The End of the Affair(s)

To the Lighthouse: Isabella at Point Cabrillo, California, Christmas day.

Marching onward. 


Happy New Year.


JM/MR

The Nativity, as seen by Messiaen

After spending most of the day on a long, leisurely drive down the coast from Mendocino, it felt odd to walk into a church at 9:00 PM on Monday night. It was only after dinner that we decided to attend the concert featuring the music of Olivier Messiaen- and it felt almost illicit, as if we were doing something a bit naughty. But it also felt right- like we were breaking a tradition which needed to be broken in the same way the composer often did.

Half an hour later, standing on the sidewalk out front on Fulton Street, I watched the crowd entering St. Ignatius as they filed in in groups of twos and threes- they looked jovial, relaxed and more than a little curious. We were warmly greeted as we entered by a man who encouraged us to view the art gallery, which was still open. Two more jovial chaps handed us programs and asked if we had any questions. I had one about the church's acoustics, having never been inside before, and was told I would be able to hear everything perfectly no matter where we sat. This turned out to be true.

The gallery left both of us unimpressed. I didn't really understand the artist's concepts and Isabella didn't care much for the execution, though being Catholic she understood the art's meaning with a clarity I don't possess. The church was gorgeously decked out in holiday decorations, the most festive of which were a dozen trees of different sizes, strung with white lights and clustered upon the apse creating a small bright wood before the altar.

We sat on the gospel side of the church, at the very edge, to avoid being under the strong lights coming from the ceiling of the huge nave. It didn't seem right to hear this music in such a brightly lit space. I wanted to hear it in the dark.

Once we were seated in the pew I opened the program and was surprised, then amused, to learn that not only could we use our phones to do whatever we wished (as long as the sound was turned off), but that we were encouraged to walk about during the performance, and even lie down if we felt like it. No "set" rules- just don't disturb anyone else and do whatever makes you feel comfortable- and hold any applause until the conclusion. We chose not to partake in any of these freedoms.

Shortly after 9:00 organist Jonathan Dimmock came out, music in hand, and addressed the audience, which I estimated to easily be over 100 people. He repeated the freedoms stated in the program, mentioned the lights would be dimmed per the composer's intent during the second and eighth movements, and said he would be available after the performance for conversation. He then strode over to the organ, sat down on the very wide bench, and after a long pause in which he seemed to be summoning something, began to play La Nativité du Seigneur- nine meditations for organ.

Perhaps I should mention my interest in this concert didn't stem from the religious theme of the music, but rather from curiosity about Messiaen's music in general and the opportunity to hear a rarely performed, challenging work.

The first two movements- depicting the feelings of Mary toward the child Jesus, followed by the Shepherds praising his arrival, didn't move me very much. The music felt, if not quite traditional, far from conveying a sense of transcendence, though it does have elements of reverence.

Things certainly took an interesting turn with the third section, Dessiens éternels, which, according Dimmock's program notes, has the listener entering into "the mystical world of the composer." The slowness of the movement, and the distinct ability to hear what Dimmock was playing with each hand, caused my attention to focus in way it hadn't in along time. From there, the performance lived up to expectation, including two moments when the floor of the church literally rumbled under our feet, causing me to open my eyes and see the silent question "are we experiencing an earthquake?" cross Isabella's face as it went through my own mind.

My eyes remained closed until the horrible pain and agony of the seventh part's depiction of the passion brought me out of a sense of reverie. I hadn't read through the program notes entirely, but the sound was enough to let one know something horrific was going on.

The lights dimmed again for the Magi's journey to Bethlehem in the eighth part, a welcome respite visually and aurally as the pain receded, replaced by gentle, repetitive music which ended in a flourish of light.

For the final part, Dieu parmi nous, a page-turner appeared to assist Dimmock. I asked Isabella if there had been anyone assisting Dimmock before this and she said no, but that the sixteenth notes of the toccata would require one. Oddly, it had the effect of increasing my expectations for an ecstatic conclusion, which turned out to be met. As the final notes dissipated through the church, I felt a deep sense of not wanting to make or hear a sound.

Dimmock sat still for a long moment and the audience remained hushed. It indeed felt like something profound had just been heard and communally experienced. When he finally rose, the audience did too, giving him a warm standing ovation followed by many queuing up to speak with him. We, however, had no questions- they had all been answered in the performance, and so we made our way into the cold night air.

The Pumped Up Kicks

I rarely listen to the radio anymore, and except for an occasional broadcast from the Met or the rare occasions when I've rented or borrowed a car, I could safely say I never listen to radio anymore. I tend to favor places that are quiet, so I don't frequent loud bars or establishments with music pumping through them, either. In other words, though I still like pop music I actually hear very little of it, and what I do is usually inspired by what I read or the recommendations of friends.

This means I typically hear about a new pop artist or a hit song long after everyone else has. It wasn't always this way, but it is now. I'm comfortable with that. It's okay that it was only this year I actually learned the title of the song "Clocks" and that it's by Coldplay, though it's been in my head for years.

Two years ago Maria Gostrey and I were in NYC together, and one night we found ourselves dancing in a dark, warm club in the Village on an extremely rainy night. Jay-Z's "Empire State of Mind" came on and the joint, which was full but not crowded, suddenly filled with palpable elation. I'd never heard the song before, but instantly knew it was a classic. Every time I hear it now I think of that night, of Maria in her red dress, and of walking in the rain toward the subway at 4:00 am. Only music and certain scents can conjure up Proustian memories in this unique way.

Like many, the holidays make me nostalgic, but it's a nostalgia often cloaked in dark shadows. The ghosts of Christmas past are often not pleasant company for me and for many I know they bring bitter madeleines with them. This year isn't any going to be any different. I just returned from a funeral in L.A..

I've mentioned before I've taken to listening to music on my phone as I walk to and from wherever it is I'm going. Many of the songs in the queue are darker ones by the Stones: "Hand of Fate," "Stray Cat Blues," "Midnight Rambler," "Paint It Black," "Gimme Shelter," and lately I've been playing "Crazy Mama" over and over again, relishing the lyrics and whiskey-soaked sound of the song:

... You can scandalize me
Scorn my name
You can steal my money
And that don't mean a doggone thing
'Cause if you really think you can push it
I'm gonna bust your knees with a bullet...

... If you're gonna keep on comin'
I'm gonna take it all head on
And if you don't believe I'm gonna do it, yeah

          Just wait till you get hit by that bullet...

Don't think I ain't thought about it
It sure make my shackle rise
And cold blood murder
It make me wanna draw the line,

Well, you're crazy mother
With your ball and chain
You're plain psychotic, ooh
Plain insane

And if you don't believe I'm gonna do it, yeah
Just wait for the thud of that bullet, ooh
You're crazy mother, ah yeah
You're crazy mother, yeah

I know- it's only rock and roll, but I like it. However, as the days have grown shorter and the shadows darker, it's begun to feel like I was listening to Johnny Cash's version of "Hurt" on an endless loop. Feeling stalked by a jackal (formerly the Femme Fatale) recently didn't help matters. I realized I needed to shine a light into all of this, but where to start? Florence & the Machine's "Dog Days Are Over"? The last movement of Beethoven's 9th? What the hell was I going to listen to now?

Then I heard a perfect pop confection via NPR Online- Canon Blue's "Indian Summer." I've always appreciated songs like this- simple, hook-laden, irresistible pieces of pop perfection. The lyrics are a sad current running through it, and the song has a definite yearning quality, nicely refuted in the refrain "No you won't ever reach me, won't ever reach me..." but it hit me hard and the shadows in the words couldn't obscure the poppy brilliance of the music and melody. Add some  "Yellow Pills," by 20/20, "Hey Ya" or "I Like the Way You Move" by Outkast, and I'm well on my way to a queue chock-full of happy-sounding songs. Feel the music, ignore the words- and resume walking. There'll be no listening to this.

Last Thursday night The Swede came over for dinner. As I was preparing the meal before he arrived I was looking for some music to play. I decided to queue up an album by a band whose name I've often seen lately but haven't ever heard- Foster the People. Their warm, friendly name sounds like an Obama/2008 slogan and  people I know on Facebook like them, so they seemed a perfect fit for two people sharing a meal and catching up on the past month whose favorite bands respectively are ABBA and Madonna (in his case) and Black Sabbath and the Rolling Stones (in mine).

I loaded it up on MOG and the first song had a catchy hook and steady beat. The Swede arrived and we talked over the music coming from the other room as I fried potatoes, sauteed vegetables and clanked around in the kitchen waiting for the meat to warm. All I could really discern was this insistent beat you could dance to and easily memorable melodies. After dinner we sat in the living room having dessert, continuing our conversation about his recent visit to Sweden and his travels in Egypt (he's just returned- I was there in '97). A couple of hours went by. I must have accidentally hit repeat on the album, because it kept playing over and over- I recognized the ear-candy hooks as we talked but had the volume down and neither of us were really paying too much attention, though we agreed it sounded good "for young people's music"- a joke we have between us.

It sounded so good I loaded it onto my phone the next morning for my walk to work. I found the beat for "Pumped Up Kicks" irresistible bubblegum, but the distorted vocals gave it a tart bite until the glorious chorus kicks in, floating over it all in a 10cc/Style Council/Swing Out Sister kind of way.

As I hit Market Street I heard the lyrics "... better run, better run, faster than my bullet" clearly for the first time in the chorus. What? The song has fucking whistling in it. Where are these bullets coming from?

I hit repeat and turned it up, so the song didn't have to compete against the streetcars rumbling down the street. Four blocks to work. I heard the vocal in a different way- as a disaffected squawk. Holden Caulfield had suddenly been replaced by Jared Lee, as I realized the most delightful-sounding song I've heard in ages featured this chorus:

All the other kids with the pumped up kicks,

You better run, better run, outrun my gun.

All the other kids with the pumped up kicks,

You better run, better run, faster than my bullet

I liked it, but found it disturbing. I listened closer:

He found a six-shooter gun
In his dad's closet, in a box of fun things
I don't even know what,
But he's coming for you, yeah!
All the other kids with the pumped up kicks,You better run, better run, outrun my gun.All the other kids with the pumped up kicks,You better run, better run, faster than my bullet

Listening to it again, the chants of "Run! Run!," which precede the whistling section, now sounded like an homage to the "Run rabbit, run!" scene in House of 1000 Corpses.

I love the brilliant irony of the song's lyrics and sound. It isn't the first time this has been done of course, but it's the best example I've heard in a long time. I also appreciate the irony that I discovered this ear worm while trying to avoid songs with dark and violent lyrics. Like Crazy Mamas, I seem to attract these elements of darkness even when trying to consciously avoid them. I may as well give up running- it appears there's nowhere to hide anymore.

It's a fitting song for the year- at least the one I've had. 

The Best of a Beast: 2011

In compiling this year's "best of" list I knew two things before I even began:  Prince would get the top spot and there would be very little opera on it. Part of the reason for the latter is because I didn't travel to L.A. or New York this year (though there was much I would have liked to see in both cities), and the other is locally it wasn't a good year. San Francisco Opera's Ring Cycle had some great moments, but overall, director Francesca Zambello's production failed to leave a lasting impact after the thrill wore off of having a Ring Cycle in town. Regrettably, I missed SFO's Xerxes, which was their only other production to get solid reviews and word of mouth. Half of SFO's fall offerings were so uninspiring I didn't even bother to attend them and those I did were severely flawed. However, I really enjoyed Merola's Barber.

The void left by the lack of good opera created a list dominated by contemporary performance pieces and recitals. Two shows, The Tempest: Without a Body and Necessary Monsters, were presented by Yerba Buena Center for the Arts (YBCA). The organization is dedicated to presenting the work of living artists and they consistently deliver challenging and provocative programs. It's become an increasingly important source of culture for me this past year. I'd also like to acknowledge the success of the San Francisco Symphony's Centennial Season programs, both onstage and within the community- this is truly a special year for the organization and their hard work is paying off handsomely.

As has been the case in the previous two years, it was difficult to narrow it down to ten-  in the end I cheated.

The ranking is in order, starting with the best:

1. Prince
Prince played three wildly different shows, each with a unique set list.  More impressively, he struck a completely different tone as a performer every night- on the first he was a sexy crooner, the following evening he was the funkmeister, and finally, in the last show (my favorite) he was a blazing guitar god for over three hours. I've never been more impressed with a musician. Prince is a genius, and in his prime as a performer.

2. The Tempest: Without a Body
Eight months later this performance by Lemi Ponifasio's MAU company, it still frequents my consciousness. It was dark, disturbing and unforgettable and I don't think I could stand to see it again. Still, I would if given the chance, because I've never seen anything else that moved me in quite the same way.


3.  Orphée
Ensemble Parallèle proved again that an opera company doesn't need tremendous financial resources to put on a great production- just talent and imagination. It's been years since San Francisco Opera did something this well. Get ready for their production of John Harbison's The Great Gatsby in February.

4. Necessary Monsters
Like The Tempest: Without a Body, Carla Kihlstedt's work also left a lingering impression long afterward. An enchanting work-in-progress that will make you think about the Necessary Monsters in your own life, see it if you have the chance.

5.  The San Francisco Symphony's Mahler's 3rd
San Francisco Symphony's Centennial Season has had numerous highlights so far, but this exquisite performance was truly spectacular.

6. Yefim Bronfman
Bronfman turned in another brilliant performance this year, made all the more heroic because he didn't let on that he had seriously injured two of his fingers during it.

7. Jonas Kaufmann
He came and conquered the audience with an extremely generous performance. Never have I heard German sung with such eloquence and beauty.

8. Dmitri Hvorostovsky
Hvorostovsky's recital was an early highlight of the year. He's never sounded better and the material he chose was perfect. The encore was thrilling.

9. Goran Bregovic and his Wedding and Funeral Orchestra
The most fun I had at a show all year, maybe ever- and on top of that, these folks can play.

10. tie: Max Raabe and the Palast Orchester, Alexander Melnikov, &  The Robert Glasper Experiment
Initially I was going to make this year's list a dozen so that I could include all three of these performances. Let's just call it a three-way tie instead because at one point each one occupied the tenth slot.

Honorable mentions are due to The Wild Bride, The Boston Symphony Orchestra, Elizabeth Rowe, Jay Hunter Morris, The St. Petersburg Philharmonic, the Keith Jarret Trio,  YoYo Ma & the SFS, and the San Francisco Symphony Chorus, which has been consistently spectacular over the past year.

The Yodeling Dominatrix

The first time I saw her, I thought she would be perfect as Maria von Trapp in a Russ Meyer remake of The Sound of Music. Sure, she caught my eye- with that figure and those legs in that get-up, how could she not? True, she was funny, but there are lots of funny women, though I can't think of one who looks quite so good. She wore her hair in pigtails- something I'll admit having a fetish for, but even that small, delectable detail, which under normal circumstances would have caused me to lock my gaze on her like bear trap snapping shut, couldn't gain my full attention. She was a sexy red clown competing with a table full of food and booze, people chatting away and a circus swirling around her. 

But it's true what they say- that clothes make the woman, because the second time I saw her (I have no idea how much time had elapsed- an hour? two? twenty minutes?) she strode to the center of the floor, all 6'10" of her, in a pleated, skin-tight, black pleather dress. The front was cut low, removed actually, the better to expose a blood-red, patent-leather bra. It was like my brain split in half- everything stopped, yet I was aware of of every single sensation, like I had plunged underwater. I heard the distinct crack of a whip- a well-made one, signaling a baptism was about to start.

The familiar chords of AC/DC's "Highway to Hell" started up somewhere from the stage, the drums kicked in, she took over the room, strutting in time to the beat. A remarkably tall siren beckoning from the deepest recesses of my repressed fantasies, I couldn't take my eyes off of her. She sang with a German accent, which only made it all the more decadent and delicious- Marlene Dietrich on a "one-way ride." Then, where the chorus was supposed to be, she let out a tremendous "Yodel-ay-hee-huuuuu!" and I think the audience went a little nuts. I'm not certain, because my brain split into quarters at that moment.

The Yodeling Dominatrix had arrived and proceeded to turn the audience of Teatro ZinZanni into her slaves.

I had to meet her.

After the show we were introduced. She immediately held me in the palm of her hand and within minutes (moments, actually) at her feet. I dared to touch the eight-inch heels without her permission. She bent me over and held her crop aloft- a warning to behave. I succumbed. You would have, too.

Two weeks later we had our first rendezvous at one of my usual haunts. She had arrived before me, so the hostess led me to her. It wasn't so much that she sat in the booth, but was holding court waiting for a supplicant- at least that's how I felt. Everything she wore was skin-tight- including alligator boots which climbed to her knees. I thought the encounter would last an hour, maybe one and a half at the most. Seven hours later I returned to my apartment, spent, tired, and in a daze. That's what happens when one spends time in the company of Manuela Horn.

We ate. We drank. We drank more than we ate. We were told we had to leave.

Our next stop was for some real food, though more beverages were brought- Manhattans, of course. She ordered sausages, as any true Austrian woman would. Delicious, thick, juicy sausages, which she ate with her hands. I used my fork simply as a matter of defense, though it was of no use. I was aware we were seated in the middle of the room and all eyes, regardless of gender, were on her. I watched her too, with what? Desire? Lust? Fascination? Does it matter? All I can remember was the slow-motion sensation of watching her lick the juice from the tips of perfectly formed tendrils (merely fingers on most humans).

I felt the genie spring from the bottle. It was one of those moments you live for.

"Come with me," she said.

Helplessly, I acquiesced.

Soon we were in another part of town to see a show featuring performers who were friends of hers. As we walked in the door she was greeted by numerous people and I understood what Arthur Miller felt when he entered a room with Marilyn. There's no place for you. You don't exist- you are merely there, sucking up space where a well-wisher would like to be- to get closer to her. The fact that you are there with her doesn't even register because she's already taken up all of existing space in the room just by her presence alone. It's an ineluctable truth.

Then the party girl came out (I've learned it doesn't take much)- she lives for a good time and loves to entertain people. The show was pretty damn funny and included a pudgy, naked man dancing onstage holding a tissue over his genitals. She acted as if it were the kind of thing one sees everyday. After it ended, we wound up at Martuni's and somehow the hour passed midnight and then the cast of "Hair" came in and took the place over. Before taking my leave of her, we agreed to meet again and I watched her watching me as the train pulled away from the platform. I would think of the look on her face at that moment for days afterward.

The next morning I awoke exhausted and elated. She had told me about being on "America's Got Talent" as the Yodeling Dominatrix and of her day-to-day experiences working with companies like Cirque du Soleil and Teatro ZinZanni. It was illuminating and more. She has such a unique presence- intimidating and mysterious because of her looks and height, but completely open and unpretentious. She's a pussycat, truth be told, and she likes to purr.

A week later she arrived at my apartment early in the evening in white pants, black turtleneck, a short, white jacket trimmed in faux fur, fivefinger shoes, an eight-inch-wide leather belt, a jaunty black cap over her long blonde hair... and a black, well-oiled, hand-tooled whip. She had been eating oysters all day in Tomales Bay. I had prepared a pot roast and bought some Italian wine. Once again, the gaping disparity opened up before me.

I wanted to know where the Dominatrix came from. How did a mother of two, well-versed in the nuances and history of traditional yodeling, learned from her father as a child, end up dressed in pleather, expertly wielding a whip? Somewhere beneath the surface there was a different truth, and I wanted to uncover it. It turned out to be simpler than what I constructed in my imagination, yet layered with textures from a surprising array of life experiences.

Her physical stature impacted her career in unintended ways. Sure, she would love to be cast as Juliet, but a stage director once told her, "We can't hire you- where are we going to find an entire cast over six feet tall? Romeo would have to be almost seven feet!" Instead of fighting it, she's made it work for her by creating her own cast of characters. The Yodeling Dominatrix is just one facet of who she is- as is the Oktoberfest girl, and there are more- Roxie the gangster moll, a sexy milkmaid named Gretchen, the stern Fräulein Brunhilde von Schmetterling. She's a singer. A comedienne. An entertainer first and foremost. And she lives for it.

She also admits to relishing the control she has over people when she's dress to thrill. The power of the role intrigues her and its pull is strong. There was a man in Seattle in who came repeatedly to see her in a show and each time he'd ask for her crop across his behind, always requesting it land harder than the last time. The dominatrix persona creates an invisible but palpable psychological boundary between her and the audience.  That so many wish to cross it is something she ponders often, causing her to want to understand the triggers of desire she pulls in people.

But there's also a playfulness to the masquerade. Take a look at this video on YouTube called Parenting 101 with the Yodeling Dominatrix - instructions and helpful hints for parents to "train your kid like you train your dog."

Manuela  told me about Mr. Big, a fearless 3'2" dwarf she works with, whom she met at an erotic fair. Sometimes she dresses him up in drag. I flashed back to 1987, when I was working as a DJ in a North Hollywood strip joint, and Herve Villechaize used to come in frequently to take home one of the dancers- a six-foot-tall heavy metal queen named Jana whose hair added six additional inches to her height. He'd come over to the booth, say hello, and then pull out a gun- his most recent purchase, usually. They were always ridiculously large handguns. Watching them leave together always made me smile, knowing the gun would be brandished again before the night was over.

I asked her to tell me more about the erotic fair, deciding Herve and the strip joint were best left undiscussed, and she did. Somehow I knew we shouldn't linger too long on this topic, but I kept asking her for more details, which she gave. I found her forthrightness disarming. Nothing was off the table with her. She appreciates burlesque, erotic art, and painting naked bodies. This was a tangent I could have stayed on forever, but I also knew I could end up chained to it, so we moved on eventually, though not before I had some interesting images set in my mind.

We talked about music. I have this fantasy of her incorporating Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love" into her act. She wants to be on David Letterman and the idea of Paul Schaffer leading the band through the classic riff as Manuela towers over Letterman is almost too delicious to contemplate. I can hear her yodeling in the part where the guitar slides downward after "wanna whole lotta love.... yodel-lay-hee-huuuuuu, wanna whole lotta love... yodel-lay-hee-huu." I see it as the first step in her inevitable path to world domination- "... you... need... me... BAM. BAM... whoaaa, yodel-lay-hee-huu!!!"

She's committed to furthering her career as a singer and has a recording studio in her Seattle home. After her current appearance in Teatro ZinZanni's "On the Air" closes, she'll resume work on an album of  covers including "Highway to Hell," "Tainted Love" and "Like a Virgin"- all with yodeling of course. She also wants to move toward rock, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed that the Zeppelin cover will get made one day.

Manuela also performs in her own shows, where she incorporates a variety of her characters. Next she year she'll take her act on the road, hitting festivals and rock concerts in her "Rock and Yodel Show", bringing the party with her, and encouraging audiences to "Get your yodel on..." She loves to see people having a good time and she feeds off of the audience's energy.

There's a joyful exuberance in everything Manuela does. She can walk into any room and own it without an effort. But underneath the raven-haired dominatrix in her pleather dress exists a thoughtful, inquisitive blonde who speaks in a soft voice with a lilting German accent. This is the woman who really entertains the audience- who knows that life's not always a party and that's the very best reason to have one.

She can't see herself ever retiring. Instead, she wants to die onstage- to take a final bow and then expire on the spot- in about 70 years. She imagines she'll be naked, with her costume projected onto her. I hope to be there that night, in the front row of the audience.

Manuela will be performing with Teatro ZinZanni in the company's terrific On the Air-   their last production before the Speigeltent comes down and relocates to Broadway and the Embarcadero sometime next year. The final show is New Year's Eve, leaving you plenty of time to hear her yodel (and get a spanking should you desire one).

While it's best to experience Manuela live and in the flesh, if you're too timid to seek her out in person, you can find her here:
Manuela Horn.com
Facebook
My Space
YouTube

The Point of View

I don't know what I shall do; I feel so undraped, so uncurtained, so uncushioned; I feel as if I were sitting in the centre of a mighty "reflector." 

- Henry James, The Point of View

After the Bostonians vacated the hall a Finn named Esa-Pekka Salonen arrived to take charge of things for the weekend. He brought three pieces with him: a souvenir from his homeland, another from Germany (he's recently admitted to being fascinated with these heavy German items), and a substantial work of his own hand, for which he was recently awarded a handsome prize. Isabella and I had looked forward to his visit for some time, in no small part due to his bringing two illustrious visitors with him, both women- a musician and a singer.

As we neared the entrance to the hall I my eye caught someone I once knew standing alone under the harsh lights near the curb, furtively looking down.  I had known such a thing would occur at some point, but the foreknowledge didn't prevent an unpleasant stain from spreading through my consciousness. It was the unexpectedness of it happening at this particular moment that took me by surprise, though in hindsight I could have easily deduced the odds if I had considered her past behavior. But who has the time for such things? I turned my gaze, unaware of whether if she saw us or not, and entered the lobby, whispering in Isabella's ear that a jackal was present in the garden.

As we waited for the Finn to take the podium I saw the jackal enter the terrace, followed by her elderly warden, and watched as they took seats in the back row, almost directly across the hall from us. It wasn't until the next morning an amusing but sad irony about the entire scene occurred to me as Isabella and I were having breakfast. As I've said before, it's a small town.

Salonen strode to the podium looking like he still lived in Southern California. He reminded Isabella of a certain pop singer my sister was involved with until my mother put her foot down, thus ending the absurd sight of a white Rolls Royce frequently parked at the curb of our house after school when we were teenagers. The quiet strains which open Sibelius' Pohjola's Daughter (Daughter of the North) rose from the bass and cellos. The piece, one of many by the composer inspired by Karelian poetry, is based on the story of a wise man who falls under the spell of a dangerous yet alluring female spectre while searching for a wife in the northern hinterlands.

The spectre requests the hero perform several impossible tasks in order to win her hand and the music grows louder and darker as his failures and frustration mounts, chugging along to an impressive climax which the brass took brilliantly. At the end, the wise man gives up and moves on and the music dissolved into a silence signalling an unequivocal, sad defeat. The orchestra has played the piece only once before, in 1948. It would be nice to hear more of these Sibelius tone poems, of which there are a dozen.

During the break I noticed the jackal and her warden rise and exit through the rear door of the terrace. I thought they were leaving but they soon reappeared on the side of the terrace and talked an usher into letting them sit in seats that didn't belong to them. I watched the jackal put on her glasses. Isabella, who has a keen eye for such things, had some interesting observations about their body language.

Leila Josefowicz walked onstage in five-inch heels wearing a gown accommodating her obvious pregnancy. The combination worked for me on a number of levels. There's something incredibly bold about Josefowicz which manifests itself in so many ways. She performs fearlessly. A serious advocate for contemporary composers, she's had some brilliant pieces written specifically for her, including Salonen's Violin Concerto which came next.

Salonen recently won the presigious Grawemeyer Award for music composition for the piece and I was present at its world premiere at Disney Hall- it was one of the bests concerts I've ever attended and I was looking forward to hearing it again. Salonen breaks all kinds of "rules" with the piece but hews to a traditional model. It begins with the soloist who then continues to play almost all the way through it. There's also a complete drum kit onstage, which drives the rythmic heart of the piece found in its third movement, called "Pulse II"- an evocation of the vitality of life in Los Angeles. The fourth movement is about as long as the first three combined.

Josefowicz tore through the half-hour long work with obvious relish, aggressively taking on the dizzying fast parts, sections full of double stops and loaded with notes that tumble on top of one another like an avalanche. Her performance, as I expected it would be, was thrilling, even if the orchestra didn't seem to fully gel with Salonen in the intricasies of the final movement.

The lack of cohesion between conductor and orchestra became more apparent after the intermission which featured music from Wagner's Gotterdammerung. Soprano Christine Brewer, whose career has taken her increasingly away from the opera house after a knee injury sidelined her for awhile, was on hand to sing Brunnhilde's immolation scene. The strings sounded wonderful throughout, with concertmaster Alexander Barantschik taking a seat onstage after Josefowicz' departure, but the brass were limpid during the dawn and journey down the Rhine. The funeral march was taken at very fast tempo, robbing it of a lot of its drama, and Brewer struggled to make herself heard over the orchestra. Though there were moments of beauty scattered throughout (how could there not be with some of the most gorgeous music ever written?), the overall execution was surprisingly a train wreck, all the more inexplicable because I've witnessed all of these artists give terrific, even stunning, performances of Wagner's music in the past.

We left without seeing the jackal again and stepped out into crisp, cold evening, admiring the almost-full moon shining brightly over the gilded dome of City Hall. Neither of us had to work the next morning, so we stayed up late, listening to sections from different versions of Gotterdammerung- Solti and Boulez's, discussing the evil of Hagen, the prescience of the Norns, and slowly everything receded into the twilight.

The Bostonians

The Boston Symphony Orchestra performed two concerts at Davies this week as part of the American Orchestras Series for San Francisco Symphony's Centennial celebration. Tuesday night's concert was very good, but Wednesday's was a revelation. After hearing them two nights in a row, I feel bit of of envy toward Bostonians.

The American Orchestra series features the leading orchestras of the country in two nights of performances- the first featuring a commission by the visitors, the second showcasing works closely associated with them. No two orchestras sound alike, and the opportunity to experience these differences live is one of the great aspects of the series, which previously brought the LA Phil to town. Still to come are the orchestras of Chicago, New York, Cleveland and Philadelphia. 

Tuesday's concert began with Berlioz's Roman Carnival Overture and from the first notes one knew a different band had taken over the house. It wasn't just the brass isolated at 2:00, nor the basses and cellos  situated on the opposite side of the stage from where they usually are, nor the split string section. No, it was the warmth of their sound- a deep, resonant glow, fully embracing the classical tradition in a manner I'd never heard before which seemed to emanate from the entire orchestra. It was immediate and profoundly inviting.

Richard Goode. Photo by Stu Rosner

Soloist Richard Goode joined them for the next piece, Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 25. It's no secret that I'm not a tremendous fan of Mozart. It's not that I dislike his work, that would be absurd of course, but aside from Cosi, the Requiem, and a few sonatas, little of it moves me. Goode's restraint fit the piece well, and the result, for this listener at least, was predictable- I admired it but little of an impression was left. I found my mind drifting off, and soon I was imagining Isabella naked, frolicking in a field of flowers with a giraffe. Ridiculous I know, but that's how it went.

Elizabeth Rowe. Photo by Stu Rosner

After the intermission things became really interesting. The orchestra's principal flute Elizabeth Rowe came onstage in a gorgeous red gown as the featured soloist for Elliot Carter's Flute Concerto, a work composed in 2008 by the then 100 year-old composer. It's amazing enough Carter is still composing at this age, but to produce a work as engaging as this is something of a miracle. She handled the snaking melodic lines woven through the piece with ease and its jittery parts (which would be a perfect soundtrack for a high-tension thriller) with equal aplomb. Rowe performed the American premiere of the work last year with the BSO, which co-commissioned the piece, and her execution of Carter's determined, contemporary composition created an interesting juxtaposition against Goode's traditional take on Mozart and to borrow a line from a local art's organization, the resulting impression is that the future is now. Clocking in at around thirteen minutes, it left me wanting much more.

The final piece on the program was Bartok's suite from The Miraculous Mandarin, a work with which I have little exposure, though the lurid story line of the ballet (about three men who pimp their female companion to rob a man) is something which should have caught my attention long ago. The score is riddled with great moments- a magnificent blast from the trombones led it off, and when the Mandarin came toward the end, the orchestra let it all blow with a ribald burst. Now I know where Shostakovitch got his inspiration for the hilarious trombone orgasm in Lady Macbeth. Amidst the fun of sex and violence was a superb solo by principal clarinet William Hudgins.

The orchestra returned for a brief encore- a birthday tribute for their San Francisco friends in the form of Stravinsky's Greeting Prelude.

Ludovic Morlot. Photo by Stu Rosner

The impressive sound and cohesion of the orchestra made me wonder about the influence of conductor Ludovic Morlot, who took over the reigns for this tour when James Levine resigned his post due to his myriad health issues. Morlot, who just began as Music Director for the Seattle Symphony, is obviously well in sync with these musicians (he was the BSO's assistant conductor from 2004-07 and started working with them in 2001), but did the heart of their extraordinary sound beat with his baton or were we hearing the result of Levine's influence over the past few years. Or is it just that the 131-year-old orchestra is simply that great? There's no way to really know of course, but the next night's performance made it clear that Morlot is a formidable and gifted talent- and that the Boston Symphony Orchestra is an amazing group of musicians.

The concert began with John Harbison's Symphony No. 4. The timing of this was fortuitous, because earlier in the week I attended a workshop led by the directors of  Ensemble Parallele on the composer's opera The Great Gatsby,  which they will present in a re-orchestrated version this coming February.  Harbison's Fourth deals directly with Gatsby - he's quoted in the program notes, "In the symphony I thought I was addressing the shaking of a three-to four year Gatsby endeavor... by acknowledging it in the first movement. That is, here is where is was. Ending in a dissolve. Then in the second movement doing something completely." He goes on to cite the influence of Stravinsky specifically on second movement, the origins of the fourth movement's "Threnody" coming from an awareness of "the imminence and inevitability of loss at times we of course do not choose," and the influence of Emily Dickinson on the final part.

The jazz riddling the score of Gatsby dominates the first movement and Harbison (who was in the house this evening) has an innate gift for weaving two musical genres together. There was strong playing throughout in this piece, but in the first movement it was the instruments traditionally found in jazz who created the greatest impact. The BSO's brass section is remarkable- especially the trombones, who made me long to hear them play some Wagner. The scherzo confused me a bit, causing me to wonder when is a scherzo not a scherzo? Anchored by the brass, it builds toward something approaching the frightening, only to turn toward a rough levity provided by the trombones and the tuba.

The "Threnody" features the score's most lush moments. There's no grief to be found in it, but a sense of resignation permeates the movement, which ends with a pronounced somberness. I wondered about the composer's inspiration for it and somehow that led me to feel the movement belongs in a Brian DePalma movie. Turning away from the darkness toward the light, the finale was the best part of the wonderfully played work.

Then something miraculous indeed happened. The orchestra took what I initially thought was going to be a bit of filler, Ravels's Daphnis et Chloe, Suite No.2, and turned it into one of the finest orchestral performances I've ever witnessed. The swelling sound they created by the strings, especially the nine bass players, during the "Daybreak" section was devastatingly powerful, so rich it was almost vulgar in its opulence. Rowe turned in a performance that was so stunning it managed to eclipse her star turn from the night before. She's worthy of any superlative one can use for a musician- pick one. Pick a few, in fact. Elizabeth Rowe amazed me. It was during this piece I began to realize the depth of Morlot's talent- I like Ravel and always look forward to hearing him, but if his work was always played like this his popularity with audiences would undoubtedly be much greater. The only thing I could say after it was over was, "Wow"- and I did just that, and then repeated the sentiment to Lisa Hirsch when I saw her in the lobby during intermission, who felt pretty much the same way about it.

The presence of a Mahler symphony on the program's second half seemed like a challenge in a way, given the prominence the San Francisco Symphony has given these works during Michael Tilson Thomas' tenure. If Mahler is associated with any orchestra at the moment, it's San Francisco. However, the Bostonians delivered a handsome performance of the First, going for depth and color in places one might expect to hear a more lustrous sheen coming from the locals. The "Wayfarer" songs were given an especially marked prominence, further intensifying the warmth the orchestra conveyed through the entire work. In the end it felt unlike a challenge, but rather a respectful compliment from one orchestra to another- an acknowledgement of the impact MTT and the SFS have made with Mahler's music. And even if none of that was intended either way, it was beautifully done.

Hopefully it won't be another fifteen years before they return.

The Wild Bride

Patrycja Kujawska as The Wild Bride

As I was parking the motorcycle I realized I haven't been to Berkeley Rep for over a couple of years- not since The Lieutenant of Inishmore. I hadn't realized Freight and Salvage is now across the street from the Roda Theater and the restaurant Downtown is gone, replaced by Revival Bar+Kitchen- a favorite of Isabella's. I was glad to see Half-Price Books was still there, but I wondered how much longer it could last, even in one of the world's most sophisticated college towns. We stopped in at the packed Revival for a drink before the show. Usually I'm skeptical of the whole "artisinal cocktail" scene- the drinks often seem targeted to twenty-somethings and others with a preference for the sweet over the savory, but I have to hand it to the bartenders at Revival- they know their stuff and the drinks are good. Isabella vouches for the food.


From there we turned the corner and headed to the Roda, where Berkeley Rep is turning over the house this month to England's Kneehigh Theatre company for the American premiere of The Wild Bride- a dark, beautiful spin on the somewhat brutal  fairy tale "The Handless Maiden," best known through the Brothers Grimm version, though there are others. Sadly, I missed Kneehigh's well-received Brief Encounter at A.C.T. last year, so when Isabella said she wanted to see this I agreed, despite finding the promotional video on Berkeley Rep's site a little off-putting (having seen the show I now appreciate it more). The play turned out to be one of the best things I've seen this year, in no small part due to its extraordinarily talented cast.

The story, about a girl whose father (Stuart Goodwin) unwittingly sells her to the Devil (Stuart McLoughlin), is broken into three parts. In the first The Girl is portrayed by Audrey Brisson- a phenomenal talent who can act, sing, and move will equal strength. The father, who thought he was giving the Devil an apple tree, not his only child, ends up chopping off the the girl's hands at the Devil's insistence- an act staged so harshly it caused a couple of walk-outs. I found it more dramatically effective than horrific, though it does take the play down a dark road with unexpected swiftness. There was much to admire in Brisson's performance (including a voice that falls somewhere between Alannah Myles' and Lisa Gerrard's), but what set her apart was her ability to be fully present in supporting parts after The Girl grows into The Wild and the role is taken over by Patrycja Kujawska during the second part, in which the daughter goes out into the wood to survive on her own rather than give in to the Devil.

Kujawska's turn feels like an entirely different play, and that's a strength of this highly creative production by Emma Rice. The girl's circumstances have changed- her innocence has cost her yet she clings to it as she tries to survive in the wild. Now mute, it's there she meets a prince (Goodwin), who takes her as his bride and outfits her with preposterous metal hands, which provides for some comic bits. It's not as dark as it sounds and many parts of this section are absolutely delightful. The Devil soon returns to wreak more havoc and the girl, now the mother of an infant, is forced to flee for her life once again. Kujawska, who resembles Kirsten Dunst, gives a strong performance. Hers is perhaps the most challenging role as its a mostly physical performance. Her Wild Bride has been horribly abused and yet her spirit remains unbowed. Kujawska's face is able to convey so much- her smile is likely to stay in your mind long after the play is over. She's also a fine violinist, especially in the third part, which finds the role taken over by Éva Magyar, now playing The Woman.

The Wild Bride loses a bit of steam when Magyar takes over. Until this point, she has been the least involved of the participants onstage and her assumption of the role lacks the impact created by Brisson and Kujawska. She's intense, but doesn't match her predecessors in staking out something altogether her own in the portrayal. Some of this is magnified by the third part's quieter, more ruminative tone as the Woman raises her child in the wilderness. I won't reveal how it ends, but it is a fairy tale and the play emerges from its darkness toward a lighter place, creating an emotionally satisfying conclusion.

Musically, this last part is the strongest of the show, though through it all musician Ian Ross has been onstage providing some wonderful, Robert Johnson-inspired blues guitar work. "Crossroads" is a theme threaded through the play, both dramatically and musically, adding a touch of the mythic to it all, resulting in something very familiar and yet foreign because Rice and her team bring such imaginative touches to every aspect of the production. The music is a key component of it all, deeply immersed in American roots, it provides a unifying thread through three segments of distinctly different tone. It also helps that Goodwin and McLoughlin are as adept at singing as they are acting and both were strong in their respective roles. McLoughlin's Devil has more than a touch of magical realism offsetting the vileness of his desires- never is he sympathetic, but he's always got your interest and the show really belongs to him. Goodwin displays a lot of versatility alternating between the roles of the father and prince.

After the performance all of the cast gathered in the lobby and performed for about half an hour while wine and snacks were served in the courtyard. It was just fortuitous luck we attended on "Out" night, when Berkeley Rep encourages the LGBT audience (and everyone else) to hang around afterward to talk, drink and "meet someone." I'm not sure why the event is pitched toward a specific segment of the audience based on their sexual orientation/gender identity, but we hung around for a bit and snacked, drank, and pretended to meet one another for the first time. After the cast quit a DJ took over, but we found her a bit too laid back so we got on the motorcycle and headed back across the Bay.

Midway across the bridge, since it was so clear and crisp that night, we stopped on Treasure Island to take in the view. Neither of us had been there in over fifteen years, and it was a delight to do something so touristy. We bought the last hot dogs the vendor had and munched on them while looking at the City. The view really can't be topped, especially during the holidays when the Embarcadero is outlined in lights. We waited some time after the guy drinking straight from a bottle of Crown Royal loaded his girlfriend into his car and drove away before we resumed the ride back.