Street Life

After dinner I felt like taking a walk. My neighborhood can be very either entertaining or threatening, depending on who's out and my own mood. At Geary and Jones a couple leans up against the wall of Rye, starting to argue. Down on the next block I pass a full backpack, abandoned on the cement slab of the parking lot between Jones and Taylor. The possible contents tempt me, but I keep walking.

East of Taylor is a man with a wielding a cane impersonating a blind man. He asks, "anyone going to the corner?" His act is so bad even the tourists ignore him. I watch for a minute, curious to see if he gets any bites. The bluffing blind man pulls a can of malt liquor from his coat and takes a couple of swigs. Then he asks, "anyone crossing the street?" I guess the sip made him want to go somewhere else.

At Mason a young woman totters out of Biscuit and Blues in incredibly tall heels she can't walk in and in an even more incredibly short skirt, which would work if she knew how to walk in her shoes, but doesn't and it doesn't. Her date looks like he's dressed for a tractor pull in his baseball cap and 3-sizes too large casual ensemble and at first I think they as mismatched as two young people on a date can be, and then realize they're perfect for one another.

I think about heading north up the hill, but I hear "Hey Joe" being played somewhere and keep walking toward music coming from the direction of Powell.

Crossing the street I make eye contact with an unusually attractive young woman. Too young for me, but she's stunning. I don't look away. Neither does she. Our heads turn 45 degrees, then ninety. I look forward again to make sure I don't walk into anyone, then back. She's doing the same. Smiling, I walk on, my night made.

Suddenly there's a gentle tap at my elbow. I turn and it's her. She has an incredibly kind, bright smile and says hello. I smile, shake my head without saying a word and walk toward the band, feeling mildly disappointed. If were single, drunk, and had my wallet with me, the night may have suddenly gone in a very different direction. Sadly, that probably would have meant jail, because when I think about it, women that good-looking aren't streetwalkers at that age. They're call girls, and it makes me think slightly less of our local police that they would send a decoy of that quality out to snare tourists. She wasn't dressed like a hooker, but rather like any other woman between 20 and 35 years old out for a night downtown, and that seems rather unfair to me. I mean if you're going to try to snare johns, at least use women who actually look like hookers if you're going to send them to Union Square.

The band is planted at Powell and Geary- a trio doing a set of material by The Jimi Hendrix Experience. They play one hit after another, play them well, and I can't leave because I'm enjoying everything they're doing. The guitar player imitates Hendrix musically and sartorially, though his voice really isn't any good at all. I've always found it amusing that Hendrix thought himself to be a poor singer.

Some people start dancing when the band launches into a driving version of "Purple Haze." Half a dozen songs in, they show no sign of slowing down, though by now it's almost 10:30 and they're playing pretty loud. The guitarist is using two small Marshall amps. I wonder about the guests of the Saint Francis Hotel who are trying to get some sleep and then I wonder about why I think about such things. I leave, knowing someone is waiting for me to return.

At Post and Powell an attractive, tall brunette of  a certain age with an amazing head of wild, curly hair staggers across the street, most likely to the Campton, if only because I can't for the life of me think of where else she can be headed on that side of the street, stumbling in that direction. I watch her stagger for a bit until I'm accosted by an idiot who calls me "Big Guy" and asks me what's happening.

Heading up Post, toward home again, a man offers me an "electronic man." At least it wasn't a woman's necklace and actually it did look pretty cool- like an R2D2 version of a Jerry Mahoney mannequin. I overhear a man tell his date to "go pee" and she wanders in front of me and into a doorway.

One of my least favorite neighborhood crackheads asks me for " a quarter, or anything at all," as I pass by him, my reply stone silence for what feels like the millionth time.

Heading down Leavenworth a couple wrestle playfully with one another. I think the rest of their night will go well.

Back on my own street, approaching my building, a guy dressed as Super Fly is yelling at someone walking ahead of me, vehemently calling him a "stupid, dirty motherfucker."

Home again.

Dedicated to Fog City Notes.

Sympathy for the Devil

Pleased to meet you...

Last week I wrote of the Oakland show Charlie and I attended and it's been on my mind sporadically since. I realized the Stones were in peak form that night as they began "Sympathy for the Devil." The intro sounded more tribal than I've ever heard it performed before, permeated with menace. It stands as my favorite experience of hearing them live. When I was a kid it was a cool-sounding song, but the lyrics were really a bit beyond my comprehension- they hinted at things I just hadn't experienced in life- and wouldn't for some time.

Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste...

My first visit to New York City was in 1992. On the Saturday night I was there I went to see Miss Saigon and during the intermission I met a woman with whom I dined after the show. We had a long, leisurely meal and conversed about theater, New York, and the perils of childhood celebrity. She told amusing and tawdry anecdotes about her youth and her peers, many of which were enormously entertaining.

Later that night after we parted, I went down to the Village in search of a piano bar and ended up at Arthur's tavern, which wasn't very crowded. Al Bundy was playing that night. The place had a horseshoe-shaped rail around the piano, and I was seated opposite Bundy. 


A short time later two men strode in, both impeccably dressed. One looked to be in his late 20's, perhaps early 30's, Latino, handsome and well-groomed. The other easily in his 50's, a faintly regal air about him, hawk-nosed, sharp eyes, an impressive head of hair. He wore the most gorgeous overcoat I had ever seen. I think it was black cashmere.

They sat down to my left and in a short time we were engaged in a convivial conversation. The younger man was Cuban, the older Bulgarian. They had previously met in Miami and were now on a first date weekend. Their names were Carlos and Augustin.

After another half hour or so, only a couple of other people had come into the bar and the three of us were pretty much the only lively patrons. Augustin, the Bulgarian, abruptly broke the thread and asked me if I'd like to accompany them to another club. I declined, saying this would be my last stop of the night. We chatted on a bit, and then he asked me again if I would like to join them. Again I declined, and the conversation carried forward. 

Augustin made one more attempt, this time adding they had a lovely car to ride around in. Carlos leaned over to me and assured me I would truly enjoy the car. It wasn't that I'm a car enthusiast so much as a growing curiosity about where this all might lead which led me to agree to join them. I'd never met anyone quite like these two.

"Drago! Warm up the car!" Augustin barked to no one I could see in his thick accent, which gave every word an extra syllable and consonant.

I hadn't noticed him before- he must have been behind a curtain or something- but suddenly this incredibly tall man who looked somewhat like Dolph Lundgren impersonating the Addams Family butler appeared before us wearing the whole ensemble- cap, long coat with epaulets and piping, gloves- it was ridiculously fantastic. He nodded at Augustin and without saying a word headed for the door. 

As Drago was outside warming up the car, we put on our coats. Carlos again assured me I would enjoy the car. He said it was a very special car.

Stepping outside, there it was, parked in the street, gleaming. I helplessly smiled, then laughed. There stood Drago in all his finery, holding open the rear door of an old Rolls Royce.

"This is the car?" I asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Yes," beamed Carlos.

"Do get in, please," said beckoned Augustin.

Carlos got in first, I followed, and the Rolls' owner behind me. We all sat in a row on the back seat, I was in the middle. It was my first time in a Rolls (and so far, my only time). It smelled like a leather bakery. Everything was immaculately polished. It looked like it had just come off a showroom floor.

"This is a 1955 Rolls Royce Silver Dawn and I only furnish it with things from the year 1955," Augustin said with relish as he opened the bar and spread his hand before the contents, "that includes the liquor and the music."

He took three crystal glasses from their designated place and laid them with precision on an inlaid tray. He suddenly seemed quite sober. Carlos leaned over to me and said, "Beautiful, isn't it? He picked me up from the airport in this. I couldn't believe it."

I couldn't believe it myself.

Some music started playing- I think it was Sarah Vaughan. Drago pulled away from the club and we starting cruising through the streets of the Village, chatting away. Augustin handed me a business card. It was the kind that folded, with lots of embossing on the front, which bore a crest and something in Cyrillic script, with the name of his eponymous foundation underneath in Roman. I opened it and read the addresses in Sofia, Paris, and New York and thought to myself who the hell is this guy?


My host suddenly faced forward and said languidly "Drago, take us to the Spike."

A look of brief alarm crossed over Carlos' eyes and the name of the place set off a bell in the back of my brain. Soon I noticed we were driving along the waterfront. Before I left for the City people had assured me New York was perfectly safe- "just stay away from the waterfront at night," everyone said, and now we were driving along it headed toward the Spike, which certainly didn't sound as cheery as Arthur's Tavern. I noticed the buildings and streets started to look deserted and empty. Then up ahead I saw a crowd on the street and a lone light bulb suspended above a dingy-looking place. We pulled up in front of a leather bar.


Augustin almost bounded out the door of the car when Drago opened the door for him, and he followed his driver to the rear of the car as he opened up the trunk. When Carlos and I got out Augustin was removing his overcoat, followed by the coat of his suit, and handed them to Drago, who placed them carefully in the trunk. Drago then lifted a fringed, black leather jacket from the trunk of the car and assisted Augustin in putting it on. He looked ridiculous, but his face bore a distinct look of satisfaction.


Carlos whispered in my ear, "This isn't my thing. Let's have one drink and then I'll get us a cab- I'm sorry about this- I'll give you a lift anywhere you need to go."


"Shall we, gentlemen?" our host asked, escorting us through the nasty-looking throng gathered in front of the bar's scuzzy entryway.


I won't describe the interior- it was too dark and grimy to be even amusing. A large percentage of the clientele looked either ill, desperate, or angry, in many instances a combination of all three in equal proportions. I noticed the bandannas right away.


We walked up to the bar, behind which stood a dead ringer for Mr. T.. Augustin immediately gave him an attitude, which was returned in spades. I thought there was going to be a fight, which would have easily been a massacre- Augustin was no match for this guy at all, but that didn't stop him from jerking his chain non-stop from moment he spoke to him, every word soaked in derision.


Carlos told Augustin he wanted to leave. 


"Just one drink!" Augustin protested.

Carlos moped, then ordered. "I can't stay here- I hate this scene," he said to me.

Feeling stuck, not really knowing what to do, and at a loss for something, anything to talk about, I asked Augustin what the bandannas meant.

And did I regret that. He gave me the entire rundown, illustrating what each color meant by singling out someone in the bar and then describing in great detail what he was seeking, announced by the color his of bandanna. He finally turned his attention to a thin, pale, very sick-looking young man, a boy really, who leaned up against a post while a bear attempted to maul him. Augustin then described in explicit detail, a certain glee underneath his sadistic leer, of what he was going to do to the young man. And that was really it for Carlos, who grabbed me by the arm and escorted me out into the night, straight into a cab, back to Midtown. Along the way he apologized profusely and asked if I was free the next day. I said I had plans, which was true, but even if I didn't, I would have said the same. As we said farewell to one another, he handed me his business card. Carlos was a doctor. I wished him well for the rest of the weekend.

Augustin, this one's for you. You are indeed a man of wealth and taste, with a penchant for fisting strangers. I still have your business card. Woo woo.

And if you've never seen it, here's the Altamont performance from the film Gimme Shelter, still unnerving all these years later:

And happy birthday, Mick.

Monkey Man

What can I say? I know it's been days since I've put up anything, including the Stones song of the day. I have no excuse, except perhaps because I was gouged and I was gored, but I pulled on through....

If one were to declare Let it Bleed to be the best Rolling Stones album they certainly wouldn't get an argument from me, and on some days, I might even agree.

Postcard from Morocco

The cast of Postcard from Morocco. Photo by Kristen Loken.

Sitting in the Cowell Theatre last night for the Merola Opera Program's production of Dominick Argento's Postcard from Morocco, I felt alternately flummoxed and intrigued. Flummoxed because I couldn't quite grasp why the word "masterpiece" is so often used in discussing this particular opera, yet intrigued by moments of it that are certainly brilliant, even if the whole left me somewhere in the middle between admiring it and thinking it a failed attempt at operatic postmodernism.

About midway through its long one act I also wondered why Merola chose this particular vehicle, finally concluding the opportunities it provides for seven singers to really strut their stuff trumped a desire to present something more audience-friendly- or at least more coherent. And yet that's not really fair, because director Peter Kazaras delivered something with quite a lot of meat on its bones. It's really just a question of whether or not most will have the palate for it.

Postcard From Morocco finds seven people on a train platform, who are identified by the items they carry in place of a name. There's a Lady with a Hand Mirror, another Lady with a Hat Box, a Man with Shoe Sample Kit, a Man with a Paint Box (whose name is eventually revealed as he becomes the protagonist), etc. Are the everymen? Archetypes? Illusions? Ghosts? Does it matter? It soon become obvious that these characters are theatrical inkblots- you'll see them through your own perspective and everyone will have a different interpretation of what or who they're meant to represent. A plot doesn't exist- the libretto by John Donohue seems like something William S. Burroughs would have concocted from a Paul Bowles story. In its details it's a mess, but the whole still somehow works.

As the assembled would-be travellers gather onstage (they never do board the train), the Man with the paint Box is watching, but he's apart from them, not of them. Suddenly a horribly loud train-whistle screams- and the Man with the Paint Box, turns to the audience and screams along with it, his face twisted into Munch-like agony.

From there Paint Box alternates between interacting with the others and watching them- the line blurs, and as one scene follows another the absurdity of the character's actions and words never gel into something comprehensible. By the time everything stops for an interlude which recalls a visit to the Bayreuth Festival (complete with Wagner excerpts and dancing) it becomes clear the Man with the Paint Box is insane and the people on the platform are either figments of his imagination or what we're watching are the memories (often persecuting) of someone suffering a schizophrenic episode on a train platform. At least that's my take on it.
This gives the performers license to go over the top, and the young Merolini take every advantage to do just that, aided in no small part by Melecio Estrella's well-chosen choreography. They chew up every scene with relish and Argento's score provides each singer with moments to stand-out. Aviva Fortunata, Joseph Lattanzi, Matthew Scollin and Andrew Stenson all acquit themselves well. Suzanne Rigden hit some impossibly high notes dead-on, Carolyn Sproule smolders as A Foreign Singer vocally and visually, and AJ Glueckert as the Man with a Paint Box gives a decidedly nuanced performance. I wish Mark Morash's conducting would have taken greater care to bring out the more romantic elements of the score by slowing things down a bit to create a more hallucinatory sensation, but since the whole thing seemed to constantly totter on the edge of a cliff I can understand why he wanted to keep it all on a speedy track.

The costumes by Kristi Johnson were quite perfect. The lighting design by Justin Partier and Nicholas Muni's set succeeded well at providing a contemporary sheen on its decidedly retro look. In the pit, Sun Ha Yoon's keyboards, Paul Psarros' guitar and the percussion work of Scott Bleaken called attention to the many interesting moments within the score. The Cowell's house chorus of seagulls, offstage as always, were especially vociferous, ensuring there was never a moment of silence.

Hand of Fate

It's been two months since the Femme Fatale met her demise. Today's Rolling Stone song commemorates not her untimely death, but her violent legacy. There were a number of contenders for this, including, not surprisingly, a couple from Dirty Work, but after thinking it over this one from Black and Blue  sums it up best: He shot me once, but I shot him twice.

Ray of Light's Sweeney Todd

Adam Scott Campbell and Miss Sheldra in Ray of Light's Sweeney Todd. Photo by Claire Rice.

When I first read Ray of Light Theatre Company was going to produce Sweeney Todd this summer I thought it a perfect fit for the company that likes to push things toward the edge. I expected dark, Grand-Guignol, and filled with dark humor- and this would have pleased me immensely, mind you. However, the company surprised me by opting for a display of brains over blood and delivers an exceptionally understated, thoughtful version of Sondheim's masterpiece now open at the Eureka Theater. It's a brilliant take on this American classic which blurs the line between musical and opera.

There's an awful lot to like here, but let's start with what I think is the chief reason this Sweeney works so well: the actors are not miked for this production. Yes, that's correct- a work of unamplified musical theater. Just when you thought the thing had vanished from the earth forever Ray of Light has brought it back- and fucking Hallelujah for that! While at times this resulted in a few inaudible lines, overall it creates some tremendous advantages that are well exploited by this cast and crew.

It also requires some careful work by the musicians, and since Sondheim's music has been reduced from the original score's twenty-six instruments down to five, everyone needs to know what they're doing and this ensemble certainly does, essentially recasting the entire thing into a chamber opera. In charge of it all is Sean Forte conducting and playing piano. Seated with him on the right side of the stage is Robert Moreno on additional keyboards and percussion. On the left side of the stage are Bill Aron on reeds, Zach Taylor on bass and Lucas Gayda on violin. Robbie Cowan is credited as Music Director and "additional orchestration" and while I'm not sure what that means, the music is so well done I don't want to leave him out. Not to slight the others in any way, but it's really the work of Forte and Gayda, both of whom are exceptional, that makes this thing work. I found myself constantly drawn to what they were doing musically. Nice work, gentlemen.

The lack of amplification allows the singers to create portrayals that come across as disarmingly human, something rarely seen with this play- well, okay, I've never seen it done with this play, period. Adam Scott Campbell's Sweeney Todd isn't a monster, a bloodthirsty loon, or larger than life in any way. He's a broken man, hell-bent on revenge and driven by grief. If the audience can't quite approve of his methods, they are at least understandable. Campbell also has incredible range, and is most effective when he sings softly, allowing Todd's anger to become something palpable from the stage, and when he ratchets up his performance to full throttle the result is a Demon Barber of Fleet Street of incredible depth, nuance and determination.

In fact, that's one of the huge pluses in this show- by scaling it down and making it more intimate, everyone's motivation becomes identifiable- something hard to see in the usual bloodbath, and the music, reduced though it is, is given room to breathe. And breathe it does. "Johanna" never sounded so lovely and "Beggar Woman's Lullaby" comes off with alarming potency. If some of the lyrics of "Priest" and "The Ballad of Sweeney Todd" are swallowed, well, that's unfortunate to be sure, but a trade-off I'd take every time.

Campbell's revelatory performance is nearly matched by Miss Sheldra's Mrs. Lovett, whose futile attempt to snare Todd as a partner in more than pie-making is also pushed illuminatingly into the fore. They don't have the same goals, but their goals make them expedient partners. The rest of the cast is solid with special kudos to Matthew Provencal's Anthony and J. Conrad Frank's hugely entertaining Beadle. The show is intelligently directed by Ben Randle, sharply costumed by Miriam Lewis and the appropriately gritty lighting is by Cathie Anderson. See it.


Next year Ray of Light will be doing one more Sondheim work to complete a three-season trilogy, and while I don't have this confirmed, I'm keeping my fingers crossed they'll also be presenting the U.S. premiere of Mark-Anthony Turnage's Anna Nicole.

The Rolling Stones: first recordings - 1963

Before their first eponymous EP, the band released two 45s. The first was Chuck Berry's "Come On" with Willie Dixon's "I Want to be Loved" as the B-side. Their version of Berry's classic stuck and became a staple of later shows and compilations. In his book, Richards writes "Come On" is "very different from Chuck berry's version, "it's very Beatle-ized, in fact." The Dixon song sounds like a complete misfire in the beginning, until the band hits the bridge with a mean harmonica solo (Jagger's) and some tasty guitar work. It's almost painful hearing Jagger trying to imitate Black blues singers in this early recording- he sounds fey and self-conscious, but there's still something compelling about the track.

The second single was Lennon and McCartney's "I Wanna Be Your Man," which was released three weeks before the Beatles version. Legend has it Lennon and McCartney had started the song previously (it's primarily a McCartney tune) and finished it while huddling in a corner with the Stones in the room and then handed it over to them. The nasty slide guitar solo by Brian is short but hot, and the Stones version has a lascivious bite to it completely absent on the Beatles version. The B-side is "Stoned"- a group track credited to Nanker Phelge, it's essentially a blues shuffle with  minimal, leering lyrics; a rolling piano solo by Ian Stewart, and some mean harmonica in the background accompanied by some fierce guitar. What stands out about the two 45s is the raw energy of the guitars and the solid harmonica playing. For an English band playing American music, it was clear from the beginning the Stones had done their homework. It's also interesting to note the Stones' persona as the antithesis of the Beatles was there from the very beginning. Credit Andrew Oldham for that one.

The EP, The Rolling Stones, features four tracks: Chuck Berry's "Bye Bye Johnny"- a follow up to "Johnny B. Goode" with an almost identical sound but lesser lyrics; Berry Gordy and Janie Alexander's "Money (that's what I want)" which has a nice rawness to it- again covered by the Beatles, who sound like they'll sleep with you for it while the Stones version implies they're going to beat it out of you; Arthur Alexander's "You Better Move On"- a country-tinged song with some unfortunate backing vocals which make it sound horribly dated, but the guitars and the rhythm are as dead-on as the guys could do at this age. The roots of the country-drenched Beggar's Banquet and Exile can be heard in this early cut. The EP closes out with "Poison Ivy." The Leiber/Stoller track has none of the fun of the Coasters' original, and in the hands of the Stones, Ivy sounds less like trouble from the neighborhood and more like the girl who gave you crabs for the first time. There's an interesting comparison between the Stones version and one released by the Dave Clark Five (which sounds like early surf music) in the same year available here.

Release dates:
"Come On" b/w "I Want to Be Loved": 6/7/63  (recorded 5/10/63).
"I Wanna Be Your Man" b/w "Stoned": 11/1/63  (recorded 10/7/63).
The Rolling Stones (EP): 1/17/64- U.K. only  (recorded 8/8/63 and 11/15/63).

All of the above tracks are available on the compilation Singles 1963 - 1965, and can be heard on MOG.

Love is Strong

New Year's Eve, 1993. I'd been seeing a woman named Anastassia, a cabaret singer, for a couple of months and she was singing that night at the Mason Street Wine Bar. I got there around 10 PM- the place was pretty packed but I managed to catch her eye as I walked in door. She growled a line of "My Funny Valentine" and gave me a wink.

I looked around for a place to hang fire for the next couple of hours. Not much room, then I noticed a guy standing at the bar in a white dinner jacket- an act of old-school defiance I could appreciate. There was an empty space next to him. Anyone with the balls to where an outfit like that in this town was someone I could be friends with, so I introduced myself to Charlie and asked him what a finely-dressed fellow like himself was doing there on New Year's Eve.

It turned out he was hoping to meet Anastassia. He wanted to start singing around town and the bar's owners, with whom he was long friends, suggested he try to charm her into accompanying him on a couple of songs if not this night, then sometime in the future. I told him I'd be happy to facilitate an introduction. Thus started a legendary friendship which continues to this day, albeit in greatly altered form, which in its early years revolved around three things- booze, women, and music. God, I miss those days.

Charlie could do a near-perfect imitation of Robert DeNiro and sing like Tony Bennett. He also liked the Rolling Stones and when Voodoo Lounge came out and started appearing on jukeboxes in the bars we frequented across the City he would always include "Love is Strong" when he put some money in, and then sing it like DeNiro doing Jagger and to this day I can still see his ridiculously curled-up sneer vividly in my mind, relishing the lyrics, "You make me hard, you make me weak," to some dame on a stool. It worked absurdly well, because it was designed to be nothing more.

Months later we went to see the Voodoo Lounge tour when it came to Oakland. We ended up with seats right near the little stage that popped-up somewhere near 2nd base. It was the best Stones show I've seen to date. In fact it was fucking amazing.

The video for "Love is Strong" is delightfully stupid nonsense directed by David Fincher before he started making films. High on style and completely devoid of substance, it perfectly mirrors the song in that way, which has typically banal lyrics but some incredibly incendiary guitar work. Those four piercing notes on each side of the line "What are you scared of, baby?" just could not be more perfectly placed.

But it's the 100 feet-tall version of the Stones traipsing across New York City in the video that link Charlie, the Oakland show, and the song in my mind. On the way home that night, I met a girl on BART. From where I was seated she looked to have been at least 6' tall (in fact she was 6'3") and she had on boots with four-inch heels. I've always admired such statements, but it was Charlie, drunk, who prodded me to chat her up. I had dismissed the thought as soon it entered my mind because while she really tall, she also looked really young.

And she was. 10 years younger than I in fact, but that turned out to work in my favor that winter as I spent most of in the company of that tall, young, traveling nurse, who had a thing for shorter, somewhat older guys. We made a beautiful team. Charlie and I, that is.

Salomania

Maud Allan

When Patrick told me Mark Jackson's Salomania was one of the best things he's seen at the Aurora Theatre my first question was did the mania in the title refer to something Wilde or Pasolini's film? I would be interested in the former but don't think I could stomach a play based on the latter. Receiving the answer I hoped to hear (and should have expected given the source), I bought some tickets. It was only later I remembered how often our opinions diverge on theater.

A super-condensed plot outline: American dancer/performer Maud Adams finds herself in trouble with the English courts for portraying Oscar Wilde's Salome and being a member of something called "The Cult of the Clitoris." She and the other 47,000 degenerate cult members are seen as the gravest societal danger facing European society in the aftermath of the Great War by a certain blue-nosed editor named Noel Pemberton-Billing. It's an earlier 20th century version of the People vs. Larry Flynt, all based on real-life people and events.

The program for Salomania has a note from Mark Jackson where he writes:

What those involved in the particular events dramatized here felt inside, and much with regard to their true motives, remains a mystery about which one is free to speculate... 

The mystery as to how so many intelligent , prominent people could say and do many stunningly outrageous things is indeed the question that grabbed a lasting hold of me when I first encountered this story. Not having an answer baffled and compelled me. It is my hope that the play will do the same for those who encounter it. Ultimately the play is less about its characters than it is the anxious, hysterical society that shapes them.

And that indeed could be a capsule review of his play. If you read his statement casually the first time, and I admit I did, you might be under the impression the playwright was interested in creating his own take on what those mystery motives actually might have been. You might think he'd provide an interpretation of what initially baffled and compelled him and reveal it to the audience. You might think he might want to create a portrait of who these people were who said and did these outrageous things- or at least create a fantasy about their real identities and motivations.

But on re-reading it I realized he wasn't interested in that at all. What he wanted the play to do was leave the audience as baffled and compelled as he was. Well, he hit .500 on that score. I was baffled by the fact that we spent 2 1/2 hours with these characters and even after all that time knew almost absolutely nothing about who they were and what motivated them. But I don't find that to be compelling theater, and the idea that one can experience a society, anxious or not, via the unexplained, unexamined actions of individuals living within it is just not a very interesting idea. It's like looking at a photograph of a street corner to understand the geography and character of an entire metropolis.

There are some excellent scenes, and some very well-written dialogue, but in the end they don't add up to more than parts of an unsatisfying, incomplete whole. The actors are all first rate, especially Madeleine H.D. Brown as Maud Allan (she strikingly resembles the woman she's portraying) and Kevin Clarke in a couple of roles (he is hilarious as Judge Darling). A scene which takes place in a bar between Marilee Talkington and Alex Moggridge is so well executed I wish it was in another play so we could learn what became of their characters. But Jackson leaves us in ignorance of his characters futures and pasts (except inevitable death), and offers hardly a clue as to what's really going on in their minds at the moments depicted in the play. It's a pity there isn't more to Salomania, because Jackson's certainly right about the premise being compelling. The theme of what motivates people to say and do outrageous things is an increasingly relevant topic in our contemporary political climate, but those motivations are never explored here. The play reflects our own anxious, hysterical society as much as the one depicted on stage- titillation and innuendo rule, and no one is much interested in why a woman would take her clothes off, only in that she did. 


Hopefully we'll have Patrick's take on it soon.

Salomania runs at the Aurora through July 29.

In a hidden red room, watching Dido

Once in awhile I find myself in the strangest places. For example, early last Saturday evening I entered the Wattis Room- a gorgeous, capacious hideaway within Davies Symphony Hall. The deep red walls, upon which large mirrors and abstract art are hung strategically, were as inviting as the buffet laid out in the center of the room. The ceilings must be twenty feet high, allowing conversations to float upward, instead of across the room. Even with everyone chatting at once one can't really overhear any conversation other than the one with which one is engaged and that seems to be by design. The room feels clubby and exclusive. In the corner a sat a grand piano. I knew the chance of hearing it played this evening were slim, but I did hold out some hope. It wasn't that I wanted to hear the piano itself. What I wanted was for someone to sit at that piano and accompany the guest of honor.

Scanning the crowd she was easy to spot with her long blonde hair, looking dazzling in a long pink coat. We had never met before but I was determined to change that before I left. I made my way over to the two people in the room I knew and chatted them up a bit. A bit out of sorts, since I was unexpectedly stag for the evening, I meandered and struck up a conversation with a couple of warm, older gentlemen, who shared some inside information I found interesting but should keep to myself, because perhaps they'll invite me back again if I don't share all the dirt.

Suddenly a brunette struck some random keys on the piano, creating a discordant sound within the room bringing all conversation to a halt. The guest of honor was introduced (though it seemed many present already knew her) with a recitation of her accomplishments and biography. Twenty five years ago she was a young woman living in Midland, Texas with a dream and a unique talent. An audition resulted in a phone call and soon she was on her way to California for the first time, bags packed with summer clothes, completely unaware that a summer in San Francisco is not the same thing as a summer in California.

Unlike many of her peers, she spent most of that summer studying roles rather performing them in front of people, and it obviously paid off, because when she finally did perform for an audience that summer, she won the highest award given. Since then she's reached the highest levels of acclaim, Gramophone calls her "America's favorite mezzo" and really, when you think about it, who else could it be but her? On this night she was joining a short list of only six other people who have been similarly honored: Thomas Hampson, Patrick Summers, Ruth Ann Swenson, Carol Vaness, Deborah Voigt and Dolora Zajick.

When she spoke she was funny, warm, and sincere, naming many in the room and offering the highest praise for the program honoring her this evening, calling it the "best in the world" and telling Director Sheri Greenawald "I say that even when you're not in the room." She told us of her just-concluded travels around the world, and connected these experiences to the those she had with this group twenty-five years earler.

When she finished speaking a tall blonde clad in head-to-toe black armed with a big camera snapped away while well-wishers queued up to speak to her. Out of the corner of my eye I watched her admiringly from the buffet, sampling coconut-encrusted shrimp on skewers and soon found myself talking with a woman of a certain age, a charmer named N______, who also had some interesting stories and anecdotes. I could have chatted her up for awhile but I realized if I continued to do so I would miss the opportunity to introduce myself to the center of attention. I excused myself and found an opening.

I introduced myself and she was incredibly gracious yet open. She did let one small thing slip: the next time we would see her locally onstage would be in Berlioz's Les Troyens, in 2015. I didn't have the presence of mind to ask if she would be singing Dido or Cassandra (I presume it's the former), as I found myself too taken by her.

After that what was left to do but casually slip back into the cool crisp night, back to a far less well-appointed room just blocks away but in what might as well be a different universe, where Thaïs awaited, and upon my entrance performed a scorching "Ah! je suis fatiguee a mourir!"

Congratulations, Susan Graham, on being awarded the Distinguished Alumni Award from the Merola Opera Program.


Former Merola Opera Program President Patrick Wilken, Susan Graham, Donna Blacker. Photo by Drew Altizer.



Before They Make Me Run

Today's Rolling Stones song of the day is dedicated to Bashar al-Assad. Your father would be proud of you.

Pass the Wine (Sophia Loren)

I'm glad to be alive and kicking...
My blood is up, my pulse is quickening..

For days now, I've had this song in my head, often from the moment I first awake, its lyrics taunting me with their near-perfect encapsulation of my current existence, its shuffling funkiness accompanying me from the bed into the kitchen and later into the street, where I often spot the one-legged hooker heading home on her crutches while I'm sitting there with my first cup of coffee and a cigarette, hearing ... Sometimes things don't work out the way you want, I don't know if I'm gonna laugh or cry... Got to be alive and kicking, glad to see the plot is thickening... so pass me the wine, and let's make some love.

What Sophia Loren has to do with any of this is beyond me, but since it is Sophia Loren who really cares. If I were to create a video for this tune it would have to use the scene above from Ieri, Oggi, Domani. Looking at that photo it reminds me that Marcello Mastroianni is the only actor I ever really wanted to be.

The harmonica playing is Jagger's. Out of all the bonus tracks on the Exile re-issue, this one is my favorite, though it sounds to me like it belongs on Tattoo You.

Sometimes things don't work out the way you want
I wonder why, I wonder why - ah yeah
Sometimes mistakes come back to haunt you, babe
And I don't know whether to laugh or cry, yeah...

Slave

"Slave" is my favorite song from Tattoo You. Always has been, always will be. I didn't imagine the band ever made a video for it, so while I was looking for an online version of it this morning I was surprised to learn there were a few out there, as well as this juicy little tidbit I was unaware of- that the song was originally recorded in 1975 as "Black and Blue Jam"- which makes sense, as it could have easily fit the style of that album. An alternate title from 1975 is "Vagina." That makes sense to me too. That version has a harder edge, more guitar-oriented, lacks vocals and is missing the sax solo which would later be provided by Sonny Rollins.

Apparently there are at least four different versions of "Slave" floating out there (if you know of more, leave a comment why dontcha?), and while it was tempting to post the longest, it's not the most interesting. The band pretty much got it right on the version released on the album, which features the best vocal track. The eleven-minute long version is has some really interesting stuff toward the end, where the reggae influence suddenly smacks you in the head at about seven and a half minutes, but as it was originally released, this thick slab of funk is pretty damn perfect.

A master class with Carol Vaness

Carol Vaness and Rolando Villazon in a Merola master class in 1998. Photo by Lisa Kohler

Despite having seen her perform half a dozen times, I was still taken aback when Carol Vaness walked onstage at the Herbst Theater last night to begin a master class for the Merola Opera Program. She looks fantastic. I could go on about this but I won't because it's beside the point, which is that Vaness' class was incredibly illuminating.

I've found master classes to be an excellent way to learn about the art and craft of opera singing and what's really involved in making it work. Attending them has made me a better listener, giving me a greater appreciation for what a singer is doing (and how). There's an awful lot to absorb in a performance and it's been my experience that the more I know the more I appreciate what I'm seeing and hearing (or in some cases, why I don't). All of this, of course, is meant to encourage you to attend one if you never have, and the Merola season offers excellent opportunities given by teachers of the highest caliber.

Vaness, who has starred in most of the world's leading houses and now teaches voice at Indiana University, worked with five singers. What was really interesting about last night was what she did with the wide range presented to her- the performances ranged from one derailed from the start by nerves to one so polished and effective there seemed little if anything to be improved. And yet with each student, within a space of time ranging from 15 to 25 minutes, tremendous progress was achieved by all, even with the one who pretty much killed it from the get-go, who not only got even better, but was given some seriously good for thought regarding his choices of material and how it could limit his career.

Vaness not only brought her formidable experience to the exchanges, but also keen intelligence, genuine warmth, and an obvious interest in the success of her charges. I learned at least a half-dozen things to watch and listen for of which I was previously unaware and even more to think about regarding the choices a singer makes. Whether you're new to opera and want to learn more, or a seasoned enthusiast who relishes in the finer points and details, I doubt you'll walk away from these master classes unimpressed and without knowing more than you did when you walked through the door.

There are two more for this year's Merola participants on the schedule: Thursday, July 26, with Steven Blier and Tuesday, August 7, with Martin Katz. The singers are not announced beforehand. Both will be held at the Herbst Theater and begin at 7:00 PM (they last about 2 hours).

Satisfaction

It's too obvious a choice and it wasn't going to be until I heard I guy singing it while I was walking to work this morning, and then it hit me that there really couldn't be a better choice to begin The Rolling Stones song of the day.

This live performance was filmed in 1965 for the British television show "Ready Steady Go!"



"Satisfaction" was the last number of a three-song set, which can be seen in its entirety here.

The Rolling Stones @ 50

It was 50 years ago today, July 12, 1962, that the Rolling Stones performed their first gig at the Marquee Club in London. The Stones were formed in April of 1962. I was born a month later, making us contemporaries of a kind. I find that the older I get the more I appreciate them in ways unmatched by any other performers of popular music, with the possible exception of James Brown. When I was younger, the Stones were never my favorite band but they were always there, and now, oddly, they're there more than ever as I become increasingly fascinated by their music, legacy, and longevity. If I have a favorite band now, it is certainly The Rolling Stones. I know it's only rock and roll- but I like it.

The Rolling Stones, July 11, 2012. Photo by Rankin.

My recent deep interest in the group began by reading Keith Richards' autobiography Life, and since the book's sold more than a million copies, I doubt I'm the only one. For me, the best parts about Richards' book aren't about his feelings about Mick Jagger, his relationship with Anita Pallenberg or his bouts with drugs. It's when he writes about the music that the book really comes alive: how he adopted five-string tuning to get his unique sound; recording acoustic guitars through the tiny amps of cassette decks in order to get something just right; his approach to how rock should sound; and how his musical influences have manifested themselves within the music of the Stones. It's fascinating reading and has prompted me to go back time and again to listen to the music, hearing it differently now. I also appreciate Jagger's lyrics much more now than I did when I was a kid.



Richards once said something along the lines of "Nobody complains about Muddy Waters still being out there touring- why do they criticize us?" And yet there's the rub-  Muddy Waters performed until he died in 1983, at least 25 years after his most influential work. The most recent album by the Stones, 2005's A Bigger Bang, was no embarrassment to their legacy and is a strong enough album that had it been released in the 80's, would have resulted once again in the press claiming "a long overdue return to form" (which some indeed did).

Did I need to hear it? No, of course not. But it did present a recent chapter in the continual evolution of a group of extremely talented, knowledgeable musicians who had been performing together at that time for over forty years. And that creative longevity interests me. While a similar case can be made for the likes of Paul Simon, Paul McCartney and a handful of others, what can I say? They just don't rock me the way the Stones do. Nothing they've ever written has held a life-long hold on me like "Can't You Hear Me Knocking" and "Midnight Rambler" have managed to do. If I never heard either Paul's music again I doubt I would notice- but I would with the Stones.

Anyway, they certainly don't need me to justify their legacy. The music speaks for itself. I'm just fascinated by how well it's held up. So to mark their anniversary, I'm going to be posting thoughts on their 29 studio and 10 live albums over the next few months, starting in chronological order with the first releases. The early albums which have US and UK versions will be combined.  Links to the tracks and albums at MOG will be included in each post. If I haven't exorcised the bug by then, maybe I'll include the films. Compilations (there are 30 so far) will be left out. For the record, the first album of theirs I bought was Get Yer Ya-Yas Out!- and yes, I still have it.

And yes, I do plan on being at Glastonbury next year for their final gig- which will be thirty five years after I saw them for the first time in 1978. Until then, let it rock- while it would be difficult to choose a very favorite song, this is certainly one of the contenders:

The Scottsboro Boys- a musical bamboozle

As Susan Stroman and John Kander related it in a public conversation moderated by ACT Artistic Director Carey Perloff before the run of The Scottsboro Boys began, Stroman, Kander and Fred Ebb were sitting around a kitchen table discussing which court trial they could use as the basis for what would end up being Kander and Ebb's final collaboration. When the trials of the Scottsboro Boys were mentioned, the principals involved knew right away that was the one they would go with, and the results are now onstage at ACT's Geary Theater. I can understand the appeal- a tragic story of injustice, a distinctly American form of racial injustice, which all these years later sadly still has relevance. It probably did seem like a good idea, even though supposedly there were nine others famous trials under consideration (none of which were revealed during the conversation).

I wish they would have gone with OJ's instead.

There are two major flaws with the Scottsboro Boys. The first should be apparent to anyone with more than a passing familiarity with an earlier work by Kander and Ebb, also based on a sensational trial, called Chicago, from which large chunks of the music and dramatic structure of Scottsboro seems to have been lifted. I guess if one is going to steal, it's best to do it from your own work, but still, I found it distracting at first and eventually annoying by the time the character Haywood sings "You Can't Do Me," which has an almost identical intro and setting as Roxie's big number "Nowadays" in Chicago. The second, and there really is no delicate way to put this, is that this was the wrong material for this particular creative team- a group of older, successful, white people who have spent their lives in the theater world.

Yes, I know, here's a huge can of worms. I am now holding a fork in my hand. Let's take a bite, shall we?

First, let me clearly state I don't believe one must be of a certain race/orientation/gender/add-your-own-whatever-here to be able to effectively understand and capture the experiences of another. Read that again, please. However, it does present a challenge, and probably a lot of work, to pull it off successfully. The best example with which I'm familiar with is Joyce Carol Oates' novel What I Lived For, though there are certainly others from all across the arts. The problem with The Scottsboro Boys is that it doesn't work despite all of the obvious sincerity of its creators to do right by their subjects. Designing the play as a minstrel show only exposes what's missing, which is a basic understanding of what it really feels like, to paraphrase the best line in the play, "[to be] guilty because of how you look" and it also doesn't capture the frustration of the unjustly accused and incarcerated.

Though the book by David Thompson is expertly researched, and despite a lot of thought-provoking moments, it isn't really the story of these nine boys who were hauled off a train in Alabama in 1931 and wrongfully accused of raping two white women, and the travesty of the trials which followed. We never really learn much about them as individuals beyond how they fit within the group's dynamics within the theatrical construct. The sole exception isHaywood Patterson, whose book about his experiences was useful source material and thus emerges as the main character. But it's a portrayal of Patterson as representative of the group rather than an individual portrait of a real man. He's the only "boy" who gets his own numbers, and the two other solo slots go to the character of their lawyer and another doing a routine in drag. Patterson's the stand-in for the rest of the guys- and he'll have to do because it would take too long to tell everyone's story. Besides, there's an audience to entertain and enlighten, so even Patterson doesn't emerge as much more than a stock figure.

But it's the play's implicit attempt to "enlighten" (or educate) the audience that left me feeling really uncomfortable. At the conclusion of the performance I attended, the (mostly white) audience stood and gave the cast a thunderous standing ovation. That's not unusual- standing ovations have become the norm, at least in large San Francisco houses, and I suspect after a nearly two-hour show without an intermission most people wanted to get up from the horribly cramped seats in the Geary Theater. That's not to say the cast isn't good- actually it's great, with Clifton Duncan as Patterson and Jared Joesph as Mr. Bones both delivering exceptional performances (and Duncan is a solid triple-threat). The only exception is Hal Linden's Interlocutor, which seemed like a performance meant for an entirely different play, one being staged at a small dinner-theater house in Barstow.

But as the audience clapped and hollered its approval, I couldn't help but feel like I was in the middle of a white-guilt exorcism, that a healthy amount of that applause was the audience saying, "Yeah, we get it- it was a terrible thing that was and it still is- so we support you with our applause!" Kind of like a theatrical version of this. What goes unasked in The Scottsboro Boys is what can we do about it? Is there anything that can be done about it? Why is this still happening 80 years later? And really, shouldn't a play that's going to raise these issues also raise some questions?

It's not as if what landed the real Scottsboro Boys behind bars has changed all that much in the last eighty years. That truth is implied, and explicitly acknowledged only once by the line mentioned above. But the rest of the time there's entertainment to be had- the show wants to have it both ways and I suppose based on the solid reviews of it from other quarters it largely does for most folks. But it didn't for me.- in the end the minstrel show format of the play, meant to be the archest form of irony, was little more than a real minstrel show. Those nine boys, and everyone else who has been judged to be guilty because of how the look, deserve more.

As I was leaving the theater I found myself thinking about the montage of film clips at the end of Spike Lee's Bamboozled.  Lee's film (one of his best and least seen) is about a black television executive who creates a contemporary minstrel show featuring black actors in black face in an attempt to get fired. But his white boss, who thinks he's blacker than the executive, likes the idea and puts it on the air. The show, laden with the most offensive racist stereotypes imaginable, turns out to be a smash hit. The montage at the film's end drives home the point of the film with devastating clarity and poignancy. It's actually heartbreaking to watch. I'd like to think The Scottsboro Boys was aiming for something similar and missed widely, despite the good intentions of its creators. But as I pass by the theater every morning on my way to work, and I look at the poster advertising the show, which features the cast smiling broadly under their newsboy caps and dancing joyfully with tambourines in hand, I'm always struck with the uncomfortable thought that what the poster is saying to many people, without much irony, is "Come see the dancing Negros!"  And there just isn't enough in this show to make them regret doing just that.

The image used to promote "The Scottsboro Boys"

The actual Scottsboro Boys. They deserve better.

Merola 2012 kicks off

Chuanyue Wang

The Merola Opera Program's 2012 season kicked off last night with the annual Schwabacher Summer Concert- the first in a series of performances designed to showcase this year's participants; 29 young artists selected from over 900 applicants, of which 23 are singers. There are a number of behind-the-scene events for donors and followers, including master classes and receptions, but the performances are what really matter. Reputations are launched, careers start to take shape, and for those in the audience the pleasures are two-fold: getting to hear some excellent talent right now, and the satisfaction of knowing many of these singers are going to have prominent careers, thus giving the audience future bragging rights to say "I saw [insert famous name here] back in the day when they were in Merola." It's also fun to sit back and try to figure out who onstage is going to turn out to be a future star.



Hadleigh Adams



Last night there were nine singers onstage (the different performances feature different participants, giving each a prominent showcase), and though everyone onstage had talent and ability, and I think it a bit of a mug's game to play Cassandra with this stuff, three of them were pretty sensational: Chuanyue Wang- a tenor from China; Hadleigh Adams, a bass-baritone from New Zealand (who elicited a declarative "He's hot" from Thaïs); and Seth Mease Carico, another bass-baritone from Tennessee. Remember those names.











Seth Mease Carico



The Merola season continues with a free concert in Yerba Buena Gardens tomorrow afternoon at 2:00 PM, followed performances of Dominick Argento's Postcards From Morocco on July 19 &21, Mozart's La Finta Giardiniera on August 2 & 4 (all at Fort Mason's Cowell Theatre), and concludes with the Grand Finale concert on August 18th at the War Memorial Opera House.  Tickets can be purchased at the San Francisco Opera box office Monday- Friday from 10:00 - 6:00 (5:00 on Mondays), or by calling 415 864 3330.