope for my future, but I wondered if my delicate little art songs or quirky bits of chamber music would survive the first winter, let alone the Ballet Mechanique pacing of the big city.

I studied with the late Arthur Berger, whose wisdom I was too young to appreciate. For those who do not know, this was an extraordinary man and represented a link to history I’d only read (and dreamed) about. Copland dedicated one of his Emily Dickinson settings to Berger; Robert Motherwell had made a portrait out of staff paper that hung over the piano; Stravinsky had rehearsed his own Duo Concertante in the very living room where I came for weekly lessons; his next door neighbor was satirist Tom Lehrer. Here was a man who’d known many of my heroes, and what’s more, here was a man who coined the very word “octatonic” in a legendary article. He seemed impressed and flattered when I knew what the scale was, so high was his opinion of my, at best, unconventional training.

For all his knowledge and strengths, he did not quite understand my own 24-year-old ambitions. He wanted me to write cell music, based on set theory, and found this kind of composing so fun that he could not, for the life of him, understand why someone would not want to do it. I protested: I wanted to be the next Britten, Barber, Sondheim, or Andriessen (could not make up my mind), I wanted to study Shostakovich and Ravel, Copland and Ives, and there I was, week after week, spending my time with Webern’s keyboard variations or The Flood. I worried: I wanted a doctorate, but I felt that creating the body of work Berger would have me write would be dishonest. I would be writing the wrong kind of music (and to him, such a thing existed). I wanted to make operas, ravishing symphonies, pieces for voice and string quartet, while he would have me writing 30 measure piano preludes, each based on a pre-determined cell, by the triple gross. He was never mean, never overbearing, but spent a fair amount of time wholly exasperated with me. At a performance of my first work composed at NEC (a cute little song cycle entitled Five Songs for Five Friends, written without his papal blessing, or even with his knowledge) he surprised me by showing up, and more surprised me by saying “Nice songs” in his thick, old-New York accent. Of course, he followed this compliment by saying “they’ll never get you anywhere.” I still wonder what he meant.

I do remember fondly an hysterical evening when he phoned me—as I was heading out to hit the town, or what little of it Boston offers, on a certain Friday—to explain an aspect of his famous octatonic article he’d been unable to unpack during our lesson earlier that day. And so, for two hours, over the phone, I got an in-depth lesson in this famous scale from the man who’d given it a name. I felt I had touched history (which made the ire of my then-girlfriend, who was exasperated with me for missing the movie, worthwhile).

In the middle of that year, I heard Lee Hyla’s Second Piano Concerto in Jordan Hall played by Steve Drury and was officially knocked sideways. Here was something new, something raw and unexpected, something that made good use of the Western canon and yet whipped up a kind of art-rock furor I’d never experienced. I knew had to study with him, that this was the teacher for me. It was this piece that made me feel that I could be properly unleashed, that this boy from the suburbs could channel his still waters into appropriately raging torrents.

I pursued him with pointed and dedicated ferocity, and lucky for me this proved effective. For the next six years Lee was my teacher. He taught me how to listen. He asked loaded questions about every piece…or even the not-so-loaded “where is this going?” which became the question I always not only put to my own students but myself. But more than anything specific in our weekly lessons, I learned from Lee Hyla how to be a composer. I watched him wrangle his own career, very much on the up. He told me tales of working with the musicians in the mythical New York City I hoped would be my eventual home. He told me how the Kronos Quartet dealt with composers, where he sat during rehearsals with the Orpheus Chamber Orchestra, and even showed me his own vulnerabilities when confronted in person with Elliot Carter, who I think scared him a little (and can he be blamed?). In short, I watched him be a living composer, someone who heard his music played often and well, and from this got a sense of how my own life would, if fate was kind, play out.

One of the staunchest lessons he ever gave was a life lesson. I’d stayed up for days at a stretch working to finish a score for a competition (I was in the finals). Then I took an early bus to New York, dropped it off, took a midnight bus home, and tumbled into bed, exhausted even for this lifelong insomniac. Weeks passed; I never heard the results of this competition—as far as I know, the 1998 jury is still deliberating. When I showed up, all the worse for wear, to a post-disappointment lesson and said something to the effect of “I guess this is what you call paying your dues,” Lee’s pointed and terrifying reply was a guttural “not even close.” This menacing retort still haunts me. There’s always something even more crushing in the future. I now know to keep vigilant watch.

Lee never “worked a room,” never lied to impress, never forced a student to write like him, never bragged or exaggerated himself, was always honest, suffered the slings and arrows without expecting pity, and always offered a fresh perspective on even my stalest of musical efforts. And as my style drifted towards his own, and eventually away again, he never complained, never acted threatened, and always, when given the opportunity, introduced me to whomever was at hand as “this is Danny, a really great composer.” He even once sought my advice on writing for soprano as he was, then, less experienced than I, and I found that remarkable: like many other great teachers, he was unafraid to learn from his own students.

Eventually school drew to a close, as all good things must, and I made my way to the City at long last. I finished my dissertation—an insane and unperformable opera of my own postmodern Peter-Greenaway-inspired devising called Thursday Night, whose sophomoric drama is my secret; please don’t ask (and if you are one of the few I’ve told, I beg your silence)—and did what people do to start their New York life. It is something of a blur: this was, after all, planet early 2001. I was 30 years old. As I toiled through the ranks, I was fortunate enough to befriend composers who I admired—and continue to admire—whose wise council as more experienced colleagues and friends helped me through many a time.

Almost as a knee-jerk reaction to graduating, I made a long list of composers who I felt had to love in secret throughout school: Brahms, Puccini, Britten, Copland, Barber, Glass, Shostakovich, Tchaikovsky, Ravel, Strauss, Verdi, Rossini, Sondheim, Andriessen, William Schuman, Roy Harris, Marc Blitzstein, the early music of Elliot Carter, John Adams, Menotti, Weill, Chopin, Rachmaninov, Poulenc, Michael Nyman, the entire supposed “neo-romantic” school, and many others. I undertook a systematic examination of these great people, even going so far as to write books about some of them, and came to realize something important: some of my taste, some of my earliest passion, had been effectively drummed out of me. This had nothing to do with New England Conservatory, nothing whatsoever to do with Lee (even though he is a man of very specific tastes not always consanguineous to my own), but had everything to do with the way an academic system trains us. We learn a linear explanation, and as there can never be a linear explanation for the development of a discipline—art is a messy business, with shaggy chads and untied ends—and as this is the “party line,” great work that does not suit the argument has to be excluded. Everything is about progress, or the idea of progress, and the retrogressive even among the great have little place.

To return to John Corigliano’s plea to the young not to lose their passion, not to “buy” everything they were taught in school, I could not agree more, and the nostalgic reflection it has here sent me to serves only to strengthen my own resolve. But I don’t believe school itself is evil, and I think a good student with a head on their shoulders that is full of all kinds of music can certainly cherrypick the good ones, decide who among the “elite” designated to teach are not able to steer them in the right direction. After all, John teaches, Lee taught me, and now, as part of the great circle, I have students of my own. I hope, like Lee, like John, I help them to think, to turn their passion on but do so with a technique that allows them to express themselves not only completely, but with clarity. That, to me, is all a technique is, the capacity to make your argument as clearly as possible. Passion is something that is not taught but encouraged, and has many different faces. Many conflate it with enthusiasm—I like this, therefore I am “passionate” about it—but that is not it at all. A tradition is earned and sought; it never, ever comes easy, and the time spent to learn it, to understand it, and to even contribute a verse, that to me is true passion. Schools can’t teach it, nobody can, but at their best the people within the hallowed halls can certainly aid and abet. Sometimes passion means being a little unpopular, going against everything you are being told (even if that person is your teacher—and sometimes especially if that person is your teacher) staying, as they say, “true to yourself.” And in a way, this is something school can teach: you can watch someone lead by example (as I did Lee, Margaret, or Lloyd) or you can be forced to hold your own against someone who is mightier than yourself (as I had to do with Arthur Berger).

I will end with a story. When at Tanglewood, my close friend Marc Mellits (a great composer and fantastic friend) sat at the table with the group of gathered composers and brought up Rachmaninov. Grousing was heard, from me as much as anyone, until Marc insisted we all loved this composer. In fact, he was not going to leave the table until we all relented. From many corners of this frustrated table wafted sentences like “well, the First Symphony is kind of ok,” or “I love those Vespers,” or “that Third Piano Concerto is really something” or “OK, OK, the piano preludes do have their merits.” Eventually we all relented—well, all but one of us—and I’ve remembered this ever since. Music is about love, and love is a strange creature that takes you strange places to which not everyone on the playground wants to go.

An Inconvenient Technique

2008-05-30T12:00:00.000-07:00

Alright, I do not know a note of the composer who has been commissioned to make Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth into an opera, but I can only object, sight unseen. The film is there to send an important message, while an opera, I fear, lacks such power, especially in light of the film's success. I wonder what new dimension this will add?

But I of course could be wrong. After all, there have been several operas in recent memory whose ideas I thought would make for bad sung theatre (including Nixon in China and Little Women) and I've been proven wrong. But this commission, while I applaud its progressive nature, seems to make little sense to me.

Quotable

2008-05-06T18:51:00.000-07:00

"This primary election on Tuesday is a game changer. This is going to make a huge difference in what happens going forward. The entire country -- probably even a lot of the world -- is looking to see what North Carolina decides." -- Hilary Clinton

Honest Pride

2008-05-04T20:39:00.000-07:00

As a decidedly amateur blogger, especially in comparison to my weighty colleagues who write about music full time, and especially as someone whose blogging can be flagging from time to time, I am genuinely honored to be ranked 37 out of ACD's Top 50 Classical Music Blogs. Next year, I aim for at least 32. Watch out Alex! And remember, 37 is better than 38.

Les Adieux

2008-05-04T15:41:00.000-07:00

Once again, the world is somewhat lighter with the death of superstar composer Henry Brant at the age of 94. Many excellent obituaries have been posted (see Frank Oteri's extended video chat with the man for a vivid account) but I offer a personal story.

As an undergraduate at the bucolic University of California, Santa Barbara, I sat one day eating a sandwich on the grass (in the middle of January--ahh, Santa Barbara) awaiting the start of my composer's forum. That day we were to be favored with a visit from local hero (or eccentric lunatic, depending on whom you asked) Henry Brant. As a fan of his music, I was very much looking forward to the seminar. As I wait and eat, up bounces a spry old guy in a baseball cap and a hooded sweat-suit, sees me gazing to the door in the music department, and asks me, in a way that can only be described as gravelly: "HAVE YOU EVER HEARD OF SURROUND SOUND?"

"Of course," I mutter, youthfully sheepish (and a bit frightened to boot)

"I INVENTED SURROUND SOUND. I. INVENTED. SURROUND. SOUND." He was off, leaving me wishing I'd given him a quarter or half of my sandwich or something, as it seemed he needed it more than I.

But you know the end of this story--I had been confronted by our guest of Honor.

Lately, I've been loving his orchestration of Ives' Concord Sonata; back then, I loved Michael Ingham's record of songs by that same composer, with Henry Brant at the piano. But what I've always loved about his music, aside from the obvious spacial considerations that make it so singular and special, is the gruff sense of humor it reveals. Maybe I am biased after my confrontation--this was a gruff sense of humor writ large, in living (mostly) color--but I always thought I could see the smile through the crags, and hear the deep and unabashed romantic through the rigorous modernism. Maverick is an overused word like genius, but t this one-off collision represents my only in-the-flesh encounter with someone deserving of the name.

So Henry, thanks for it all, and I know wherever you are, the sound is as exquisite as can be imagined.

Immigant Trubble

2008-05-04T15:39:00.001-07:00

And the wheels on the bus go round and round....

Shameless Self Promotion: Opera After Hours

2008-04-14T21:12:00.000-07:00

I'd love anyone and everyone to come to Opera After Hours this Thursday at the Zipper Room. Details below...or you can read about it in on the New Yorker web site.

OPERA AFTER HOURS:
A subversive evening of opera and song
April 17th, 2008, 8:00 PM, The Zipper Factory

By Daniel Felsenfeld and Jennifer Griffith

Directed by Christopher Alden

featuring
THE DRESSING ROOM and DREAM PRESIDENT by Jennifer Griffith
THE BLOODY CHAMBER by Daniel Felsenfeld, libretto by Elizabeth Isadora Gold

with
Michael Zegarski, Constance Hauman, Jessica Miller-Rauch, and Amy Van Roekel

Charity Wicks, Musical Director
Terese Wadden, Production Designer
Susan Whelan, Stage Manager
Jana Llynn, Production Supervisor

Based on the Angela Carter novella of the same name, THE BLOODY CHAMBER re-envisions
the Bluebeard myth at the cusp of the Modern age. THE DRESSING ROOM explores how a
mezzo-soprano sick of playing boys, and her cross-dressing dresser both long for a more
glamorous wardrobe. In DREAM PRESIDENT, the former Commander in Chief reflects on his
past, as ex-flames critique him on matters political and sexual.

The Zipper Factory is at 336 W. 37th St. (between 8th & 9th Aves.)
For tickets, please go to www.zippertheater.com or call 212.352.3101
For dinner reservations at The Zipper Factory Tavern, please call 212.695.4600

To Criticize the Critic

2008-04-10T19:52:00.000-07:00

I am deeply, deeply impressed with a post on the fascinating Detritus Reivew which has as its sole aim a crusade to right the wrongs in music criticism. From where I sit, a lofty and under-funded ambition. Found during a "vanity Google," this made me smile from ear to ear because it did what I think the blogs are good to do: it called me out, gave lengthy and intelligent digression to a fine point, and goaded me into a response.

Case under assessment: my brutal attack on a disc of piano music by Salvatore Sciarrino on ClassicsToday. Allow me to add a bit to this dialogue (as they chose not to consult me--their absolute right, might I add--indulge me a retort). When this review was writteny (and I am unsure of the year, but I am going to say it was 2002 or 2003) I had been subjected to a lot of Sciarrino, and for my part was likely dishonoring this particular disc based on the sheer amount of this music I'd heard--in other words, I did do something rather outside the ken of the vauntedly fair and moral mission of my outlet by over-pummeling a composer's work rather than the specific recording. I was, in retrospect, a little unfair, so thank you Empiricus, whomever you are. I deserve what you said--you did, in fact, "get me good." Even composer-critics have their off days--well, I suppose, especially composer critics.

Your comments to me were kind enough, and I am not usually one to participate in such a "hatchet job" as this. Were I in your position, working with your stated mission, I might offer Felsenfeld-in-abstract the same vivisection. Not that my opinions on the composer have changed--I cannot say I've seen the proverbial light on this, or that Empericus has showed me the error of my wicked, wicked Sciarrino ways--but I think today I'd be less inclined to be too-clever-by-half while saying it. I like to think I've grown a little, and have mostly prided myself on being fair.

And while I don't think my little review on a niche Web site written several years ago deserves comparison with Hiroshima and Nagasaki, I admit points for sheer brio, for bloggish moxie in doing so. If we are to save classical music, we have to think big, and metaphors need plumping as much as budgets or newspaper column space. (Though now that I think about it, it makes my registering of Sciarrino's rather limited palate into the onomatopoetic "plink" and "thump" seem rather tame. But who am I to say? I just work here.)

What makes me so happy about this whole posting--aside from the comments of some readers who were generally kind to my music and my writing--is that I've always felt that these kind of "police actions" were the exact purpose of this weird volunteer army of bloggers. Would any other outlet allow for this exact dialogue to take place? It means that the blogs are alive and well, and are even going to the back of the files to find things otherwise long-since buried. Can you imagine the same thing happening with spools of microfiche in a previous era?

So Empiricus, I do have one small bone to pick with you--you hide your light under the bushel of a nome de blog, while I choose to attach my name. And from the comments portion, you seem to know me--or someone on your team does--and even be a little familiar with my work. I'd love you to come out from the shadows, because as a fellow blogger you are no doubt aware that it is impossible to have a meaningful conversation with a shadow-colleague because the terms are uneven. We are clearly on the same side, even if my work is the work in question.

But please, all reading, follow the example of these bloggers and do point out the injustices when you see them. One of the things many critics lack is accountability, and in the blogosphere, everyone has to own it.

And by the way, whomever goes by the name of AnthonyS in the comments portion, please do get in touch.

More Reasons for the State to Fund Classical Music

2008-03-12T16:46:00.000-07:00

This from an article about the Spitzer debacle:

"Shortly before his pre-Valentine Day's Washington, DC, hotel tryst with the call girl now publicly known as "Kristen," Spitzer asked his aides in the Mayflower Hotel if they had a classical-music CD he could bring to his room, a witness said.

Between 9 and 9:15 p.m. on Feb. 13, Spitzer came down to the hotel bar and asked his contingent of about eight for a CD, which no one had, the witness told The Post.

The governor - normally a rock fan who last year attended a Bruce Springsteen concert in Albany - was said to be wearing a blue sweatshirt and jeans.

"At the time, he claimed it was to help him focus and concentrate," the source said of Spitzer. "He said he was going to work late into the night."

The governor was seeking the mood music just minutes before the prostitute arrived at the hotel."

I wonder, was it Berg's Lyric Suite with it's coded messages of love and betrayal, or even Lulu (Traviata being too obvious save for the Pretty Woman set?). Threepenny Opera? Tristan? I would love answers--if he liked, say, the Eroica symphony, which recording? Was he a fan of the clipped, relentless school favored by Toscanini, or did he prefer Furtwangler's Wagner-like barline-free mellifluousness? Did he go in for the brooding angst of Shostakovich--particularly since tax dollars were involved--or the carefree fripperies of Vivaldi violin concertos (how dissapointing). Was it the elegant machismo of Copland's Third that made him able to "concentrate" so vividly, or was it the second movement from Ravel's Piano Concerto in G? Maybe he went in for the hard dissonances of a Boulez, or the quiet murmers of a Webern?

I wish I knew. But with the state of music education in New York, it is easy to see why even the highest price call-girl or Secret Service agent can't help but be vague.

What's sadder: the term "mood music," or the fact that nobody in the retinue had any?

Carmina

2008-03-09T19:45:00.000-07:00

Thanks John for this new video translation of the Carmina Burana. I will never wonder again what the hell this piece means.

Classical Music Blogs, To Be or Not to Be

2008-03-05T18:41:00.000-08:00

At the exact moment when I was pondering the whole notion of blogging--I wonder, I thought to myself (in my most po-faced and baleful mode), is this worth it, is anyone actually reading anything here (aside from Alex)--lo a self-Googling (1) reveals something fascinating: I am listed in the Wikipedia entry under "Classical Music Blogs." An honor to be listed with such luminaries as Noise, the Concert, Post-Classical, ThinkDenk, etc. So this was what I needed, the spur to keep going. After all, according to Anne Midgette (herself blogless...for the moment), apparently people read them. (2)

I'll spare you my comments on yesterday's primary to say that I deftly avoided watching returns with my usual fanatical obsession by attending a quite-good concert by the Oratorio Society of New York. The evening's fare: two pieces by Faure, plus Paul Moravec's haunting and deftly made Songs of Love and War.

Mostly, I am excited to see two pieces which are favorites of mine only in the abstract (never have I seen them live). Michael Nyman's chamber opera The Man Who Mistook his Wife for a Hat and the collaboration between Tom Stoppard (an absolute hero) and Andre Previn Every Good Boy Does Fine, both part of the InCite Arts Festival rolling into town from Boston next week.

But other than that, my news on the personal front is that I've finally finished a huge piece I wrote in collaboration with the great string arranger Larry Gold (who doubles as my father-in-law), a Soul Symphony. More details on this to come soon, no doubt.

Nice to be back, to be appropriately Wiki-d, and to once again loll about in the soft courage of my bloggish convictions. Or, as they say in the film Juno, "honest to blog."

--

1. Admit it, you all do this, late at night, when you can't sleep.
2. Handily, I am also mentioned in the entry for poet Ernest Hilbert, who is a friend and once-and-future collaborator, and quoted in two other entries: an entry on Barber's Knoxville (which makes sense as I wrote about this piece in my book, and, oddly enough, an essay on the movie Closer, the author of which somehow managed to track down an article I wrote about Cosi for the New York City Opera.

The (Non)Education of Ralph Nader

2008-02-24T12:34:00.000-08:00

Politics, at the highest level, is of course deeply invested in personality and personal ego--none of the candidates in this race lacks for ego, nor should they. But while this is part and parcel to the desire to rule the most powerful nation in the world, Ralph Nader seems to take the cake because he enters the race without consideration of his role in the 2000 debacle (which was substantive, no matter who you believe) or with any kind of real platform as to what he would do, but merely running on a platform of dissent. Not agreeing is simply not enough, and the promise of not being the thing we're all sick of while offering no viable solution seems unremarkable, and egotistical--he's not in it to win, he's in it to harry the proceedings.

An excellent essay on this topic from DailyKos.

The World is Lighter Yet Again

2008-02-19T16:12:00.000-08:00

Today we mourn the passing of Alain Robbe-Grillet, author, screenwriter, director, and true maverick spirit. The world is lighter without you.

Now, I suppose...

2008-02-19T09:22:00.000-08:00

...that the "liberal press" will start attacking Mr. McCain because he did not credit the authors of "Barbara Ann."

Mozart Effect

2008-02-16T11:24:00.000-08:00

Sorry, yet again, for my absence. I've been to Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Boston to hear music of mine, and have been hard at work on a huge, onerous project which threatens to destroy. Combine that with teaching a lot, and you've got a low-priority blogger yet again. Plus it's been cold, and who wants to simply complain?

So back from the grave, I offer a well-reasoned refutation of The Mozart Effect by Will Dowd. His hypothesis: it is not the scientific reason of Mozart that has been proven (only once, according to Dowd) to increase one's intelligence, but the presence of beauty, of sheer enjoyment. Apparently students also responded equally to an audiobook of a Stephen King short story. Is he Mozart's equal? Or is The Mozart Effect (a registered trademark) simply the best post-Amadeus commodification and entombment of classical music. After all, if you believe Susan Jacoby, we are getting progressively stupiderl. So if something proves to make you smarter, will it be avoided? And you'd think that Schoenberg or Webern would make you smart too, since their music is even more "organized." Get ready for my book "The Webern Effect," and for Zell Miller to insist that every child under five be given a daily dose of the Second Viennese School. Now that would be something!

Bad news for Stephen King, it seems! Or good, depending on how you look at it. Maybe he will write me here and let me know his thoughts.

Nice to be back.

Yes We Can, Part II

2008-02-04T18:50:00.000-08:00

I quote three paragraphs which sum up the deceptive forces against which a lot of us wage. This is from the writer who will be known through history as the Times greatest mistake, Willam Kristol--he of the "white women are trouble" comment a few nights ago on Fox News.

"The American conservative movement has been remarkably successful. We shouldn’t take that success for granted. It’s not easy being a conservative movement in a modern liberal democracy. It’s not easy to rally a comfortable and commercial people to assume the responsibilities of a great power. It’s not easy to defend excellence in an egalitarian age. It’s not easy to encourage self-reliance in the era of the welfare state. It’s not easy to make the case for the traditional virtues in the face of the seductions of liberation, or to speak of duties in a world of rights and of honor in a nation pursuing pleasure.

One reason conservatives have been able to navigate the rapids of modern America is that they’ve often gone out of their way to make their case with good cheer. William F. Buckley, the father of the conservative movement, skewered liberals, but always with wit and élan. By 1980, bolstered by the growth-oriented doctrine of supply-side economics, and speaking the language of American uplift more than that of conservative despair, Ronald Reagan won the presidency.

Since then we conservatives have had a pretty good run. We had a chance to implement a fair share of our ideas, and they worked. In the 1980s and 90s, conservative policies helped win the cold war, revive the economy and reduce crime and welfare dependency. American conservatism’s ascendancy has benefited this country — and much of the world — over the last quarter-century."

Yes We Can

2008-02-04T18:46:00.000-08:00

Yes Yes Yes

Everyone, please go vote. It is not your right, but as freethinkers it is your sacred duty. They might not be able to steal another one if all of us do everything we can to be sure they don't.

World Premiere of The Poet's Dream of Herself as a Young Girl

2008-01-22T19:56:00.000-08:00

For anyone who might be in the bay area, I'd like to invite you to come to the world premiere performance of a new work of mine, a song cycle on some truly wonderful texts by the brilliant A.E. Stallings. Here's the details

January 27, 2008 :: Stanford, CA

Mezzo-soprano Amy Schneider, pianist Laura Dahl, violinist Livia Sohn, and cellist Thalia Moore premere The Poet's Dream of Herself as a Young Girl, as a part of the A. Jess Shenson Recital Series.

Information about this concert can be found here.

Hope to see some of you there.

Oh What's the Use?

2008-01-11T14:10:00.000-08:00

Professor Stanley Fish, in a blog entry, seems to feel that the humanities have no use and are therefore unworthy of any government funding. But like many arguing this direction, he hangs his entire case on the perniciousness of the academy rather than on the sheer value of art, seeming to believe (as an academic himself) that the quote-unquote Humanities only exist within the schools, and as many of those people are bloated or frustrated or just plain non-progressive--as their latest monographs do not serve, as it were, to a mirror up to truth--then they are, ipso facto, not really helping much. Therefore, he postulates, the humanities overall aren't helping much.

But consider the vast list of great artists who never had an affiliation with a single University Department. Perhaps, according to Mr. Fish, those artists, due to their non-presence in his idea of the great dialogue, aren't much worthy of consideration.

This, to me, represents two kinds of narrow thinking: the utilitarian (if you can't sell it, chum it, mulch it, eat it, wear it, or re-sell it, it does not exist); the second, creepier, the whole entrenched notion that capitalism is the only mode of thinking. If we are to only, as a people, to value things that have a "use," then the person who invented the squeegee is more important to our world than Shakespeare. Of course, I am taking this argument to an absurd conclusion, but the idea that things have value only if they can be of use is, alas, a distinctly American one. By this rationale, funding should go to the making of pornographic movies above much else because they serve a purpose.

Granted, poets, en masse, do not invent vaccines, and in this day and age, with so much horror in our own world--and so much true-to-life information available about same--perhaps it does seem a little ludicrous to discuss poetic feet with fervent passion. But to me this represents a culture in which the capitalist ideal--where things only have value if you can put a price on them--is the only ideal. It has become so entrenched that to even look at things another way seems not heretical or anti-establishment, but just plain impossible.

Cat Power

2007-12-20T19:04:00.000-08:00

I don't know how many out there know this, but a cat, on an airline, takes precedence over a person. If someone is allergic to peanuts, they will remove them from a flight, but if someone is allergic to cats, they are not only second to the traveling animal (whose owner has paid a $150 fee to have them in the cabin as opposed to the hold) but there is also no way of notifying you that there is a cat on the plane. Now some out there might say "Take a Claritin and quit your whining," but those who say this don't know that there are many kinds of allergies to cats--the sniffy kind, and the kind I have that is directly linked to asthma. I won't die, but I will get horrible bronchitis for six or so weeks.

This, by the way, caused me to miss the first day of my honeymoon. And now it's delayed my trip to Los Angeles to see my family.

So happy holidays, cat lovers--I hope you enjoy how much you've made someone with a chronic health issue suffer. And happy holidays airlines, who simply don't care. Makes you long for the great old days of train travel.

Danny & Louis

2007-12-20T08:02:00.001-08:00

Thank you John Corligliano for this. I can't stop watching it. Ah, the old days...

Even the Mac Can Betray

2007-12-18T22:12:00.000-08:00

So in keeping with Steve Smith's personal content-loss woes, I wrote a very thoughtful, mixed review of Peter Gay's book Modernism: The Lure of Heresy and then, for some reason, my mac failed me and all was lost.

So let me recap: I liked the book, even forgave a few bad copyediting moments in the music section (i.e. composer and biographer Jan Swafford was referred to as "she," and Cage's revolutionary non-etude was, in fact, 4'3") but was really annoyed at the film section wherein Gay, an amazing scholar, thinker, chronicler, reduced himself to a fan by offering a vast list of all the directors he loved but did not include. Nothing too awful--certainly forgivable--and yet it soured me on the book for some reason...and this was a book I was more than prepared to love.

So this is the truncated version--call it version 2.0.

Happy Birthday, Atonality

2007-12-17T15:10:00.000-08:00

According to Alex Ross, today marks the centenary of Atonality. I am not sure what to make of such an anniversary, with all the post-Schoenberg complications that the system wrought, and the weird, lonely place it put composers--starting with Schoenberg, who titled his explanatory essay about this technique "How One Becomes Lonely." On the one hand, this type of thinking forced composers to certain choices. All had to wrestle with the new math, and some did by willfully ignoring it (I think of Ned Rorem's label "Serial Killers") while others not only embraced it but cranked it up a notch or ten. Depending on who you asked, Schoenberg was a savior, or he was an elephant after whom we are all cleaning up still. His work saved and ruined lives, in a way. I am mixed on the matter, which has always been my personal curse.

But for what it is worth, today is historic for composers. So happy birthday atonality--a hundred years and still controversial.

An Historic Anniversary for This Guy

2007-12-15T15:42:00.000-08:00

December 15, 2007 marks my seventh year officially as a New Yorker. By many accounts, that makes me fully a member of the at large population and not some hopeful arriviste. A hell of a town, in the words of the poet...

Karlheinz Fallout

2007-12-08T18:59:00.001-08:00

In going through the many, many posts, obits, articles, etc. about the death of Karlheinz Stockhausen, I keep noticing one thing: that he seems to be the most under-appreciated composer of the 20th century, at least according some of those writing. This baffles me: for years, as a composer, Stockhausen was a force with which to reckon. In my time in school, his name was known as well as Ligeti, Carter, Boulez, Berio, Cage and Messiaen. Exquisite company, I'd say. And those composers are hardly unknowns.

Which leads me to wonder: what defines an "appreciated composer?" Do you have to win prizes (Stockahusen certainly did), have your music played (ditto), written about (ad nauseam), discussed, admired? Do you have to have an impact on the tradition (in which case Philip Glass, who has few imitators, is perhaps the least appreciated composer), have your name in history books, be on the cover of Sgt. Peppter's Lonley Heart's Club Band, have innumerable recordings, draw forth plenty of "he walked among us and we never knew him" articles from the volunteer army of bloggers, get written about in the New York Times? From where I sit, Stockhausen, though not often played on the glamorous orchestral concerts in the United States, was more than appreciated. And regardless of what I do or do not think of the music, his position in the firmament of the tradition has never really been a question.

Like the recent death of Norman Mailer which elicited a stream of articles and memorials about his bellicosity and how he once stabbed his wife--missing the point of his contribution to skate immediately to the more glamorous and eye-catching aspects of this now-departed complicated artist--it seems that the death of Stockhausen has forced him into the mold of under-recognized genius. This is as divisive and glossy as Mailer's love of prizefighters. I think what we ought to do now, once the shock of someone's demise settles in, begin to write not about his place in the at-large music world but about the music.

Another Sad Day

2007-12-07T16:53:00.000-08:00

Today saw the passing of two greats--composer Karlheinz Stockhauen and musicologist H. Wiley Hitchcock. Once again, our world is lighter...

Addendum: Kyle Gann's thoughtful post on Hitchcock.

Anne-Carolyn Bird

2007-12-03T20:44:00.000-08:00

So allow me to be the last to add The Concert, the blog of one Anne-Carolyn Bird, to my woefully incomplete blogroll. Join her on a guided tour of the life of an opera singer--a life that, according to the poet Lou Reed, is "...certainly frought will many spills and chills." She doubles not only as one of my favorite singers, but also as a fascinating and insightful reader and writer.

More new blogs to come soon; I am feeling back in the blogging saddle (with a long-ago-promised redesign more possible now than before), perhaps because I've not written an article in some time?

The Noise is News

2007-11-29T14:45:00.000-08:00

A hearty congratulations to the incomparable Alex Ross, whose virtuoso musico-historical star turn The Rest is Noise made the New York Times' 10 Best Books of 2007 list. And allow me to be the last to rave about this extraordinary work which should be required reading for anyone even vaguely interested in what happened to our past century as told by its music. You cannot read my review (in Symphony magazine) online, so rush out and buy a copy of that mag wherein I join the unanimous chorus of praise. And just remember, I wrote my review when this book was a slip of a review copy, now tattered, a fledgeling, not the insurmountable piece of music journalism that will have historians quaking in their boots for generations to come. It just took a while to publish. Honest.

To sum up my review: this is one amazing book, and even when I wonder why he left out certain things, this is one amazing book and since it is so amazing he is really entitled to leave out whatever he wants. Oh, and the book, it is amazing. Something along those lines--although, if it did not (probably rightfully) make the cutting room floor, I believe I referred to this as a "cultural history you can dance to." Sometimes witty bon mots such as you've come to expect from yr. composer-blogger are worth waiting for--or at least worth reading in a print edition.

Adio, Maestro

2007-11-25T08:23:00.000-08:00

I returned from an exhausting weekend away to a letter the death of Maestro Efrain Guigui at 81. He died in Los Angeles this past June from cancer, but these details eluded me. I know this is late in coming, but he will be missed by gneerations composers. Those of us who had the privelage of attending the Composers' Conference at Wellesley (I went twice, was honored to do so) got to meet this Argentinian spitfire, a man slight of stature but huge of personality, talent, and enthusiasm for American music. In fact, in his quiet way, I'd wager more American music was premiered under Maestro Guigui's Baton than under anyone else.

Like any good Maestro adressing the adepts, he could be fierce and demanding, but it was always in the service of music--of your music in specific--and after the rehearsal any unpleasantness was always forgiven. He led one piece of mine, my Thursday Night Overture, with such clarity and musical heft, and I personally saw him do this with dozens of demanding, complex pieces wrought in many styles.

Personally, he was a very generous man: I dined with him and his wife in Los Angeles on a number of occasions (always a steakhouse, he always treated despite protestations) and loved his warmth, his passion, his stories. I iaughed a lot, as did he, and I think that is what I will always remember about him.

So, months later, goodnight Maestro. The world is lighter with you gone, and the cause of American Music has suffered a deep and irreversible blow by your passing. But welucky composers who got to learn so much from you will be forever in your debt, and I am honored to count myself among them.

Sweet Caroline Revealed

2007-11-20T17:58:00.000-08:00

Well finally, Neil Diamond, after all these years, has revealed who the Caroline in "Sweet Caroline" is. After such knowledge, what forgiveness--and what's next: the "you" in Morisette's "You Oughta Know"? Brahms' ***? Beethoven's Immortal Beloved?

Felsenfeld at Sea

2007-11-14T18:50:00.000-08:00

I am really excited that pianist Jenny Lin will play my piece Insomnia Redux;4am this Friday, November 16, at Bargemusic--a concert on a boat! This is one of my favorite places to hear music in the whole city. Details here. Hope to see you all there.

From Absent Friends

2007-10-18T20:39:00.000-07:00

I will not let Felsenmusick die, so I return, back from a rather long few weeks during which my opera scene was read at American Opera Projects, I wrote said opera scene, I wrote a piece for genius choreographer Jenny Showalter to be played in Brockport, NY in a few weeks (more on that later) and, well, I got married. Spent a week in Paris, never seeing the Eiffel Tower (and certainly in no mood to blog), shopping too much at Flute de Pan and a great English bookstore in the Marais called The Red Wheelbarrow, and eating pretty well.

Now I am back, and have much to say--eventually.

Thanks for putting up with yet another gap. THE BLOG WILL GO ON.

The Rest is (finally) Noise

2007-09-27T06:04:00.000-07:00

Alex Ross' hotly awaited book is almost out--an absolute must-read for all concerned with concert music now. Adam Kirsch, writing for the Sun, offers a nice review. The first of many, no doubt--and this from a poet!

Guest Blogger Franz Liszt

2007-09-23T11:22:00.000-07:00

In his article On the Situation of Artists, a 23-year-old Franz Liszt suggests that the French Govornment advance an eight-pronged approach to music. According to the soon-to-be-great composer, they ought to:

1) Hold a competition every five years for works in the major musical genres
2) Have music education in the schools, and "religious" (moral and civic-spirited) songs composed for children to sing
3) Have a reform of church music
4) Have state-sponsored festivals of symphonic music
5) Actively encourage recitals, opera, and chamber music
6) Create a new and different music school, with branches in the provinces
7) Teach courses in music history and aesthetics at that school, or those schools
8) Create inexpensive editions of the greatest musical works of the past and present, and scholarly studies and dissertations that explore and explain them

I coudn't agree more!

In that same article, Liszt says:

"Schiller said somewhere: 'Every time art has lost its way, it has been the artists who were at fault.' Might we not add: Every time artists--rather than uniting, either to resist oppressive conditions and harsh demands, or to walk arm in arm toward the goal that has been divinely assigend to them--break ranks, repress their awareness of their own dignity, adn submit, one by one, day by day, to the consequences of silently accepting their inferior position, the fault is certainly theirs to a great extent."

(All this by way of a program essay by Ralph P. Locke from Franz Liszt and His World)

George Bush Weighs in on Music

2007-09-12T23:23:00.000-07:00

Just hideous, watch. (Via ArtsJournal. com.)

Another Time...

2007-09-11T23:43:00.000-07:00

"What can be said at all can be said clearly. and what we cannot talk about we must pass over in silence." -- Ludwig Wittgenstein, preface to Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus.

Composer Branding

2007-09-07T20:41:00.000-07:00

Hysterical article about the expiration of the rights to the music of Jean Sibelius, and what the composer's estate needs to do in order to retain the brand. I myself am looking forward to my Sibelius Beer Hat and Desk Set combination. And the new Sibelius chocolates will no doubt rival the Mozart ones. And the new gutter slang--when someone is brooding, depressed, and seen as behind the curve by all the cool kids, what will be said of him is "he's just so freakin' Sibelius."

Adio, Luciano

2007-09-06T20:11:00.000-07:00

Click here for strange but wonderful.

Guest Blogger Theodore Roosevelt

2007-09-06T19:33:00.001-07:00

Taking a break from composing my opera The Bloody Chamber, I am reading (in the most extracirricular and naughty fashion, as I should really be devoting any spare time to reading the boxes of books I need to read for the Deems Taylor prize) A.N. Wilson's spectacular novel Winnie and Wolf, about which, more later. Figuring into this fantastic tale is the complicated figure of Houston Stewart Chamberlain, husband of Wagner's daughter Eva and one of the great Aryan anti-semites of all time. His thinking influenced Hitler greatly. What I found to be particularly shocking--in the midst of self-distracting web searching--was the review of Chamberlain's seminal philosophical work by none other than Teddy Roosevelt. I was not so much stunned by the former president's assesment of the work (he found the book laughably full of contradictions and vainglorious to a fault, obviously), but more by the fact that, at one point in our not-so-distant past, we had a president well-spoken and erudite enough to pass impressive critical judgement on a work of pure thought. Can you imagine such a thing now?

Below, the entire text of Mr. Roosevelt's review.

---

MR. H. S. CHAMBERLAIN'S work on "The Foundations of the Nineteenth Century" is a noteworthy book in more ways than one. It is written by an Englishman who has been educated on the Continent, and has lived there until he is much more German than English. Previously he had written a book in French, while this particular book was written in German, and has only recently been translated into English. Adequately to review the book, or rather to write an adequate essay suggested by it, would need the space that would have been taken by an old-time Quarterly or Edinburgh Reviewer a century or fourscore years ago. I have called the book "noteworthy," and this it certainly is. It ranks with Buckle's "History of Civilization," and still more with Gobineau's "Inégalité des Races Humaines," for its brilliancy and suggestiveness and also for its startling inaccuracies and lack of judgment. A witty English critic once remarked of Mitford that he had all the qualifications of an historian—violent partiality and extreme wrath. Mr. Chamberlain certainly possesses these qualifications in excess, and, combined with a queer vein of the erratic in his temperament, they almost completely offset the value of his extraordinary erudition, extending into widely varied fields, and of his occasionally really brilliant inspiration. He is, however, always entertaining; which is of itself no mean merit, in view of the fact that most serious writers seem unable to regard themselves as serious unless they are also dull. 1
Mr. Chamberlain's thesis is that the nineteenth century, and therefore the twentieth and all future centuries, depend for everything in them worth mentioning and preserving upon the Teutonic branch of the Aryan race. He holds that there is no such thing as a general progress of mankind, that progress is only for those whom he calls the Teutons, and that when they mix with or are intruded upon by alien and, as he regards them, lower races, the result is fatal. Much that he says regarding the prevalent loose and sloppy talk about the general progress of humanity, the equality and identity of races, and the like, is not only perfectly true, but is emphatically worth considering by a generation accustomed, as its forefathers for the preceding generations were accustomed, to accept as true and useful thoroughly pernicious doctrines taught by well-meaning and feeble-minded sentimentalists; but Mr. Chamberlain himself is quite as fantastic an extremist as any of those whom he derides, and an extremist whose doctrines are based upon foolish hatred is even more unlovely than an extremist whose doctrines are based upon foolish benevolence. Mr. Chamberlain's hatreds cover a wide gamut. They include Jews, Darwinists, the Roman Catholic Church, the people of southern Europe, Peruvians, Semites, and an odd variety of literary men and historians. 2 To this sufficiently incongruous collection of antipathies he adds a much smaller selection of violent attachments, ranging from imaginary primitive Teutons and Aryans to Immanuel Kant, and Indian theology, metaphysics, and philosophy—he draws sharp distinctions between all three, and I merely use them to indicate his admiration for the Indian habit of thought, an admiration which goes hand in hand with and accentuates his violent hatred for what most sane people regard as the far nobler thought contained, for instance, in the Old Testament. He continually contradicts himself, or at least uses words in such diametrically opposite senses as to convey the effect of contradiction; and so it would be possible to choose phrases of his which contradict what is here said; but I think that I give a correct impression of his teaching as a whole. 2
As he touches lightly on an infinitely varied range of subjects, it would be possible to choose almost at random passages to justify what is said above. Take, for instance, his dogmatic assertions concerning faith and works. He frantically condemns the doctrine of salvation by works and frantically exalts the doctrine of salvation by faith. Much that he says about both doctrines must be taken in so mystical and involved a sense that it contains little real meaning to ordinary men. Yet he is also capable of expressing, on this very subject, noble thought in a lofty manner. In one of his sudden lapses into brilliant sanity he emphasizes the fact that Saint Francis of Assisi was faith incorporate and yet the special apostle of good works; and that Martin Luther, the advocate of redemption by faith, consecrated his life and revealed to others the secret of good works—"free works done only to please God, not for the sake of piety." 3
Unfortunately, these brilliant lapses into sanity are fixed in a matrix of fairly bedlamite passion and non-sanity. Mr. Chamberlain jeers with reason at the Roman Curia because until 1822 it kept on the Index all books which taught that the earth went round the sun; but really such action is not much worse than that of a man professing to write a book like this at the outset of the twentieth century who takes the attitude Mr. Chamberlain does toward the teaching of Darwin. The acceptance of the fundamental truths of evolution are quite as necessary to sound scientific thought as the acceptance of the fundamental truths concerning the solar system; and the attempt that Mr. Chamberlain in one place makes to draw a distinction between them is fantastic. Again, take what Mr. Chamberlain says of Aryans and Teutons. He bursts the flood-gates of scorn when he deals with persons who idealize humanity, or, as he styles it, "so-called humanity"; and he says: "For this humanity about which man has philosophized to such an extent suffers from the serious defect that it does not exist at all. History reveals to us a great number of various human beings, but no such thing as humanity"; yet on this very page he attributes the history of the growth of our civilization to its "Teutonic" character, and he uses the word "Teuton" as well as the word "Aryan" with as utter a looseness and vagueness as ever any philanthropist or revolutionist used the word "humanity." All that he says in derision of such a forced use of the word "humanity" could with a much greater percentage of truthfulness be said as regards the words and ideas symbolized by Teutonism and Aryanism as Mr. Chamberlain uses these terms. Indeed, as he uses them they amount to little more than expressions of his personal likes and dislikes. His statement of the raceless chaos into which the Roman Empire finally lapsed is, on the whole, just, and, to use the words continually coming to one's mind in dealing with him, both brilliant and suggestive. But in his anxiety to claim everything good for Aryans and Teutons he finally reduces himself to the position of insisting that wherever he sees a man whom he admires he must postulate for him Aryan, and, better still, Teutonic blood. He likes David, so he promptly makes him an Aryan Amorite. He likes Michael Angelo, and Dante, and Leonardo da Vinci, and he instantly says that they are Teutons; but he does not like Napoleon, and so he says that Napoleon is a true representative of the raceless chaos. The noted Italians in question, he states, were all of German origin, descended from the Germans who had conquered Italy in the sixth century. Now, of course, if Mr. Chamberlain is willing to be serious with himself, he must know perfectly well that even by the time of Dante seven or eight centuries had passed, and by the time of the other great Italians he mentions eight or ten centuries had passed, since the Germanic invasion. In other words, these great Italians were separated from the days of the Gothic and Lombard invasions by the distance which separates modern England from the Norman invasion; and his thesis has just about as much substance as would be contained in the statement that Wellington, Nelson, Turner, Wordsworth, and Tennyson excelled in their several spheres because they were all pure-blood descendants of the motley crew that came in with William the Conqueror. The different ethnic elements which entered into the Italy of the seventh century were in complete solution by the thirteenth, and it would have been quite as impossible to trace them to their several original strains as nowadays to trace in the average Englishman the various strains of blood from his Norman, Saxon, Celtic, and Scandinavian ancestors. Nor does Mr. Chamberlain mind believing two incompatible things in the quickest possible succession if they happen to suit his philosophy of the moment. Generally, when he speaks of the Teuton he thinks of the tall, long-headed man of the north; although, because of some crank in his mind, he puts in the proviso that he may have black as well as blond hair. The round-skulled man of middle Europe he usually condemns; but if his mind happens to run with approbation toward the Tyrolese, for instance, he at once forgets what ethnic division of Europeans it is to which they belong, and accepts them as typical Teutons. He greatly admires the teaching of the Apostle Paul, and so he endeavors to persuade himself that the Apostle Paul was not really a Jew; but he does not like the teachings of the Epistle of James on the subject of good works (teachings for which I have a peculiar sympathy, by the way), and accordingly he says that James was a pure Jew. 4
Fundamentally, very many of Mr. Chamberlain's ideas are true and noble. I admire the morality with which he condemns the intolerance of Calvin and Luther no less strongly than the intolerance of their Roman opponents, and yet his acceptance of the fact that they could not have done their great work if there had not been in their characters an alloy which made it possible for actual humanity to accept their teaching. But even his sense of morality is as curiously capricious as that of Carlyle himself, and as little trustworthy. He glories in the pointless and wanton barbarity of the destruction of Carthage in the Third Punic War as saving Europe from the Afro-Asiatic peril—pure nonsense, of course, for Carthage was then no more dangerous to Rome than Corinth was, and the sacks of the two cities stand on a par as regards any importance in their after effects. Perhaps his attitude toward Byron is more practically mischievous, or at least shows a much less desirable trait of character. He says that the personality of Byron "has something repulsive in it for every thorough Teuton, because we nowhere encounter in it the idea of duty," which makes him "unsympathetic, un-Teutonic"; but he adds that Teutons do not object in the least to his licentiousness, and, on the contrary, see in it "a proof of genuine race"! Really, this reconciliation of a high ideal of duty with gross licentiousness would be infamous if it were not so unspeakably comic. On the next page, by the way, Mr. Chamberlain says that Louis XIV was anti-Teutonic in his persecution of the Protestants, but a thorough Teuton when he defended the liberties of the Gallican church against Rome! Now such intellectual antics as these, and the haphazard use of any kind of a name (without the least reference to its ordinary use, provided Mr. Chamberlain has taken a fancy to it) to represent or symbolize any individual or attribute of which he approves, makes it very difficult to accept the book as having any serious merit whatever. Yet interspersed with innumerable pages which at best are those of an able man whose mind is not quite sound, and at worst lose their brilliancy without their irrationality, there are many pages of deep thought and lofty morality based upon wide learning and wide literary and even scientific knowledge. There could be no more unsafe book to follow implicitly, and few books of such pretensions more ludicrously unsound; and yet it is a book which students and scholars, and men who, though neither students nor scholars, are yet deeply interested in life, must have on their book-shelves. Much the same criticism should be passed upon him that he himself passes upon John Fiske, to whose great work, "The History of the Discovery of America," he gives deserved and unstinted praise, but at whom he rails for solemnly, and, as Mr. Chamberlain says, with more than Papal pretensions to infallibility, setting forth complete patent solutions for all the problems connected not merely with the origin but with the destiny of man. Mr. Chamberlain differentiates sharply between the admirable work Fiske did in such a book as that treating of the discovery of America and the work he did when he ventured to dogmatize loosely, after the manner of Darwin's successors in the '70s and '80s, upon a scanty collection of facts very imperfectly understood. But Mr. Chamberlain himself would have done far better if in his book he had copied the methods and modesty of Fiske at his best—the methods and modesty of such books as Sutherland's "Origin and Growth of the Moral Instinct"—and had refrained from taking an attitude of cock-sureness concerning problems which at present no one can more than imperfectly understand. He is unwise to follow Brougham's example and make omniscience his foible.
Yet, after all is said, a man who can write such a really beautiful and solemn appreciation of true Christianity, of true acceptance of Christ's teachings and personality, as Mr. Chamberlain has done, a man who can sketch as vividly as he has sketched the fundamental facts of the Roman empire in the first three centuries of our era, a man who can warn us as clearly as he has warned about some of the pressing dangers which threaten our social fabric because of indulgence in a morbid and false sentimentality, a man, in short, who has produced in this one book materials for half a dozen excellent books on utterly diverse subjects, represents an influence to be reckoned with and seriously to be taken into account.

From Russia, With Saxophones

2007-09-04T12:45:00.000-07:00

Allow me to introduce my friend Demitrius Spaneas, a composer, performer, and vivid musical mind, who has apparenly just moved to Russia for a year and decided to blog that experience (if "blog" is officially a verb). I've added him to the blogroll, but you can dip into his Twain-style musings here.

Also, as a bonus track, a while back I responded to one Robert Walker, whose blog "Nonotes" queried if anyone had any information about Louis Armstrong's song "St. James Infirmary." I suggesed he look into the microtonal music of Ezra Sims, which he did. You can read about his labrythine encounters with that composer and his music here.

Answering the Dog

2007-08-27T21:01:00.000-07:00

So yes, the academic year not only approaches but, for me, has begun (I taught my first classes of the year, in a daze, this morning), but even so I'll take the bait and try to answer some of SoHo's interesting questions:

1. What's the best quotation of a piece of music within another piece of music?

I've always liked the allusion to Beethoven in Brahms' First, or Mozart's quote of himself in Don Giovanni, but I have to go with the Star-Spangled Banner in Madame Butterfly.

2. Name the best classical crossover album ever made.

Elvis Costello and Anne-Sophie Mutter, or Renee Fleming's Haunted Heart. I am not totally partial to either, but these are, for me, the "best."

3. Great piece with a terrible title.

Rage over a Lost Penny (A joke, please)

4. If you had to choose: Benjamin Britten or Michael Tippett?

Benjamin Britten, though I'd not want to part with The Rose Lake, the Double Concerto for String Orchestra, or The Knot Garden.

5. Who's your favorite spouse of a composer/performer? (Besides your own.)

Phillip Glass' (now, I hear) ex, Holly. Met her once, thought she was absolutely lovely. But Peter Pears rates.

6. Terrible piece with a great title.

Nimrod Varations

7. What's the best use of a classical warhorse in a Hollywood movie?

That famous aria from Carmen in Magnolia, or Michael Moore's use of Beethoven's Ninth in Farenheight 911. I suppose Fantasia doesn't count.

8. Name the worst classical crossover album ever made.

John Denver and Placido Domingo, which I purchased in a gas station between Malibu and Santa Barbara.

9. If you had to choose: Sam Cooke or Marvin Gaye?

Sam Cooke

10. Name a creative type in a non-musical medium who would have been a great composer.

Either Orson Welles or Paul Thomas Anderson. Or Tennessee Williams. Or Balanchine. Or Bergman. Does Adorno or Romain Rolland count? Also, Kierkegaard. But most of all, Marcel Proust.

EXTRA CREDIT:

For opera nerds: If you had to choose:
a) Lawrence Tibbett or Robert Merrill?

The latter

b) Amelita Galli-Curci or Lily Pons?

The latter

For early-music nerds: Name a completely and hopelessly historically uninformed recording that you nevertheless love.

Beechum's Messiah, though Furtwangler's Ninth is so wrong yet hopelessly right. And Simone Dinnerstein's Goldberg Variations, not to mention the really obvious Glenn Gould reading(s) of the same piece. I mean that these recordings don't lay claim to a certain level of scholarship--no doubt they all knew what history meant, and chose to follow a different set of instincts.

Coming Soon!

2007-08-24T22:15:00.000-07:00

Felsenmusick will undergo a totally foxy redesign. Don't touch that dial: should be within the week. You won't recognize me!

SoHo the non-Dogmatic

2007-08-15T20:54:00.000-07:00

Like everyone, I am following Matthew Guerreri's blog with astonishment: he does, as Alex says, seem to be wired into his own rather brilliant information feed. I'd like to reprint something he wrote and comment:

"Rudolf Serkin, infamously, once played the entirety of Bach’s Goldberg Variations as an encore. “When I finished,” he remembered, “there were only four people left in the hall—Adolph Busch, Artur Schnabel, Alfred Einstein and myself.” Did the value of Serkin’s recital dwindle along with the number listening? Hardly. My sanguine view of the survival of classical music is reflected in that illustrious trio staying in their seats. There will always be an audience whose demand for the music will remain purely functional, immune to fads, buzz, trends, what have you. Will it be smaller than the audience for this month’s pop sensation? Probably. Does that matter? Nope."

This comes at the end of another weighing in on The Death of Classical Music, in his way using a kind of post-Veblen economic measuring stick. He makes his usual salient points, rounded off here, and I'd like to add my own few cents. I am reminded of the movie 24 Hour Party People, director Michael Winterbottom's paean to the rise and fall of Manchester's rave culture(with the ever-acerbic and self-lacerating Steve Coogan as entrepeneur Tony Wilson). In the movie, he organizes a show of the Sex Pistols just before they hit, and though few are in the audience, most of them went out and started important bands. Same is true of the Velvet Underground: they had a mighty listenership which was small but full of people who went out and innovated in their name. This is a sort of defense of insider art: quality of audience can sometimes trump quantity. Looked at from an economic standpoint: if myself, you, and Bill Gates are in the room together, our average net worth is something in the billions. In other words, sometimes it is important to have a smaller, potent bunch than a larger group of near-participants.

When Alex Ross' book comes out, you will all get to see who was at the premiere of Salome in 1906: some heavy hitters, making the crowd a more potent global force than, say, a huge concert of La Boheme in the park.

Elgar Variations

2007-08-14T00:30:00.000-07:00

Allow me to take Anthony Tomassini's recapitulation of the Bard Festival, which is this year dedicated to Edward Elgar, to re-plug James Hamilton-Paterson's gorgeous Gerontius, a biographical fiction about that composer. This is an author who knows his stuff, music-wise (as evidenced by the hysterical conductor called Max in his novel Amazing Disgrace, who engages a rapt-at-attention dinner party with his breakdown of the use of Von Suppe's music in the Tom & Jerry cartoons). A little sample:

"A further surprise is Max's apparent disinclination to talk about music. This seems not to be the bluff, Elgarian defensiveness that insists on discussing horse racing while the avoided topic broods like a thundercloud above the table. Max's attitude is more tha of the man who doesn't wish to consider work outside office hours. This is awkward, since I am naturally eager to establish my own musical credentials, such as they are; although, I dare say there are not too many people who can sing most of I froci di Firenze. So I tell Max how wonderful I think his Schumann symphonies are, trying to sound thoughtful rather than fulsome. I say I am particularly impressed by his going back to the autograph of the Fourth in its 1841 first version, which is so much more spontaneous and transparent in texture than Schumann's overworked later version with its thick wind doublings.

'Oh,' Max Says modestly through a mouthfull of mutton (though I can tell he is pleased), 'I was only following the trail blaxed by Nikolaus.'

Harnoncourt, I presume, and am about to carry on with what Brahms said about these two versions of the D-minor symphony when Max abruptly changes the subject.

'You know the person I really admire?'

'Celibidace?' I hazard.

'Sergiu, yes, of course; but I was thinking of Adrian. My brother-in-law. I always wanted to be a palaeobiologist, did you know that? I realize Adrian's an oceanographer, whichis rather different, but he manages to do a lot of field work. I'm envious.' "

Gerontius, a fictional account of Elgar on a rare vacation late in life--when the world has passed him by--is done with the same twee-yet-deeply-serious spirit. I always thought Elgar a stodgy old Brit who could never quite get his mind around the 12-tone row, a composer for hats and tassles and little else. Gerontius makes him into an artist, a bohemian who, late in life, finds himself the rear guard as opposed to the soul of his own Queen and country as he once was.

All I can say is I hope the Bard gift shop is generously stocked. It's a delight, a serious and sad delight.

Death in August

2007-08-13T17:48:00.000-07:00

As New York winds down (or up) for the start of the Fall--which for many of us means a return to teaching, to the season, to 9-11, to a cooling of the weather, to turning leaves--I am moved by Kyle Gann's thoughtful remembrance of Nancarrow, who died a decade ago. Has it really been that long?

Under the Gun

2007-08-08T16:33:00.001-07:00

With two pieces due soon, classes starting in shorter order than I would like, and yes, nuptuals forthcoming (including my own--on the 30th of September I am lucky enough to be marrying one Elizabeth Isadora Gold, the writer) I fear a little Felsenmusick pause is in the offing. Read other music blogs in the meantime, and I will be back with fierce passion as soon as the heat breaks. When next we meet, I'll have a new piece for the brilliant choreographer Jenny Showalter, a scene from my opera The Bloody Chamber, some hot syllibi for a host of courses at City College, and a feature article on the great musical genius Carl Stalling for Symphony magaizine all put to bed.

See you all on the other side!