La Chica Dorada

After spending a languid afternoon in the company of Mademoiselle MG during one of the warmest days I can remember ever hitting San Francisco, she and I had a great meal at Il Cane Rosso at the Ferry Building and then took the ferry from SF to Oakland to go see Paulina Rubio.

What? You've never heard of Paulina Rubio? That's a damn shame because the Latin world's equivalent of Madonna just killed it before an adoring audience and the only reason you probably missed it is because of the way art, entertainment and culture are marketed and sold in this country. Paulina's been making records since 1992, has sold 20 million of them worldwide and the last three are delicious confections of solid pop that rival anything you've heard sung in English during the last decade. She made one cross-over recording in English, which yielded a minor hit and some MTV play, and then she smartly went back to her native language and guaranteed obscurity in the English-speaking parts of the U.S..

The lack of exposure for Latin pop music (or for that matter, any music not sung in English)  in English-speaking media is something that grates on me, if for no other reason that it just seems so backwards. But I think I'll make that rant its own post.

Initially we were told Paulina's band was going to do a half hour set before she came out for a planned hour and a half. That never happened. The lights go down and La Chica Dorada hits the stage in a get-up that outdid Lady Gaga at the VH1 awards and the audience just freaked. It seems everyone had an IPhone and all of a sudden Pau was being filmed by everyone in the pit. I really wished I'd brought my camera.


Paulina is an incredibly generous performer. During the show, which lasted two hours, the stage was crashed twice by guys who somehow got past the bouncers and when the bouncers lept into action Pau waved them off, saying "it's okay." The second time it happened, she turned the song into a one-sided duet, letting the lucky man (whose bragging rights among his friends will now be legendary) embrace her as she sang the song directly to him. Then he got a kiss and a dismissal which he was reluctant to accept-  he did have to be dragged off by the bouncers but I couldn't really blame him for not wanting to go. Paulina also pulled a couple of women from the audience, handed them live microphones and let them be her back-up singers during another song- and they did a really great job. I've never seen a Madonna concert, but I can't imagine her doing something like that.

I love Paulina. I really do. Paulina is freaking awesome. And she has the best legs on the entire planet. Seriously- she does. Even Mademoiselle MG thinks so. She wore a silver, glittery micro mini-dress and black short boots that showed them off.

Concentrating on material from her past five albums, Pau delivered a set that was high on energy and low on pretense. Her band was okay, but their role is really just to keep the hooks coming and that they did. She had two only back-up singers, a male and female (an improvement over the completely unnecessary trio of back-up singers from the last tour) who were fun, but I do wish Paulina would realize she is best when she's the only one onstage and just strip it down. The woman is that captivating a performer- anyone else onstage is just unnecessary though the woman back-up singer was hot in a Sheila E. cum Catherine Zeta-Jones in "Chicago" kind of way,


The highlights? Certainly "Ni Rosas ni Juguetes" and the encore "Causa y Efecto" from the new album, but really every song was delivered with a verve and enthusiasm that had the entire place jumping from start to finish. The only disappointment were songs that didn't make the set, notably "Ojala" and "Tu Y Yo." Regardless, it was a great performance and she had the audience eating out of her hand for the entire set.

Here's the set list for the two-hour long show, which I took off of the spinningplatters.com review (which also has a Spanish translation for those who are interested), which they took from the light board, though I'm not sure it's 100% accurate:

Algo De To
Ni Una Sola Palabra
Lo Hare Por Ti
Todo Mi Amor
Mas Que Amigos
Yo No Soy Esa Mujer
El Ultimo Adios
Dame Otro Tequila
Ni Rosas Ni Juguetes
Nada Puede Cambiarme
Casanova
Ensename
Algo Tienes
Melodia De Tu Alma
Medley: Sabor a Aiel, Enamorado, Mio
A Contra Luz
Don’t Say Goodbye
Causa y Efecto
Y Yo Sigo Aqui
Te Quise Tanto

The spinningplatters site also has some actual photos from the show- check them out.

Afterwards, Maria and I went next door to "The Den," part of the Fox revival,  and danced to a jamming mix of funk and salsa among a crowd that was half from the show, half just out to have a good downtown Saturday night. "The Den" is a lot of fun. Then it was time to go back to SF- and so we did. And there your are.

Il Trovatore: a second helping

I went back for a second performance of Il Trovatore Friday night and sat in the balcony. I'm pleased to report that Hvorostovsky was in much better voice this evening and really delivered. Radvanovsky was once again stellar - the control she has of her voice is something I'm not sure I've ever heard before. She's fantastic. Marco Berti also delivered another excellent performance and there seemed to be some small revisions to the final scene allowing Stephanie Blythe to deliver a bone-chilling ending.

Besides getting to hear Hvorostovsky on a good night, the other main pleasure to be had from a second viewing was seeing the stage from the balcony instead of the orchestra level. The set looks even better and more impressive from above. The staging for this production is truly great. There are three performances left, though Hvorostovsky will be replaced by Quinn Kelsey for the performances on 10/4 and 10/6, and Malgorzata Walewska will replace Blythe on 10/1 and 10/6. This Trovatore is worth seeing for Radvanovsky alone, but with the strong cast and great staging, it's really not to be missed.

San Francisco Opera's Il Trittico

It's been fifty-seven years since Il Trittico, Puccini's trio of one-act operas, has graced the stage of the War Memorial Opera House and the current production on loan from New York City Opera can only make one ask "What took so long?" Having seen LA Opera's excellent production last season, I was doubtful San Francisco's was going to measure up. It doesn't, but it's still pretty good.




Thankfully it looks like I don't have to start searching out recipes for crow just yet. While SFO's Il Trittico is an improvement on the lackluster treatment most productions received last season, it's not at the same level of the summer's Porgy and Bess nor the season-opening Il Trovatore. Those who disagree with this assessment are likely to be bigger fans of Patricia Racette than I am. Don't get me wrong, I think Racette is a fine singer but I've never seen her in anything that left me believing she is a great singer (I skipped her 2007 Butterfly because frankly I was tired of seeing that production on the schedule every other year). Her turns in each of Puccini's one-acts didn't change my opinion of her for better or worse. Racette was also at a disadvantage from my personal perspective, given that in the past two weeks I've seen stand-out, star-making performances by Nino Machaidze in LA's Elixir and the amazing Sondra Radvanovsky in SF's Trovatore. Racette just didn't generate the same sparks for me, but overall this is a fine production and if you've never seen these operas this is an excellent chance to do so.



Il Tabarro begins with Paolo Gavanelli (Michele) and Patricia Racette (Giorgetta) standing onstage estranged and alienated from one another. It's obvious something's wrong here and it's only going to get worse. Racette's costume makes her look like a delicious tart to the point of distraction- a women who looks like this (and is wearing those shoes) lives on a barge with this old guy? When Giorgetta dances with Michele's hired hands initially it all seems like a gentle lark- a woman enjoying some attention she can't get from her husband. That is until Brandon Jovanovich (Luigi) takes his turn and suddenly there's some real heat onstage. The problem I've always had with Tabarro is it takes too long to get to the good part- where the audience is let in on what happened between Michele and Giorgetta- and this is what keeps Il Tabarro from being great verismo ala Cav or Pag. When it does come, Gavanelli lets loose all of Michele's anguish so effectively it delivers an emotional wallop. Then you understand why Giorgetta is dressed as she is and all the pieces fall into place. This production does a great job at making Il Tabarro come across as more than it really is, thanks to the strong acting of the leads, though vocally neither Racette nor Gavanelli were in particularly great condition on the night I attended (09/24). Jovanovich looked the part and sang well, but my experience with him makes me feel he's more effective vocally when he's singing in German.



Suor Angelica should have been the tour de force moment for Racette and while it was fine, she never really took off with it and was almost upstaged by Ewa Podles. San Francisco has waited a long time for Podles to appear and she delivered. The Princess isn't a huge nor even a particularly well-written part, but Podles was riveting from the moment she made her entrance and commanded the stage until she left it. Having seen Sondra Radvanovsky as Angelica last year, perhaps I'm not giving Racette her due, but as anyone who's seen Radvanovsky in SFO's Trovatore can attest, she sets a pretty high bar to reach for anyone following in her wake. The staging for this production was effective, though it reminded me of SFO's production of Busoni's Doktor Faust- maybe because of the florescent lights. The creeping grit and decay making inroads into the spic-and-span world of the nuns and nurses was a nice way to emphasize the opera's underlying themes. It seemed almost a waste to have Heidi Melton onstage in such a small part, but I guess even small doses of Melton are better than none at all.



The best is saved for last. Gianni Schicchi is a comedic blast and Gavanelli is terrific in the title role. Racette is a convincing Lauretta and the rest of the large ensemble cast (including a large number of Adler fellows) all hit their marks and notes with just the amount of zest and exuberance. The set is perfect fun and the less said about the production the better because this Schicchi is a true delight.



A lot of attention has been given to Racette's taking on all three female leads. This is more of an acting challenge than a vocal one and Racette pulls this off with apparent ease. She's a strong presence onstage and each of her three characters is unique. However, this production doesn't feel like a star turn or anything close to that for either Racette or Gavanelli- it has an ensemble feel that brings these three disparate operas into a whole and makes for a pretty satisfying three-course meal.



Finally, the real star of this Trittico is guest conductor Patrick Summers. The orchestra sounded as good as I've ever heard it and the pacing of all three operas was perfect. Summers and SFO General Manager David Gockley have a long association and I'm hoping this is the beginning of more regular appearances by this very talented conductor.

South Pacific in San Francisco

I had lunch with mother today at the restaurant in Nordstrom's which is about as perfect a place as one could wish to lunch with their mother on a Saturday afternoon in downtown San Francisco unless you want to dine in Neiman's Rotunda, which just seems too forced to me.  My mother was downtown to buy make-up.  We discussed our jobs, pets, the shape of things to come and the past weekend over dishes served with fries and a special dipping sauce which was tasty but probably loaded with things I wouldn't want to know about while we looked out at the view surrounding the Powell Street Cable Car turnaround. I could see the windows of my apartment from where I sat, which made everything seem slightly more delicious. During the converation I told ma mere I had seen the revival of South Pacific the previous night, which she was suitably unimpressed by. It seems she's waiting for Oklahoma! or something else like that. She's a tough cookie. That must be why people like her, but I think my mother's charms rest elsewhere.

Last night as I walked by the downtown Hilton on my way to meet The Minister's Rebellious Daughter at First Crush for pre-performance bourbons and snacks, I thought about the impression this neighborhood can make upon the average tourist from quieter parts (they are easily identified). There was a pretty blonde of a certain age leaning against a pillar that she seemed to want to melt in to. Her face bore an expression of extreme apprehension. I looked about to see what could cause her such discomfort and it was readily apparent. Sometimes I genuinely feel sorry for tourists in this town- there are just so many low-lifes and losers hassling people incessantly.

The Minister's Daughter was there when I arrived, comfortably esconced at the bar between two uptight, fussily dressed queens (bow-tie? seriously?) and a threesome that was another two rounds of drinks away from happening. We ordered apps and Manhattans, then another round of drinks. The queens seemed to exhibit a notable discomfort while I related a last weekend's Sapphic free-for-all at La Cita to the Minister's Daughter, which pleased me to no end since they refused to yield the seat that was being held for me. They really had nothing to say to one another so they were obviously eavesdropping on our conversation.

Finished  with our pre-performance sustenance, we made our way through two blocks of human excrement to the Golden Gate Theater. It should be noted this theater is a dump and an embarrassment. Broken windows can be seen from the facade and the interior isn't much better. As it was an unusually hot day in the City, the entire place smelled rank and nasty like a gymnasium, causing one to notice more than one normally would that the place is a pit in need of serious refurbishment. This is the largest theater in San Francisco for touring plays? Shorenstein Company, you need to clean this place up- it's a capacious shit-hole.

As we took our seats, the Minister's Daughter admonished those seated around us to behave themselves during the performance. Unfortunately, the dish to my left took her too seriously and I was disappointed when she didn't join in on "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair." In her little B & W dress and boots I have to confess I would have liked that.  The woman behind us (Mezzanine row E, seat 8) was completely annoying, laughing and giggling at practically everything- lady, you need something you aren't going to find in a theater- may I politely suggest this?

The scrim covering the stage featured words from James Michener's Tales of the South Pacific, from which the book of the play originated, set the tone for what was to follow. This multi-Tony award winning revival, directed by Bartlett Sher, has depth and delivers a completely satisfying evening of distinctly American theater. Sixty years after its premier on Broadway, this amazingly structured play still has a lot to say to contemporary audiences.

If you haven't seen South Pacific before, or have only only seen the 1958 film, you may surprised by how relevant the play is to the here and now. The brilliance of this production rests in its ability to bring out the deeper nuances of the story and the music without ever becoming a morality lesson or an exercise in nostalgia. Conflicts about race, responsibility and alienation are present throughout.

The sophistication and depth of Rodgers and Hammerstein's work are fully evident here and this production includes music and dialogue not seen or heard since the 1949 Broadway premiere. Featuring a twenty-five piece orchestra, vibrant sets, great choreography and a terrific cast, it's almost too much for just one viewing and could easily reward repeat visits. I plan on seeing it again because there are a lot subtleties in this staging and music.

Rod Gilfry (Emile de Becque), familiar to San Francisco Opera audiences, and Carmen Cusack (Nellie Forbush) lead a solid cast.  Gilfry's portrayal of de Becque conveys the character's conflicts and strengths through his voice and his body language. Gilfry has always been a singer who can act, and it pays off handsomely here. Unfortunately his booming bass-baritone was over-miked on the first night, which magnified his dominance over the rest of the cast. Gilfry probably doesn't need a microphone at all to make himself heard in this theater, so the crew ought to fix this one problem element of the show. But that's really the only negative thing I could say about the production. Gilfry sang "Some Enchanted Evening" beautifully, conveying the song's longing, and made "This Nearly Was Mine" riveting. If he decides to leave the world of opera, which I hope he doesn't, Gilfry could have a terrific career on Broadway.

Cusack's Nellie hits just the right combination of adhering to the original era of the play and infusing it with a contemporary sensibility. She's as much a woman of our time as she is from World War II- a neat trick that's brought home when she confronts her own racism. Cusack's voice is bright and she has an onstage presence that captures the audience without ever becoming overtly theatrical. "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair" was naturally a delightful, well-choreographed highlight, as was the final reprise of "Some Enchanted Evening."

Anderson Davis' turn as Lt. Joseph Cable is also rewarding, conveying the conflict of an educated man out of his element. Matthew Saldivar's Billis led the Seabees  through a rowdy "There's Nothing Like a Dame" with comedic gusto that was possibly my personal favorite moment of the night.  Keala Settle wasn't a spicy Bloody Mary, but she sang "Bali Ha'i" well and gave her character a poignant depth that left a deep impression.  Christina Carrera and CJ Palma were delightful as de Becque's children, Ngana and Jerome and the rest of the cast doesn't contain a single weak link.  The sets by Michael Yeargan provided a perfect setting for every scene.

It will play at the tired and run-down Golden Gate theater through October 25th before hitting the road for the next year. You'd be foolish to miss it.

After the show, the Minister's Daughter and I walked through the new Tenderloin "Arts District" which seems to be delineated chiefly by "arty" new crosswalks outside of the 21 Club (one of SF's greatest bars, but seriously downscale- the owner's name is Frank- introduce yourself and you are sure to have a great time- at least until you leave shitfaced and have to deal with all the scum @ Turk and Taylor). Now, when the cops take a picture of a sprawled, bleeding body at downtown's most notorious corner there will be an attractive new backdrop in the photo courtesy of Gavin Newsom and whoever else is behind this Quixotic idea.

Feeling hungry, we grabbed some pizza at Milan on Geary, some Stella on Sutter and discussed this amazing revival and local goings-on, including Malia Cohen's run for Sophie Maxwell's supervisor seat (which you will hear a lot more about on this blog since I adore Malia Cohen) before it was time to go home.

Take it to the Bridge

I received a kind invitation to be a passenger on a cruise of the Bay Bridge construction led by Donald McDonald, the lead designer of the Bay Bridge re-design. I couldn't make it because I was with Mademoiselle MG attending the opera opening in L.A., but la Loba went and took some great pictures, which I'm posting here because it's a view most of us will never get to see up close and personal.

La Loba said the tour had a distinct Thurston Howell III vibe on board, which surprised me, but she didn't imply that spoiled the fun (nor the views). If there's another tour I'm sure to be informed, so let me know if you want to go, otherwise keep your eye on the other site, where I'll post a notice of a repeat performance if it happens.

Gracias, chica, tu es mejor. Bessos.

The Art of Patrick Martinez

During the Spring Street Art Walk in L.A. on 09/10/09 I came across Patrick Martinez's artwork in a tattoo parlor that had a gorgeous chopper in the window. Not my style, but it was a cool bike. Martinez was having a show and I discovered a real talent whose work really reflects his environment and times in a way similar to how Otto Dix captured the Weimer years in Germany with such an unflinching eye. Martinez's work is in the same tradition as the German Expressionists and it's riveting:

I don't remember the last time I saw a more disturbing painting than "High Fructose Corn Loca."

"Big Game Hunters" is another ferocious work updating 19th century hunting scenes for the 21st:

Like Dix, Martinez is also a talented portraitist. The painting below right is his brother, who was at the show:

He also works in neon and mixed media:

More information on Martinez, his work and upcoming shows can be found at patrickmartinez.com.

The show also featured photographs and clothing by LA artist/filmmaker Estevan Oriol, whose pictures of gangs and the culture surrounding them are simply chilling. His site is here.

If you live in LA and aren't attending this monthly event, you are missing out on one of the things that makes your city truly great.

San Francisco Opera's Il Trovatore

If the rest of San Francisco Opera's season is as good as the company's current offering of Verdi's Il Trovatore I may have to surrender and admit defeat in my Sisyphean campaign against David Gockley's vision for the company. Of course one opera doesn't mean much in the grand scheme of things, but this cast and production, borrowed from Chicago Lyric and the Met, delivered one of the best evenings the house has seen in the recent years. What else can one say when Dmitri Hvorostovsky was the weakest link among the four leads?

First and foremost, the evening belonged to Sondra Radvanovsky who proved that her mesmerizing performance in LA Opera's Suor Angelica last year was no fluke. After tonight, she's entered the short list of singers I'd see in anything, just because they're in it. Her "D'amor sull'ali rose" brought tears to more than one eye in the house, and that was just one high point in a performance that began flawlessly and never wavered. Her control and technique are devastating. Her voice filled the hall with a refulgent beauty before spinning out into gossamer thin notes that held everything clearly in the air . The last time a soprano brought it like this to the War Memorial was when Ruth Ann Swenson sang Violetta.

That's not to say that mezzo Stephanie Blythe was exactly willing to be upstaged. She delivered a potent Azucena that would have completely stolen the show had Radvanovsky not been there. Her "Stride la vampa" was like a blood oath. Blythe's performance was riveting, though I thought her final moments were misdirected.

Marco Berti, the only one of the leads I haven't seen before, was excellent, and his two arias in the third act were sung beautifully, though without the high C at the end of "O teco almeno corro a morir" for those readers who care about such things (yes I'm talking to you Hank Labarcon!). He's a true Italian-style tenor and it would be a treat to have Berti and Radvanovsky paired in a verismo like Cav or Andrea Chenier.

Which brings us to the Siberian. Dmitri Hvorostovsky is one of the most magnetic presences in all of opera. The looks, the hair, the voice, the build. He's like James Bond- when he's onstage it's hard to take your eyes off of him and yet tonight it just wasn't all there. His voice wasn't as strong and while usually he can convey a lot by using less than anyone else around him, in this production it strangely didn't work at many points. Perhaps this is because everyone else on stage were singing their asses off or maybe the Count really isn't the right role for him. To me this was all the more surprising because I thought he was going to own the night- maybe not easily, but who expects Hvorostovsky to be the last horse across the line? {Hvorostovsky had a better night later in the run- see second helpings}

The supporters were all fine, especially Burak Bilgili's Fernando. Adlers Renee Tatum and Andrew Bidlack did themselves proud. The chorus was a brawny, lusty and lascivious lot whose fighting onstage was especially well-choreographed by Leah Hausman.

The orchestra sounded fine, especially during the "anvil chorus" and the final act, though I still think at this point Luisotti's apprearances here haven't justified the hype he's received.

The set by Charles Edwards, featuring a massive revolving wall that manged to never look quite the same as it rotated around the stage, featured a vanishing point staircase that was transfixing from where we were seated on the left side of the orchestra. It's the finest-looking set I've seen during the Gockley era. If SFO needs to borrow productions from other companies to get stages that look this good then so be it- I can live with that for awhile. This one is worth your time and if you're short this month there's going to be a free simulcast at that place where the Giants play baseball, whatever its name is this season.

LA Opera's Potent Elixir

Once in awhile, and too rarely, life mirrors fiction and when it does the results can leave an impression destined to be ineluctably indelible. That was my thought when Mademoiselle MG emerged from her dressing room in a gorgeous beaded dress so perfectly fitted that I'm sure my face said something else entirely, which I won't reveal here. A lark became an adventure and off we went to attend the opening night of LA Opera and its production of Donizetti's L'Elisir D'Amore that held its promise in the casting.

Last year's opening, a Hollywood-director drenched weekend featuring Woody Allen, William Friedkin and David Cronenberg productions, flitted through my mind in intervals, as it marked the beginning of a downward spiral which took months to be free of. As Maria and I hit the promenade of the Music Center I could tell this was going to be a significantly less auspicious opening than last year's, though I couldn't decipher whether it was economic circumstances or the lack of star-power which determined the more subdued atmosphere. It certainly wasn't the heat, because while it was LA-in-September hot, it wasn't the scorching heat of the previous year. I retreated into an inner reverie as I watched Maria absorb the impact of being envied by women and desired by men as we walked about drinking wine before the show.

L'Elisir featured a cast high on sex appeal- the gorgeous Georgian soprano Nino Machaidze was making her American debut this evening among two handsome Italians new to LA and the return of the widely-desired Nathan Gunn. One really couldn't ask for more. Despite a production that added dark and heavy elements where none were needed, during the second act the cast took off once they were freed of the cumbersome set design and allowed to be set loose on a staged open field.

During the first act Nino reminded me of Maria Callas. That's not necessarily a compliment, as I've never been part of that cult, though Nino did have a distinct vocal quality similar to that of the ultimate diva and it was the first time I've ever had that connotation while listening to someone. Those in attendance now have the inevitable bragging rights to say they were there, as the night is likely to be remembered as the the beginning of Nino Machaidze's conquest of America, though the seduction didn't really begin until the second act.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. The rest of the cast was solid, with an especially great performance by Giuseppe Filianoti as Nemorino. Those who bought tickets hoping to see Rolando Villazon in the role couldn't have been too disappointed in his replacement. Filianoti is a true Italian tenor, and if his voice takes on a deeper hue as he matures he might well end up the Corelli for our time. Giorgio Caoduro stepped in at the last minute and did an admirable turn as the wily Dr. Dulcamara, by turns comedic and cavalier. Nathan Gunn was only a moderately successful Belcore, all the more puzzling because if anyone in the opera world could be assumed to easily pull off this role it should be opera's chief stud baritone. Valerie Vinzant's Giannetta also didn't have the light one may have expected, but it would take a lot to cut through the wattage generated by this Adina and Nemorino. However, I'll admit to being influenced by the superb SFO production of this opera last season, which was perfect in every detail, thus making comparisons inevitable and difficult.

It took Nino a while to hit her stride- perhaps it was opening night nerves, perhaps it was the inappropriately dark staging of the first act that conspired against this most effervescent of bel canto operas, but when the stage opened up during the second act the audience was able to hear and see what this woman could do- and she delivered "Prendi, per mi sei libero" with total mastery.

Filianoti, who was excellent in SF Opera's Lucia last year, was a Nemorino who didn't come across as a bumpkin, but rather as a man who is really hopelessly in love with Adina. When I saw Ramon Vargas in this role last year, it was a redemption from his lackluster years of coasting at the Met. Vargas was terrific, though more of the bumpkin- Filianoti sang and acted the role like Vargas might have in his hungrier, pre-Met days. That's a high compliment if you didn't see Vargas circa 1999. Filianoti's "una furtiva lagrima" was simply gorgeous and he owned the cavernous Dorothy Chandler by singing with emotion and pure tone. After this performance, either of these singers is worth seeing in any bel canto opera- together, they created an unexpected delight.

The staging, a revival first seen in LA in the 90's didn't do the cast any favors. A dark barn with high arches dominated the first act and didn't disappear until well into the second, undercutting the heart of the opera. Yes, there's always a dark side to comedy, and yes, there are darker elements lurking in Donizetti's music hinting at the sadness of love rejected or misplaced, but this opera isn't going to make that case with the first half of this production.

Better to open it up, onto a clear field under a full moon and when that happens, this is a potent brew. It starts to look like Millet's Gleaners come to life and once there, it becomes something special. I can only imagine it will get tastier as the run goes along. LA Opera has a number of must-see productions this year, especially the rest of Achim Freyers's Ring and The Stigmatized. Add this one to the list because of Nino.

After the performance Maria and I took a cab to dine outdoors at Cafe Pinot, home to excellent food, delicious Manhattans, generous service, a lovely setting and the most expensive vegetarian entree you can ever imagine.

From there, it was time to roam low and we headed to La Cita for dancing. I was initially dismayed by the DJ, but as the night wore on and the bar took on a decidedly different vibe, the place became a serious good time and the music followed suit. Eventually, two women's roller derby teams showed up and took the place over, transforming it into an estrogen-fueled hothouse of Sapphic desire. Maria was pulled onto the stage with little if any coercion by a bevy of heavily tattooed hot Latinas in tight black t-shirts and tighter jeans and from that point on I was simply a pleased observer of a scene I don't think I'll ever forget, regardless of the copious amount of bourbon consumed that evening.

The evening ended with brunch at Bottega Louie, where our waiter Rob, doing his best Keanu Reeves impersonation, proceeded to tell us his name three times without once asking us what we wanted. Thankfully Jamie, a professional waiter who wasn't on drugs, stepped in to save the day, and the we were served a most pleasant meal.

And then it was time to return. So we did. She to her town, and me to mine. Just like in the movies.

John Legend at the Greek Theater

The Minister's rebellious daughter and I have been acquainted for seventeen years now, having first met when I served her a cup of coffee during her first year in college. She's changed, as have I, but when you know someone that long it is often difficult to take in the complete picture of the present- one is left with impressions delivered into compartments created in the past . That past always feels present as a space and time we both occupy and yet obviously no longer do. About a year ago we became "theater companions" to take advantage of one of the half-dozen things we have in common after all these years. There may be more, but of these I am certain- the rest remain nebulous as she has always been a creature whose design and internal workings were somewhat unfathomable to me and remain so to this day.

Nevertheless, she's smart, funny, likes bourbon and I like spending time in her company, so when she asked me at the last minute if I would take the place of someone else and accompany her to see John Legend at the Greek I said yes, even though my knowledge of his music is thin and I can't say I ever thought of remedying that.

The Minister's rebellious daughter and I descended the stairs and entered a crowded BART platform to make our way across the bay to the Berkeley campus. The weather was perfect for a concert at one of the few decent outdoor venues in the Bay Area. Ascending the stairs on the other side, we shared a pizza and a salad at Jupiter, which was as crowded as the BART station, a situation made even less pleasant by a waitress who possessed no skills for the job and an over amplified bluegrass band performing on the courtyard. The restaurant appeared full top-to bottom with with people eager to make various impressions on their companions- low-cut dresses, too-loud repartee, snuggles and the unique, deliberate anti-ostentation found nowhere else but in Berkeley.

Sunday night presented a perfect, warm summer sky. We missed the opener, Legend's brother Vaughn Anthony, but made it into the bowl as Arie started her set. Arie delivered a set of acoustic-oriented soul that took more inspiration from Odetta Holmes than Stevie Wonder, though Arie mentioned Stevie more than once as an influence and inspiration. Her voice is beautiful, but the set was marred by a poor sound mix even though we sat near the mixing board. Arie has good enough material that she doesn't need to implore the audience to "listen to the words" of her songs, which made her come across as an artist with less confidence in her work than she should at this point. Besides, I don't care to be told how to watch or listen to a performance. It's the performer's job to make me want to know what those words are because the song is compelling enough to pay attention to them.

Performing Sade's "Pearls" and Michael Jackson's "Human Nature" along with most of her better known songs including "I Am Not my Hair," her set was enthusiastically received by the audience, including the older, happy "we love India because of that song where she says she doesn't shave her legs and neither do we" female couple seated to our immediate right.

During the set she played the guitar, flute and keyboards and turned a simple sheet and a well-placed fan into an arresting, dramatic prop. This was Arie's last gig on the Legend tour, and at the end of the set she brought her entire road crew onto the stage to introduce and thank them. Arie's mother was part of this group, and she told the crowd India would be signing stuff like 40$ T-shirts after the show and that her daughter was a genius. I can't vouch for that one way or the other, but I will say India. Arie's mother was the most beautiful woman on the stage for the entire night (and all three of Legend's back-up singers are drop-dead-gorgeous). Who knew?

After her set I went to have a cigarette and was accosted by two young women in their twenties who took deep interest in my relationship with the Minister's daughter, though she was getting another round of beers and was nowhere to be seen. Justine and Lorelei, two young women recently drawn to the big city from Eureka to work as au pairs or nannies or some other such job, providing them with just enough money and easy access to get them into plenty of fun, the kind they'll never share with the eventual father of their children, whom they'll probably meet at the Abbey Tavern or Little Shamrock. Lorelei claimed she had a boyfriend in Pennsylvania and asked me if I liked skinny women- the connecting thread between the statement and the question eluded me at the moment, but I answered in the negative. Later on, during Legend's set, I looked down and noticed activity the boyfriend in Pennsylvania would likely find very disheartening. At the time, Legend was singing a song admonishing lovers to behave themselves. I do love small ironies like that- they're little serendipitous moments reminding us the devil likes to have fun with humans- we're such easy prey. There was an invitation extended to me to attend a barbecue for the following day which was politely accepted and not followed up on.

John Legend began his set from the middle of the audience with an acapella version of Bob Marley's "Redemption Song." It was quite a bit of showmanship, yet came across as a sincere and generous entrance that pretty much put the audience in the palm of his hand for the entire set. Legend inserted a couple of self-aggrandizing moments he didn't need, referring to himself or his music in the third person- as if he was James Brown or something. This only reminded the audience (or at least me) that he's no James Brown, nor one of the few people who can, whether sincerely or ironically, call themselves out in a performance like that. He's also not not as natural a performer as his stature would indicate.

However, the man does have stage presence and he can work a crowd. But his show has a number of weird distractions- the choreography of the back-up singers, who could be called "The Tasties," was trite, too fast, as if they were performing their synchronized moves to a track that was going twice as fast as that being played by the band. Estelle showed up for a smoking duet of "No Other Love" that put the Tasties to shame, and Arie and Vaughn both returned to share the stage with Legend during the set. The Vaughn number unfortunately didn't make me regret missing his act.

Legend also had a full screen behind him, projecting mod graphics or videos of the songs being played. These images often detracted from the the performance, especially during "Green Light," featuring Andre 3000 and a host of beautiful people dancing and having a good time at a party the audience was never going to attend, much less be invited to in real-life. It totally took the attention off the band onto Andre's grinning, larger than life face. Weird too, was the mutated Rolling Stones iconography during "Satisfaction" that not only stole the lips and tongue image, but also the Steel Wheels album artwork. Also distracting was a montage juxtaposing Legend (filmed to make Legend look as much like Marvin Gaye as possible) cavorting with a beautiful Latin woman with two people who were ostensibly a younger version of this couple, but the couple looked like Alexandre Rodrigues and Alice Braga from the film City of God and I kept thinking to myself when is Lil Ze' going to show up and spoil all this fun? And yes, there were also images of Michael Jackson on the screen during one number that segued into "Remember the Time." To me it was just weird- and a reminder that Legend is never going to be MJ. The pictures of MJ were all pre total-whiteface, scary mug-shot era- back when most of us all loved him, regardless of the whole Elephant Man and Bubbles the chimp shenanigans.

Legend's strong points rest in his strong singing and songwriting abilities. To his credit he completely eschews the bleating, whiny nasal tone that has come to dominate R&B since Boys II Men burst onto the scene in the late eighties. Planting his feet firmly in the Philadelphia sound of the seventies, Legend's work looks back to when soul singers actually sang songs and fronted bands rather whined over the top of slick, over-produced beats. But here's the rub: as a performer, Legend doesn't measure up to the greats of the earlier eras and he's not a gifted enough performer to take soul and R&B to a new place.

His seven piece band is tight (especially the guitar player), but the band rocks more than it grooves. His horn section can whip out Horny Horns sound-alike riffs, but they can't touch the Mar-Keys for just being in the groove, and they should ditch the attempts at choreography- it just doesn't work. Legend sounds like a singer whose worked is only modeled on his predecessors- Otis Redding, Frankie Beverly, Teddy Pendergrass and of course Marvin, but it sounds like he's not too familiar with where their music came from - gospel and the blues. Strangley for one of the genre's leaders, Legend's neo-soul is curiously lacking heart. At moments, his music actually reminded me more of Bruce Hornsby's than of Marvin's- and while that's not necessarily a knock, that most definitely ain't a groove.

The Minister's daughter and I had bourbons after the show and discovered that BART's promise to run 24/7 while the Bay Bridge was closed was as much a fiction as the promise Lorelei made to the man in Pennsylvania. Thankfully we caught the last train back to the city, finishing off the night at Lefty's- a place whose sad decline merits its own post, which I shall indeed one day write.

Cominciamo!

The coming week marks the end of what has been a listless summer.

Wednesday night is the opening gala of the San Francisco Symphony, which I'll be attending for the first time courtesy of a kindly extended invitation. Lang Lang will perform Prokofiev's 3rd piano concerto and MTT has programmed waltzes by Liszt, Ravel and Rodgers to round out the evening. I've only seen Lang Lang once before and I wasn't impressed by his flamboyant bludgeoning, but perhaps this time will be different. My expectations are minimal, as musicianship is said to take a back seat to glitz and glamour at this event. I'm curious to see if this is true or merely the grumblings of those priced out of a concert that doubles as the opening night of the San Francisco social season. Nevertheless, it should be an interesting evening of people-watching and eaves-dropping in a milieu I rarely visit .

On Friday much of this same crowd will make their way across the street for San Francisco Opera's opening night, where a strong cast will perform Il Trovotore, the blustery opening of which seems a perfect fit for the evening. The "Anvil Chorus" will undoubtedly remind some in the audience of certain procedures endured over the summer in their quest to reverse the aging process and they'll undoubtedly walk out of the War Memorial humming the tune, unlikely to return to the building until San Francisco Ballet's opening night. One has to wonder at the wisdom of gathering the wealthiest denizens of San Francisco in one building on September 11th, just because tradition dictates the event be held on the second Friday of September. Has the thought crossed anyone else's mind besides my own that real-life Azucenas lurk among us? Not that I'm paranoid mind you, but stride la vampa and in Trovatore, fate's a bitch. I'll be attending the performance on the 16th instead. Besides, I wasn't invited.


Thankfully I'll be in LA that evening, attending a special tour of the Mt. Wilson observatory if it hasn't burned to the ground.

The next day is the opening of LA Opera's season, featuring another strong cast performing Donizetti's L'Elisir d'Amore. Nino Machaidze, the Georgian beauty who bears more than a passing resemblance to Angelina Jolie and is already being hyped as the next Netrebko, will make her US debut as Adina. Barihunk Nathan Gunn is Belcore. Two Italians who greatly impressed me in San Francisco over the past year, Giuseppe Filianoti (an excellent turn in last year's Lucia) and Giorgio Caoduro (Belcore in L'Elisir) round out the cast. Caoduro is substituting for Ruggero Raimondo, who has just pulled out due to injury. The sex-appeal of this cast is almost palpable and perfectly suited for LA's opening night, where the well-dressed crowd spills across the Music Center to enjoy the warm weather and each other's outfits.

Summer is over. Let the pleasures of fall begin.