Cover that woman!

Molly Fillmore was flown in from Arizona yesterday to replace an ailing Nadja Michael as the lead in San Francisco Opera's Salome. General Director David Gockley, in his own inimitable way, took great pains to pronounce Michael's name correctly, and then told the audience we were about to hear and see "Molly Dill," even though he had a note in his hand. Thanks David- the season has been so strong thus far I haven't been able to say anything snarky about you lately, so I appreciate this opportunity and I'm sure Ms. Dill, I mean Ms. Fillmore, will get over it. I suppose there's a good reason there wasn't a cover already in place, but maybe that's besides the point.

Since I was at the previous performance it was a great opportunity to see what performers bring to a role and how they put an individual stamp on it. For the people who will only get to see last night's version, you saw a nice performance but missed out on a great one. Fillmore's Salome was well sung and she did an amazing job of learning the blocking and other elements of the production on such short notice I suspect she was the cover and was released early to prepare for her upcoming performances of the role with Arizona Opera. Overall, Fillmore did an excellent job in what must have been difficult circumstances. She has a good, steady voice that sometimes strained at the top but was mostly clean and easily heard.

Fillmore however, is no Nadja Michael. What was creepy and unsettling on Tuesday brought laughter and titters on Friday. Completely gone was the tension and psychological freak out of Michael's portrayal, which was replaced with a good voice and a sincere performance which had the unfortunate result of turning Strauss' lurid masterpiece into camp. Fillmore can sing the role, but Michael embodied it. The difference in impact between the two performances couldn't be greater. Imagine seeing Monster and then re watching it with Reese Witherspoon as Aileen instead of Charlize Theron. What was almost unwatchable on Tuesday was just another night at the opera on Friday, albeit a bloody one.

Fillmore also had an effect on Kim Begley's Herod as well, who didn't seem as afraid of this stepdaughter, nor was he as pervy toward her. His singing remained strong and fluid and Greer Grimsley sounded even better last night than he did earlier in the week. Fillmore performed the dance scene with more modesty than Michael, but did it justice.

On second viewing, this time from the balcony instead of the orchestra, the sinkhole stage's impact is diminished from higher up, though the blood on the floor makes an impression not seen from the ground floor. The orchestra sounded fine for the most part except for the last section of the dance when things seemed to momentarily fall apart, as if Luisotti was trying to follow what was going on rather than lead it. This was also my first encounter with the Operavision screens in the balcony. They're pretty distracting and the subtitles on them are unnecessary, but the close-ups of the singers faces are nice to have from the cheap seats. Overall I think I would prefer to see a performance without them- unless Nadja Michael was in it.

Kill that woman!

The best art lingers like an aftertaste in your mouth, sometimes an unpleasant one. San Francisco Opera's current production of Richard Strauss' Salome is art on that level. It left me with a visceral feeling of having witnessed the perverse melt-down of a sexually abused and confused young girl. I can't say it was fun to watch, but it was thrilling in a weird, icky way. What this production does, especially what soprano Nadja Michael does, is bring back the ick-factor to an opera that through time and changing social mores has lost the ability to shock and pummel an audience. This Salome will leave you feeling slimed, and the only thing I can compare it to is the 1999 production of Wozzeck which I found exhilarating but had half the audience walk out before it was over.

Due to it's complexity it's probably impossible to stage a perfect version of Salome. Somewhere concessions will be made, be they musical or theatrical and this production certainly has its flaws, but the overall impact works on almost every level. Allow me to dispense with the negatives first.

SFO's Music Director Nicola Luisotti, conducting a German opera for the first time, certainly made some interesting and (I would posit often wrong-headed) musical choices. At times he slowed the tempo to a point where the singers were noticeably ahead of the music, making them sound almost physically incapable of holding back to the degree required by the conductor. At other moments Luisotti managed to expand the score to almost orgiastic beauty- words I would have never thought I would write about a Strauss work that didn't contain the words "Der" and "Rosenkavalier" in its title. Some passages were rendered with a strange fullness that was so effective I have to say for the first time Luisotti actually got me interested in what he was doing with a score. A second hearing will reveal whether this was actually a brilliant stroke on Luisotti's part or just the genius of Strauss writing for an orchestra that is ridiculously large and I'll take that second helping this Friday and let you know. It was never dull, though it often sounded weird and at times simply wrong and the cumulative effect was a potent, heady brew.

People seem to either love or loathe Nadja Michael in the notoriously difficult title role, but count me on the side of the enthusiasts. In his Chronicle review, Joshua Kosman repeated the aphorism by the great Austrian soprano Leonie Rysanek who said: [there are] those who can sing it, those who can dance it and those who should be shot. While Michael may not sing the part to satisfy every taste (especially those dunderheads who think opera is only about the voice- hello? if that's what you think you should only attend lieder recitals and stay away from an art form that is by definition a multi-faceted mixture of music and drama) she's compelling, and more importantly, believable, in the role. Michael can sing it, she can dance it, and you understand why Herod has her killed at the end- she is just too crazed (and powerful) to be left alive. Nadja Michael's Salome is a force that will obviously destroy anything in its wake.

Greer Grimsley's Jokanaan looked and sounded the part of the religious fanatic John the Baptist. This is important because Salome's lust for the prophet is clearly spelled out in very physical terms and Grimsley embodies the descriptions, even if Luisotti's conducting left the musical side of the equation somewhere else entirely. Strauss' music for Jokanaan, featuring a slew of Wagnerian motifs, was largely ineffective and lacking in fervor, which would have only added to Grimsley's portrayal. His performance was the one most marred by Luisotti's odd tempos, but he managed to rise above it, creating a plausible focal point for the teenage girl's unbridled desire. When Herod's henchman had him attached to leashes, the overt S&M implications between the prophet and his god were laid bare for the audience to judge. Again, the ick factor was kicked into overdrive during these moments.

Kim Begley's Herod contained the right mix of pomp and pediastric perversity, though Luisotti often buried his voice in the music. His voice reminded me of the classic Gerhard Stolze recording under Solti, as did Garrett Sorenson's Narraboth. Both of these characterizations contained the lust and irrationality conveyed in the score, though Narraboth's suicide was unfortunately a dramatically uninteresting moment- one of the few missed opportunities in the staging that could have allowed the power of irrational desire to be realized onstage in its most base form. Irina Mishura and her cleavage made a definite impact as Herodias, though without the latter she may not have been as noticeable a presence onstage.

Speaking of cleavage, if anyone can prove Nadja Michael has not had breast augmentation surgery I'll buy you a drink. Fault the costumers for putting Michael in something that showed off curves nowhere to be found in the natural order of things. Also fault the costumers for putting the Jews in offensively stereotyped wardrobes of leering Hasidim when no one else onstage is called out in such blatant terms based on their religion. Yes, these kinds of things distract me, but allow me to move on to the staging.

Although Brian at Out West Arts found it be a boring, cheap box, the stage reminded me of a filthy sink that looked lifted from the set of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre re-make. Or an exploding asshole. Either way, it's a pretty horrific thing to look at for 100 minutes and combined with the evocative lighting it's an appropriate sink[shit]hole of inapropriate desire. That all of the action takes place on a moonlit circle in front of it only adds to the opressive grotesqueness of what unfolds.

So finally, permit me to return to Ms. Michael and what makes this production mandatory viewing, even if you hate it, which my companion did (labeling it among the "five worst" things she's ever seen ). In roughly 90 minutes Michael's Salome undergoes a transformation from a girl who isn't innocent by any standard (the adults around her have already stripped that away), but still possesses youth's innocent desire and curiosity to a woman having a full-blown psychotic meltdown expressed in sexual violence. Often misinterpreted as a nymphomaniac, Salome's actions reflect what she's absorbed from those around her. She's not a nympho- she's the result of being a sexual pawn and the (inappropriate) object of desire. Michael expresses this in a fearless, bold performance from start to finish. Salome's ten minutes with Jokanaan's dripping head is almost unwatchable but you can't take your eyes from her- and during this segment Michael's voice soared through the score.

When Herod can't watch/ take anymore of what he had a hand in creating and yells "Kill that woman!" in this production what follows is a mercy killing.

The Abduction from the Seraglio

Most books on opera generally agree there are three composers whose influence on the art is immeasurable compared to all others: Mozart, Wagner & Verdi. I've never been able to come around to accepting Mozart as part of that triumvirate and I should confess his operas in general don't excite me. Sure, there are wonderful moments and if done well they provide distinct pleasures (especially Cosi), but I've just never understood the constant chatter I've heard from numerous quarters that Mozart was an operatic genius of equal caliber (if not higher) to the other two greats. I've read it, but I don't hear it. This impression goes back to the first time I saw Idomeneo and listened to Idomeneo go on tragically about having to kill his own son Idamante while the music went fa-la-la behind him. Many of you may consider me a heathen (or perhaps an ignorant boob) because of this, but there you have it.

So it shouldn't surprise that when The Abduction from the Seraglio (Die Entfuhrung aus dem Serail) showed up on this year's San Francisco Opera schedule I knew it was the one production I would be least interested in, despite having a solid cast featuring the wonderful Mary Dunleavy. Last night was the final performance and I caught it from the balcony, which like last Friday, was unbearably warm and full of yokels. My opinion of Mozart remains unchanged, though the production wasn't bad and Mozart fans probably found much to enjoy in it.

As Constanze, Dunleavy hasn't received the raves during this run which usually accompany her performances and I have to admit it was the first time I've seen her when she wasn't captivating. She wasn't bad mind you, but having seen her before, especially in LA Opera's outstanding Der Zwerg, she sets the bar pretty high and last night she came up just a bit short. The rest of the cast did very well, especially Anna Christy as Blonde and Peter Rose as Osmin. Matthew Polenzani, Andrew Bidlack and Charles Shaw Robinson all sounded fine and performed with enthusiasm, though there wasn't much to get enthusiastic about.

The stage (a co-production with Chicago's Lyric Opera) is set up as a theater and while it's attractive, it doesn't really work to any advantage in the 2nd and 3rd acts so the action on it becomes pretty static despite the fact that there's a lot of activity taking place on it. Part of this stems from the music, which always starts in one place and ends up returning to it. Over and over again. Conductor Giuseppe Finzi led the orchestra in a straightforward manner that moved the action along without ever taking it to anyplace thrilling, though there were plenty of pretty spots and some comedic moments.

Abduction contains a lot of "singspiel" dialogue, which was performed in English. I don't have a problem with this choice at all, though I think it just gives further weight to the idea that the entire opera should be sung in English. The whole thing has kind of a sheepish air about it, as though the entire cast is well aware they are performing this middling Mozart work between two other productions that are more engaging and worthwhile- Un Fille du Regiment and Salome. At least that was my impression, born perhaps at my total surprise at how delightful Fille was and the strongly favorable reviews on Salome. Abduction just feels a bit like a soft spot between two more substantial offerings and though this is unfortunate, is does testify to the surprising overall strength of SFO's season thus far.

Bad waiter, bad Nellie

Sometimes expectations are exceeded. Sometimes they're not. This past weekend contained both for me. Friday night they were exceeded by an exceptionally enjoyable performance of La Fille du Regiment at SF Opera that was much better than I thought it would be. As I mentioned in the previous post, it really was a delight.

Saturday night the Ginger, Mademoiselle MG and I went to celebrate MG's birthday at Greens, the City's legendary vegetarian restaurant at Fort Mason. Overall, the food was excellent and between the three of us we sampled a large quantity of items available on the prix fixe menu and thankfully the birthday girl's choices were the best, though nothing was a disappointment.

The service however, was appallingly bad. Once we were seated (close to half an hour after our reservation), we were there for another two and a half hours. Not that we were in a hurry in any way, but the long amount of time spent at the table was not because we were having a long, leisurely dinner but because our waiter just really didn't care about our table at all. It was really odd, especially since he had time to tell his life story to the tables around us (we couldn't help but observe this). He took almost half an hour to arrive at our table, and when he finally did, it was to drop off the amuse bouche without a word of introduction or any word at all. I asked if he was our waiter, which he affirmed, and was about to leave when I asked if we could order some drinks, which seemed to annoy him. The level of poor service remained throughout the meal, with only the arrival of the check being handled quickly. I left a tip that would cover the host's and busser's payout, and no more. Too bad, because the setting and meal were great, but I don't think I'd ever return.

Thankfully the company was terrific and we enjoyed ourselves despite the terrible waiter. I should add that MG has the ability to summon some interesting forces around her and the bad waiter thing has happened to us previously. So while she may have the uncanny ability to bring unusually warm and sunny days anytime she arrives in San Francisco, she may also be a magnet for seriously bad waiters, though when we had dinner at Sauce on Friday the service was excellent (and by a woman).

Sunday night we went to see Nellie McKay at Yoshi's. MG really liked the show, but I didn't, so since it's my blog, I get to write the comments. First of all, The first few songs were done in a consistent whiny pitch that reminded me of someone doing a bad impersonation of Dido at a piano bar (not that I dislike Dido- I just disliked the constant whine). McKay bills herself as quirky, and she is, but for me the  Doris Day on crack routine (which is supposed to be a tribute to Day) wore thin quickly, and some of the arrangements were just awful. Had  I been alone I would have bailed after the third song. At the end, McKay switched vocal gears into a Rickie Lee Jones mode that worked well on the last couple of numbers, but it was too late to win me over. The rest of the audience seemed pretty pleased by the show- so maybe it's just me, but I thought McKay's show was too much shtick, too little chops.

Filles

Mademoiselle MG flew into town to celebrate her birthday and joined Dr. Hank and me for dinner and the opera. Comfortably esconced in the corner of Sauce's attractive backroom we had a nice meal beforehand featuring one of the best bruschettas I've ever tasted. It was a harbinger of things to come.

The Mademoiselle has the ability to somehow turn the weather warm when she arrives and Friday was no exception, causing the balcony of the War Memorial Opera House to be almost unbearably warm that evening. Thankfully we were seeing La Fille du Regiment and not Parsifal. With the Dr. in a dapper suit (he insisted on being at his sartorial best for his first encounter with Diana Damrau) and the Mademoiselle in sexy schoolgirl attire we watched the show in the sweltering, completely full balcony, which on this evening contained two women seated directly in front of us who somehow mistook the opera house for a Heart concert- at least that's how it looked to me through their massive 80's-era Nancy Wilson fake blonde hair. Seated in front of them was tall jerk who leaned forward constantly. Listen bub, don't lean forward at all- it blocks the vision of the people seated behind you. Why are people such boobs? I had to hiss at him to sit back since the blondies wouldn't for some reason, though they thought it perfectly reasonable to switch seats with one another during the performance so one could see better. The man seated next to me insisted on being an obnoxious ass too, conducting along with his finger and humming at times. So you know the opera? You can keep that to yourself, you know. It's okay- your date isn't going to be impressed and it just annoys the rest of us.

Donizetti has never been a favorite composer of mine, mostly because although he wrote great arias, I've never found his melodies that memorable nor his music to be very inventive or exciting (one exception being the sextet in Lucia).  However after seeing four excellent stagings of his operas in a row over the past year and a half, I guess I'm going to have to acknowledge that when cast well, Donizetti can be great.

Director Laurent Pelly's production of La Fille du Regiment, previously quartered  in Vienna, Covent Garden and the Met before arriving here in San Francisco is really an unqualified delight, even better than last season's very tasty Elixir. The cast is terrific and I really liked the sets, which looked great from the balcony- large maps of Europe that are laid to form the stage's terrain during the first act, to be replaced in the second by a parlor that doesn't draw attention to itself but serves the action and the setting well without being too minimal.

Diana Damrau makes her local debut as Marie, the girl of title, who has been raised by an army regiment. Damrau's voice is exquisite, but what makes her such a success here is her comic timing and the physicality she invests into the role. She's a tomboy sprite who bounces all over the stage while whipping off bel canto runs that remained consistent all evening. Until I read it in the program I was unaware Damrau was doing the role for the first time. This is pretty surprising because she looked totally at home with it, as if she had been performing it for a long time. The entire production has a fluidity to it making it appear this particular ensemble has been together for awhile- while there is almost a hyperkinetic level of activity at times, everything just unfolds seamlessly across the stage.

Juan Diego Florez's Tonio, a role for which he's becoming famous, was well-sung and lovely to listen to, even though his voice is not large enough to fill the War Memorial. He dispatched the famous string of high Cs in "Ah! mes ami" with ease, though it wasn't the show-stopping moment anyone familiar with last season's Met broadcast would have hoped for. Both he and Damrau had their best moments in the 2nd act's quieter, more reflective moments- his came during "Pour me rapprocher de Marie," perhaps the most satisfying of the evening's highlights.

The supporting roles were all solidly cast, with Bruno Pratico's Sulpice especially standing out. Meredith Arwady's Marquise and Sheila Nadler's Duchess had their comic timing down perfectly. Conductor Andriy Yurkevych, making his U.S. debut, kept things moving along briskly without drawing too much attention to the orchestra and always allowing the singers to be heard- perhaps the best way to conduct Donizetti.

Four or five times the Duchess barked out some of the singspiel lines in English, which I enjoyed and the Dr. thought annoying. It reminded me of the fact that operas used to be sung in the native tongues of wherever they were being performed. I for one, though I'm sure many would consider this blasphemy, wouldn't mind seeing this practice return for certain types of operas- namely comedies, because I think it would be more effective to actually hear the funny lines rather than read them in the surtitles. Sure, the translations would have to be suitable, but I think it's worth considering, especially since very few people in an American audience understand French, Italian or German and very few people have the time to acquaint themselves with the libretto in depth beforehand.

After the performance, which everyone in the house seemed to truly enjoy, we made our way for drinks and conversation to the Pilsner, where it always seems more difficult to get a drink than it should be, regardless of whether or not one is seated at the bar. The barback however, does make a pefect Negroni. So perfect in fact, that we were all a bit surprised to find ourselves still there at closing time.

Boring!

Chad Newsome and I had dinner and drinks and caught up before heading over to Davies for more of their season long experiment in conservative programming. This week's concert may represent the epitome (or nadir, depending on your preferences) of a lot of very conservative programs on this year's San Francisco Symphony schedule.  Last week's concert easily overcame this challenge but tonight's did not. To put it plainly, I found it tedious in the same way some people would react to a Phillip Glass marathon.

Itzhak Perlman made his annual visit as soloist and guest conductor. A few years ago I attended another of these visits and left with the impression that having the soloist also conduct is just a bad idea. Some endeavors should just not be available for multi-tasking. But I decided to give it another shot because I like to think I can be wrong or maybe I just was there on "an off night." After tonight, I remain firm in my opinion, but maybe Davies is just too big a house for this type of performance. In a more intimate hall it may have worked better. But there won't be a third time- I could have watched "Glee" tonight.

The program began with Bach's Violin Concerto No. 2, featuring Perlman in the roles mentioned above, a harpsichord, and twenty-some odd strings. Perlman's playing never really excelled and he didn't really stand out from the orchestra- instead, it seemed like a nice performance of Bach in its most rote, perfunctory form.
After this, more strings came out to perform Elgar's Introduction and Allegro for String Quartet and String Orchestra. The Symphony hasn't performed this work since 1930 and it has some interesting elements, including an engaging fugue, and I liked the piece though its placement on the program lent it the air of a novelty rather than something more serious. It proved to be the highlight of the night from where I sat though it didn't leave me with a desire to experience it again anytime soon.

After intermission came Tchaikovsky's Sixth Symphony, Pathetique. Let me state that the audience appeared to love this, gave the orchestra and Perlman a standing ovation and the orchestra applauded Perlman vigorously as well. However, what I heard a total mess of hasty, fast tempos, mushy horns, an unfocused string section, bombast from the percussion and some very nice solos from Carey Bell and Stephen Paulson. The concert wasn't terrible, like Ashkenazy's visit last season, but it was boring.
The entire month features guest conductors, and I'm hoping things pick up in the next couple of weeks with Osmo Vanska's and Seymon Bychkov's arrival. They too, will be conducting more of the standard fare, but at least it's Beethoven, Sibelius and Rachmaninoff, along with Adams, Salinen, Schumann and Dutileaux. Coupled with some prominent and promising soloists and some debuts, there's plenty of great music to look forward to in the next few weeks.

Siegfried stumbles

Of the myriad challenges present in staging a Ring cycle, none is probably more difficult than coming up with a Siegfried that engages the audience for its duration. From my perspective the problem lies in a title character who is not only unsympathetic, but is the most uninteresting character of any significance in the entire cycle. LA Opera's production, seen on Sunday October 11th, lays the problem bare and can't overcome the challenge despite the continued genius of director Achim Freyer's monumental, visionary staging and some impressive efforts from many quarters. In fact, Freyer's conception magnifies the problematic elements of the Siegfried character.

Among the Ring's main characters Siegfried is the only one without any inner conflict. He is all id, all the time- an adolescent with corresponding appetites whose only problem is that he didn't know mommy and daddy. There is an opportunity to make him real, to make him interesting to us, as Chereau's centenary production proved, but Freyer's intensely psychological staging renders him a two-dimensional comic strip, who looks like Thor or Aquaman drawn by Matt Groening. Notwithstanding John Treleaven's ability to project some personality through the blue muscle suit and Bart Simpson dreadlocks, it would take a heldontenor of superhuman abilities to make this Siegfried compelling for almost five hours and alas, Treleavan is a mere human like the rest of us. His voice was serviceable without ever sounding remarkable, but he did have the stamina to make it through the final act's duet with Linda Watson's Brunnhilde, though she overpowered him significantly.

Siegfried takes place on a running track, with the characters poised waiting on their starting blocks. As Freyer notes in the program, the staging conveys the condition of waiting. Siegfried awaits the sword Notung, an object, while everyone else is awaiting a person or an event to transpire. Setting up the drama this way, having the hero wait for a thing while everyone else awaits something or someone, is where the staging goes awry. For once Siegfried has his sword, he's merely walking the track toward a destination he has no hand in creating. In other words, Siegfried, the center of the action, is a dullard. Given that everything else surrounding him is fascinatingly and vividly alive, this makes Freyer's depiction of the hero an especially frustrating one. How this will impact Gotterdammerung should prove interesting, but I suspect my sympathies may be on the side of the Gibichungs by the time the it's all over.



So let's move on to the good news, because there are still plenty of things in this production to make it worth seeing. First of all, Graham Clark's Mime is superb in voice, diction and acting. Vitalij Kowaljow's Wanderer, after a shaky start that proved brief, turned in a magnetic performance both vocally and visually, growing better and more formidable with every scene. During the potentially static Q&A scene between Mime and the Wanderer, characters from the previous operas come out onstage as they are mentioned. This is brilliantly done and wholly mesmerizing, in effect creating visual leitmotivs for the audience to match those in the score. The elaborate visual world Freyer constructs plays out beautifully across the stage, creating the first of what will be quite a few gorgeous tableaus- Siegfried is the best-looking part of this Ring so far. During Wotan's final scene, Kowaljow invested an anger into his performance that was palpable. He's really grown into the role and I hope to see him as Wotan in future productions.

Jill Grove's Erda was again brilliantly sung, though her costume unfortunately reminded me of the defaced statue of the Virgin Mary in The Exorcist. I was sitting much closer to the stage for this performance than I was during Das Rheingold, so if it's the same costume it's more disturbing up close. Eric Halfvarson's Fafner and Oleg Bryjak's Alberich were well-sung. Stacey Tappan's Woodbird, in another freaky costume (the red nipples were a bit distracting) was adequate for this performance.

Finally, though Linda Watson's Brunnhilde was arresting visually, I can't say I'm a fan of her voice, which has a tendency to shriek at the top. The staging during the third act however, is brilliant, with Brunnhilde's emergence from her protective armor very evocative of the power and strength of her character. As she awakens from her sleep, at the rear of the stage her horse Grane comes back to life as well, creating another memorable tableau.

James Conlon's conducting chose clarity over vibrancy, with the forging scene particularly lacking the vehemence that anyone raised on the Solti recordings would long for. On the other hand, every nuance in the score was rendered with a clarity and dedication that distinctly brought every leitmotif out in the open, providing musical subtitles that almost rendered the surtitles unnecessary for those of us who don't speak German.

Das Rheingold still remains the high point of the cycle for me thus far, though I'll admit that may be due to it being my favorite among all operas. Siegfried doesn't quite live up the expectations Freyer has created in the two earlier chapters, but his vision remains fascinating and I wish I didn't have to wait until April to see Gotterdammerung. There is one performance left this coming weekend.

All photos by Monika Rittershaus, taken from LAOpera.com

The Dude takes a hit off the sheng

This past Saturday night I had my first encounter with Gustavo Dudamel leading the LA Phil. It won't be the last. Although it's difficult not to be skeptical of the dude and form a knee-jerk reaction against the ridiculous hype, I have to admit that it was one of the most exciting evenings in a concert hall I've experienced.

Dudamel walks into his post with some significant advantages- enormous goodwill from the surrounding community, an impressive biography, tremendous press, and most significantly, he's leading an orchestra that may be the finest in the country, thanks to his predecessor Esa-Pekka Salonen. Add to that mix one of the most amazing concert halls in the world, and you may understand why I was saying to myself during the concert "in five years this will be widely acknowledged as the finest orchestra in the country." Hyperbole? Sure it is, but that's the thought that came to my mind.

The concert began with the U.S. premiere of Unsuk Chin's Su (pronounced shu), a joint commission by the LA Phil and and two other organizations. Su is a one-movement concerto for Sheng (a Chinese mouth organ) and Orchestra. The soloist was Wu Wei, known around the world as one of the foremost players of the Sheng, an instrument that looks kind of like a bong made at home by a Tolkien fanatic with a bicycle horn sticking out of it. It has 37 pipes in it and the range of sound Wei created on it was more than impressive- it can mimic many instruments and also sound unlike anything else, with some sounds approximating things usually created electronically- at least in my experience.

The orchestra contained a phalanx of percussion, with a number of instruments I've never seen, including a tom that had three balls spinning around its inner perimeter and a piano whose strings were played but the keys of which I believe remained untouched through the performance. It was quite an interesting piece as the interplay between the sheng and the orchestra didn't follow the usual competition format of a standard concerto but instead became a conversation held in a number of musical languages. Wei's performance impressed me greatly, though having no prior experience with the instrument, I'm responding to it as one might view a talented magician's performance for the first time. The rest of the orchestra responded well to Dudamel's conducting, with the strings especially making a significant contribution to the success of the whole.

After the intermission came Mahler's first, which Dudamel conducted without a score. With the SF Symphony's Mahler project now in its hundredth year (at least it seems like that sometimes), I've grown a little weary of the composer, but Dudamel and the orchestra gave such a vivid account it was like discovering the pleasures of the composer all over again. The first movement was taken at a languid pace, with Dudamel wringing out every sound of nature in the score. A round of applause greeted it's conclusion, which was repeated again at the ending of the second movement. LA may be at the vanguard of going back to the past as far as applause between movements goes, or it may be that Dudamel is attracting a lot of first timers to Disney Hall who don't know they're supposed to sit on their hands until it's all over, but I found the applause to be spontaneous and welcome.

There's viola player in the lead chair that I thought was going to fall out of her seat during the scherzo, she played with such wanton vigor. The rest of the orchestra, while not as animated, followed along with clarity and gusto. The funeral march dragged a bit in the middle section, perhaps with too much solemnity, as if Dudamel wanted to make it as dramatic as possible.

The final movement was taken at full throttle and when the horns rose to their feet there was a triumphant blast I could literally feel in the floor beneath me. It was thrilling to hear (and feel) feel the music performed with such gusto. While Michael Tilson Thomas has recently conducted Mahler with a solemnity and gravitas in most of the recent San Francisco Symphony performances to the point where it feels like time to move on, Dudamel (at least tonight) brought the composer back out into the sunshine.

Dudamel and the orchestra received an ovation the volume of which I have only heard at a rock concert. It was stunningly loud and boisterous and it lasted until Dudamel had to lead the orchestra offstage so they could go home or next door to Patina to have a drink.

There is something special and unique taking place at Disney Hall right now and if you can experience it in person I encourage you to do so. What Salonen did with this orchestra is going to be written about and analyzed for a long time to come, as it represented the transformation of an American orchestra unlike any other. Now this same orchestra is going in a new direction, and the path looks like it's going to be serious fun.

Giving the whip to the warhorses

Last night Chad Newsome and I leisurely walked down Market Street, turning onto Grove as we made our way toward Davies Symphony Hall. At #155, a gallery for the San Francisco Arts Commission, we came across a rather odd-looking performance art installation that was about to get underway invloving a boxer, a canvas and a Rube Goldberg kind of Rock-em, Sock-em Robot contraption. Intrigued by the specter of violence, or at least absurdity, we waited to see what would happen next, as we were told it would be 9 rounds of the artist taking direct hits to the face by a glove-covered steel arm as he painted a picture that would somehow comment on or illuminate something about the masochistic nature of being an artist. Well, that last part is my own commentary.

As a small crowd gathered on the sidewalk peering in (we weren't allowed inside), a Beastie Boys tune was broadcast onto the street, people with cameras rolling came into the gallery, followed by the pugilist/artist. That familiar voice (the name of its owner escapes me) came over the speakers and said "Let's get ready to rumbleeeeeee!!!) and the crowd cheered the boxer.

Round one began with the a single brown line descending vertically down the canvas, followed by a direct blow straight to the face. It looked painful. It also looked pretty stupid, and after two more hits we decided there was more rewarding art to be experienced on the other side of Van Ness and off we went. I have no idea if the artist made it through all nine rounds, but supposedly, if he survived, there will be a rematch at the same ring this Friday night.

On paper the program for the San Francisco Symphony this evening looked so safe it could have been created by David Gockley. A Haydn symphony (No. 94, "Surprise"), the 2nd Brahms Piano Concerto and a comtemporary work by Brett Dean entitled "Carlo" which initially seemed like a half-hearted attempt to balance the ultra-conservative program with something for the under-50 crowd. I wanted to attend the concert because the impressive Yefim Bronfman was the soloist, though I wasn't exactly eager to hear any Brahms, as we had a surfeit of him in 2008 (including the same concerto).

I should have known better since it's been my consistent experience with the SFS that the least promising-looking programs (to me) often deliver unexpected delights and cause me to re-assess my opinions about composers or performers. Last night's concert certainly did that as far as Brahms is concerned, thanks to a magnificent performance by Bronfman and strong conducting from David Robertson that had the orchestra sounding like they rarely got a chance to play this stuff and were relishing every moment.

The evening began with Dean's "Carlo" which features nineteen string players accompanied by electronic samples and recordings. Robertson at first looked rather odd keeping time to the pre-recorded track, which raised the question in my mind of what exactly is the role of the conductor in such works, but Roberston made his presence felt as the strings weaved their way through this interesting 25-minute piece whose themes are based on murder and madrigals. It's creepy, with whispers and dark chants coming up through the speakers as the strings play notes that start together and then spread out to become different voices. Although it's completely unlike last spring's electronic/ live performance of Mason Bates' "The B-Sides,"  like the Bates piece "Carlo" shows that crossing genres and erasing the lines around what defines a live performance can yield some really interesting music.

Part of the reason I've maintained a reluctance to explore Haydn's music is that there is simply too much of it and his sound is so easily identified. If it sounds like a good Mozart piece you've never heard or an early Beethoven Symphony you can't quite nail down, then it's a pretty safe bet it's Haydn- whose style is the epitome of "Classical" form. But who has time to become intimately acquainted with a composer who wrote more than a hundred symphonies (104 to be precise), 76 quartets, 68 trios,  54 sonatas, 31 concertos, 24 operas and 16 masses alongside what must be at least a hundred other works? Please, I haven't even gotten through all of Wagner's operas and there are only thirteen of those. It's ridiculous, and unlike the inimatable Bach, whose prodigious output could take a lifetime to listen to and digest, Haydn's strengths were absorbed and improved upon by both Mozart and Beethoven. It's almost like listening to Chuck Berry instead of the Beatles, the Beach Boys or the Rolling Stones. A little Chuck Berry every now and again is a good thing, but his successors took what he built and greatly improved on it.

Yet the early masters can be great fun to play straight. They allow musicians to stretch their muscles on the basics. "Johnny B. Goode" has been covered by Elton John, NOFX, Judas Priest, Phish and Leif Garrett as well Hendrix, Elvis and the Beatles among too many others to list- because it's a classic of the form. So Haydn's "Surprise" symphony was given the Chuck Berry treatment it richly deserves and Roberston gave the orchestra a chance to flex their muscle. Under his vigourous control they punched out a performance that ended with a musical exclamation point I've seldom heard. The fact that the entire orchestra was absolutely beaming when they were done says more than any words I could use to decribe it. It was classical music 101 delivered with total committment and pleasure.

Which brings us to Bronfman and Brahms. Last spring, Bronfman was here to perform Berg's daunting Piano Sonata and it was one of the most fascinating, epic performances I've ever witnessed so I was eager to see him again, though another performance of the Brahms' 2nd Piano Concerto held no excitement for me. But together, Bronfman, Robertson and the orchestra made this warhorse come to vivid life. During the first two movements, with their accompanying large, dramatic, distinctly German walls of sound, it seemed like Bronfman just wanted to bludgeon it, giving a heavy hand to almost every part, really emphasizing the Romantic elements in the score and I write that without complaint. A couple of analogies come to mind, both films, which feature Charlotte Rampling and Isabelle Huppert as the female leads, and I should probably leave it at that.

It was a pleasant surprise when Bronfman received hearty (and sincere) applause after those two movements because if there was ever a time to do away with the convention of silence between movements, this was that time. Roberston, smiling over his shoulder, said "It will give him time to catch his breath!" His off-the-cuff remark reflected the spontenaeity and vigor of the performance.

The Adante, featuring superb playing by cellist Peter Wyrick, was simply a gorgeous exchange of melodic ideas between the two instruments that slowly spread through the rest of the orchestra, which also had very strong outings from the winds and horns, with special props to flutist Tim Day. Bronfman demonstrated he can go as light on the keys as he can heavy, playing the movement with a surprising, though welcome, delicacy that still retained a sense of deliberate control throughout. The fourth movement started in flash and concluded in a robust flourish that again had the orchestra smiling and hearty ovations for Bronfman.

Little Green Men

There must be some "Spinal Tap"-like confusion going on with Enanitos Verdes' current tour of the U.S.. Their original drummer, Daniel Piccolo, isn't playing with the band and the dates and locations of their shows on their website are wrong. Needless to say, I was  surprised to see they were scheduled to play gigs in Colorado and California on the same night (according to Ticketmaster), even if the California show wasn't scheduled to start until 11:00 pm.

In between, a show suddenly popped up in Salt Lake City, of all places, which seemed really random to me. Then the Colorado show was cancelled [ I was told today the cancellation may have been due to a blizzard that would have prevented the band from making it to Colorado], the Salt Lake gig went on (which was great, according to Mademoiselle MG), and the next night, after confirming the show was actually happening, I rode my motorcycle toward a San Jose club I'd never heard of to catch the band. In my mind I had this image of a sparse crowd at a show that seemed put on at the last minute, so I was pleasantly surprised to see the parking lot full and a large crowd lined up to get inside.

The club, The Bay Area Palladium (in Sunnyvale), is a massive old-school style Latin disco and seems a world away from the storied Fillmore in San Francisco (where I last saw EV deliver a blistering set to a full house last November). This worked out rather well though, because the it felt like "old home" night. Before the band took the stage, the dj was playing a curious mix of tunes that included the Doors, Huey Lewis and the News, some serious rock en Espanol, disco, reggaeton and somehow he made it all work, keeping the crowd dancing enthusiastically until the band came on. I should also mention that there were free tacos available to everyone and the bouncers/security folks were the nicest I've ever seen. So thumb's up to the Palladium!

Shortly after 11, the band hit the tiny stage (too small to fit keyboards on- Horacio Gomez was working the soundboard instead of playing onstage with the band). Marciano Cantero looked like he had just woken up and Felipe Staiti looked like the long ride from Salt Lake had taken a slight toll on him as well. Nevertheless, they ripped into a well-played set that lasted almost two hours. Given the late hour, an extended acoustic portion fit in well, featuring "El Guerrero" and Del Cairo a Paris" among the half-dozen tunes the band performed this way.

They also played rousing versions of "Tequila,""La Muralla Verde" and of course "Lamento Boliviano." Something that resembled a friendlier version of a mosh pit formed in the middle of the floor, and when "Mil Horas" started one guy sprayed everyone with beer out of sheer exuberance. As usual, the audience sang along with every song, at times as loud as the band.

I've long thought EV was kind of like an Argentinian version of the Police, only with much better songs and without the ridiculous posing and arrogance of Sting, and when the band inserted an extended instrumental passage of "Walking on the Moon" into "Tu Carcel" it only solidified my opinion. They seem incapable of playing a song the same way twice, which gives their shows a jam-like quality, though without the long, extended noodling that often accompanies such concerts. Tempos are slowed down, melodies twist into new phrases, yet retain their basic structure. It's apparent that even after thirty years as a band, Enanitos Verdes still really likes to play. This set featured strong undercurrents of blues and reggae elements worked into many of the songs, giving it a distinct after-hours feel.

The encore featured five songs, starting with "Cordillera" and "Guitarros Blancos" and ending with a blues rocker I didn't know but which sounded familiar to me regardless. It may have been a cover.

There are two shows this weekend in LA (the Wiltern) and Anaheim (House of Blues). Just go- The Little Green Men don't disappoint.

Madeleines

Sometimes I try (and inevitably fail) to gain some kind of perspective on my own life through the medium of writing this blog. What transpires as a result of it (meeting Mademoiselle MG, an invitation to the SF Symphony Gala, angry phone calls from my mother, nasty emails from performers, etc.), what I really want it to be, etc., are things which interest me. Last night I came across a blog called Echovar which made me realize this one still has quite a way to go before it's truly what I want it to be. "Echovar is Cliff Gerrish’s blog on the Internet, economies, language, philosophy and the arts" and it's Gerrish's ability to traverse these topics with such fluid ease that I admire. I also like the clean look of the blog, so much so that I'm thinking of moving this one to WordPress. On the other hand, the chief editor of the very cool and diverse Spinning Patters, whom I didn't know I was speaking with at the Paulina Rubio show, had some very kind words to say about the A Beast in a Jungle the way it is now, which I truly appreciated.

There is a certain schizophrenic quality to this blog, not by design, but due to my own personal tastes and peccadilloes. Yeah, I like Paulina, Nelly Furtado and Latin Pop almost as much as I like Wagner and Beethoven, and part of the intent of this blog is to explicate how these aren't incompatible appreciations. It's all entertainment, art, a visceral response to the work of another human being- whatever you want to call it or how you label it is beside the point. Art doesn't exist in neat silos. We choose to place art into silos so we can better understand it or more easily make it part of our identity by associating ourselves with certain genres or representations- in doing so the art's identity or reputation is meant to reflect favorably upon our own. I reject this idea, though I understand it.

My teenage years were spent in the San Fernando Valley of the 1970's. The movie Fast Times at Ridgemont High, though based on a Pacific Palisades school, is an accurate representation of how and where I grew up. The influence of this area, at that time, has reverberated throughout American culture more than I can possibly explain, but if you were there and lived it then you know what I mean.

I vividly remember the first time I danced to Donna Summer's "I Feel Love" and what a liberating experience it was to feel that immesne Giorgio Moroder beat pulsating  through my body and hear Donna's orgasmic sighs as I danced with a girl named Veronica at the Teen Center on Victory Blvd.  The mantra at the time was "disco sucks," but how could that be true when nothing sounded so sublime and nothing sounded better than the Trammp's "Disco Inferno" pumping through my friend Stan's Chevy Nova's AM radio at full gloriously distorted blast- except perhaps for the sound of Ozzy's hacking cough and Tony Iommi's monster riffs that lead off Black Sabbath's "Sweet Leaf," played at maximim volume as you took a huge hit from the bong at a party with your friends?


Many years later, when Veronica showed up at an amateur stripping contest in North Hollywood, where I was the emcee/dj, she asked me to play a certain Patti Smith song ("Because the Night") that was popular during the summer we spent together as she performed her routine. It was a Proustian moment unlike any other I've ever had. Fifteen years after that summer, I was reliving it all over again.
 
Why am I going on about this? Well, because I know there are few blogs where you'll find "Proustian" and "amateur stripping contest" in the same sentence. And that's pretty much the purpose behind the Beast.

In the next few weeks readers may see a lot of posts about KISS on this blog. The first concert I ever attended was in early 1976 and it was the first KISS Alive tour. Now the band is doing a 35 year anniversary tour and yeah, I'm going to go see it in November. Between now and then, I'll see a number of operas, performances by the San Francisco Symphony and a few concerts by bands or performers who sing in Spanish that many of you may have never heard of before. And yet it all strikes a chord, a chord that resonates like "Smoke on the Water" the first time you heard it on a radio, or the piano's entrance in Beethoven's 3rd Piano Concerto, or experiencing the communal release when Enanitos Verdes launches into "Lamento Boliviano" during one of their concerts and the audience is singing along louder than the band is playing it. The essential, unique feeling that music alone can convey to make one feel alive is present in all those moments and those moments feel the same no matter what the genre of music is, whether the notes comes from a Gibson Birdland or a Strad. This much I know is true- and it started with that KISS concert way back in the day. It's my own rock and roll madeleine.

Earlier I posted a notice about a local Enanitos Verdes concert this Friday night that also mentioned a concert they are performing tonight in Salt Lake City. Oddly enough, I've received a tremendous amount of blog hits today via search engines regarding the Salt Lake concert coming from many parts of the country (and Mexico). Mademoiselle MG is at that show right now and she told me there are about a thousand people there having a great time as I write this post. I suspect there are many people experiencing the sensory equivalent of dipping a madeleine into a cup of  tea tonight, all over the world, in various venues, who've never heard of Proust (or Enanitos Verdes for that matter)- and yet though he may have best transcribed the experience into words, it doesn't really matter- people every where still feel it- and I think that is what really matters.

Does that interest you? I'm not sure I can articulate why, but it interests me immensely. And there we are.