Yuja Wang: No more questions

It's easy to be distracted by her extraordinarily high heels and even shorter dresses; by her speed, her  youth, her curves, and the sometimes shocking amount of force emanating from such a petite person. A sexist perspective? No doubt, but sex is part of the package and for past couple of years Yuja Wang's gotten pretty far with it. Exploiting culture's more prurient side with seemingly little effort while appearing mostly indifferent to all the noise, she just kept doing her thing, touring and performing around the world. People asked questions, she answered. She performed, they gawked. Houses filled with expectant buzzes for her performances. People became interested. They talked about her. She's become the one classical musician many people can probably name besides Yo-Yo Ma.

However, an  impolite question began to linger in my mind after each dazzling performance: is she really that good, or is the hype around Yuja a case of classical razzle-dazzle? Would these performances have the same impact if the person onstage was an unnattractive woman in a boring dress or a middle-aged schlub in a tux? How much of her reputation is built on sex-appeal? That's she's tremendously talented is beyond question- don't think I'm implying anything to the contrary- but there are many highly skilled performers who aren't chosen to be in ads for Rolex watches. Granted, she's not the only classical musician sporting the watch but even on Rolex's site the hype for her grander than that of her peers: "The technique of a master. The imagination of a genius."

Is it true? 

After attending her first solo recital at Davies Symphony Hall last night, I would say yes, it is.

Though I arrived on time at Margarita's apartment, she was naked when she opened the door, deliberately so, and we ended up taking our seats at precisely 8:00 PM. I didn't mind cutting it so close. At 8:05 Yuja strode onstage in six-inch heels wearing the same red dress she wore when I saw her perform Rachmaninoff's 3rd with the orchestra in June of last year. I have to admit that was a bit disappointing. I thought fashionistas kept databases on this sort of thing to avoid repeats. Isn't that a rule? Never be seen in the same dress, at least at the same place, twice? The second time around it has less impact, so I actually did pay close attention, often with my eyes closed, on what I was actually hearing.

Her account of Prokofiev's Sonata No. 3 was played completely at the edges- either extremely fast, breathtakingly so at points, and with great force, or gorgeously slow, with impeccable nuance and control. She followed this with the beginning of a long foray into Chopin, performing his Sonata No. 3. Later would come the Nocturne in C Minor. and the Ballade No. 3.  I became lost at some point during all of this Chopin, as it dawned on for the first time really, truly and deeply, how much of a fucking genius he was: how incredibly modern-sounding and ahead of its time his music is. I've listened to a lot of Chopin, and I've never heard him performed in a manner which brought out these modernist-sounding elements.

When she returned to the stage Yuja had on a different dress obviously by the same designer (both feature a vertical panel running down the backside which at the right angle creates a fantastically curved silhouette- a plus for a performer with a penchant for raising her right haunch off the bench as she performs). This number was black, with a matte skirt below sparkly top, separated by a peek-a-boo gash above the right hip. Neither I nor Margarita liked it at all. It looked like something a young woman from the suburbs would wear for a night of clubbing in San Francisco at a club filled with other suburbanites out for a night of clubbing in San Francisco (like this place).

So when she sat down and began playing Nikolai Kasputin's Variations for Piano, Opus 41 I was lost, thinking she has just decided to wing it and play an unknown-to-me variation on Gershwin. You see, I didn't read the program notes, and Yuja decided to change the order of the selections from what was printed. Always read the program notes beforehand, people. If I had, I would have realized what I was mistaking for a Gershwin theme was actually inspired by Stravinsky's Rite, which I've heard in so many guises over the past year it's come to sound like everything. I was expecting classical, and what I was hearing was drenched in jazz. Soon I stopped caring what it was, mesmerized by the sound, this dense, lush, rumbling collision of two genres without preference of one over the other. It's an amazing piece  (Marc-Andre Hamelin has recorded it).  You really must hear it- listen to this. But the point was that Yuja Wang was playing jazz and doing it like she was Brad Mehldau.

Had she stopped here the recital could have easily been seen as a triumph, but what came next was one of those rare moments that concert-goers live for. A performance of Stravinsky's Three Movements from Petrushka that was so exciting you could feel it taking root in the audience, then spreading through it so that by the time she made her way through the final movement of the Shrovetide Fair there was a sense of electricity coursing through the hall. Something truly special had just taken place. For her efforts she received one of the most sustained (and deserved) standing ovations I've ever seen in the hall. She encored with Art Tatum's arrangement of Tea for Two (like the red dress, a repeat from last June), Horowitz's Carmen Variations, and Kocsis' arrangement of Rachmaninoff's Vocalise.

She also definitively answered my impolite question with the best possible response, which was to make me wonder how I ever had the temerity to ask it in the first place.

ZOFO duet: four-handed heat

ZOFO duet at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music. Photo by Matthew Washburn.

According to the cheery young woman in the cage selling tickets for Keisuke Nakagoshi's recital at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music last Friday night, there weren't very many tickets left, so I chose the one which seemed most ideal out what remained and upon entering the hall wondered almost out loud what the fuck was she talking about? A decent-sized crowd filled the room, but I could have selected a much better seat based on what I was seeing with my own eyes, though to be fair there was a lot of musical events happening in the City that night and some people probably double-booked, changed their plans, or got out of Bonnie Raitt's set at Hardly Strictly Bluegrass later than expected.

This only really began to bother me after I sat down next to an old queen who immediately started to chat me up. Somehow the subject of the San Francisco Symphony came up (rather quickly, in hindsight), and he said, "Oh who cares about them? They only play circus music!"

I asked him to explain what he meant by that, which was a mistake on my part (I've made so many lately) because that was the opening had been seeking all along in order to let me know he used to take clarinet lessons from the former Principal of the Symphony and it was he who said all they played was "circus music," and on he yammered with great ostentation.

I tuned him out at that point, thinking of another old queen who lives in my building who will tell anyone who will listen that he was an opera singer and sang with Joan Sutherland, and tell them repeatedly. He is hell to be with in the elevator, as he always asks me "You like opera, right? Did you know that I...?"  Now he hobbles along on a cane and has little better to do than befriend young women with low self-esteem who live in the building and then turn viciously against them. A seventy-something mean girl with a penis. It's so unattractive.

Feeling the frost, the queen said to me and the air around us "There seems to be plenty of seats, so I'm going to go sit where I can see the hands."

"Toodles" I replied, not bothering to look up from my program.

Then a woman sat down directly in seat in front of me. She was pretty, perhaps nearing 40, perhaps far short of it, and apparently alone, as she turned her head to give me a look I felt was intended to be noticed. What I did notice was that she had the most remarkable long, graying hair which complimented her black and white-striped dress and colorful bohemian-flavored jewelry. She played with her Iphone for a moment and then removed a copy of Michel Foucault's This is Not a Pipe from a smart leather bag. Now I guess that's not too unusual in itself, but this was the third time in little more than a week this particular book had come across my path in one form or another. I had seen Magritte's image somehwere recently with Margarita and that led a conversation about the book, and I believe it was Patrick who also brought it up during a lunch we shared only days before and now I was distracted from the program notes as my mind tried to recall the threads from those earlier conversations.

As I was thinking about the implications of what life would be like if everyone was suddenly reading Foucault, Nakagoshi strode onstage with Eva-Maria Zimmermann, his partner in the Grammy-nominated ZOFO duet, he looking quite dapper and she graceful and elegant, and they played Nakagoshi's own composition entitled Synaesthesia, which according to his own notes in the program is a condition that both Scriabin and Messiaen shared, which essentially means they heard sounds as colors. Nakagoshi took inspiration from this to write "an atmospheric nocturne that is filled with twisted sororities which might give the listener a synaesthetic experience, not necessarily with visions but also smell or taste." it didn't quite have that effect on me, though I did find it interesting.

Next Nakagoshi performed a piece from 2007 by Mason Bates titled White Lies for Lomax, which is built on "distant blues fragments- more fiction than fact" and true to Bates's style, incorporates electronic elements in the form of what sounds like an old radio broadcast of field music which encroaches on the pianist toward the end of the piece. I found that interesting as well, though for some odd reason once the recording entered it made me think of Moby's song "Run On." Nakagoshi followed this with  Rachmaninoff's Piano Sonata No. 2, combined of  elements of all three existing versions (Rachmaninoff's 1913 original, his 1931 revision, as well as a later revision by Horowitz) which resulted in a thrilling display favoring bold technique and intelligence over passion. That choice wouldn't normally be how I would want it, but Nakagoshi convinced me his was the right one.

Toru Takemitsu's Rain Tree Sketch followed the intermission and truth be told it made little impression on me, perhaps owing to my anticipation of what was coming next: the return of Zimmermann to join him in Stravinksy's four-handed version of The Rite of Spring, which I'd never heard performed live and had been looking forward to for weeks. Nakagoshi sat to Zimmermann's left and as they performed the piece together an inevitable physical closeness developed between the two of them that became as compelling to watch as it was to hear. Thinking about it now I can't help but wonder if the physical act of performing the thing is somehow inherent in its overall design, as if Stravinsky deliberately desired the performers to become intimates while playing it. 

It certainly felt that way as the personal space between Zimmermann and Nakagoshi dissolved as they worked their way through it. Nakagoshi would thunder over the slashing minor chords and then lean back slightly to allow Zimmermann access to the middle keys, and in doing so she would lean gently into him. A mixture of  erotic and voyeuristic overtones became present in the performance, obviously magnified by the music itself, to which both seemed willing to submit. At the climax (sorry, but there really isn't a more appropriate choice of words here) each traded turns at rising off the bench with the music of the "Sacrificial Dance," playing with complete abandon, perhaps unconscious of the image they were evoking, perhaps not caring. It was like watching two people have sex on a piano bench. It was hot, electric, and fantastic.

ZOFO duet's next local concert takes place October 20th at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music (free admission). Check their schedule for additional concerts across the country. This concert was part of Conservatory's Alumnae Recital Series. Check their calendar for addtional upcoming concerts

Emanuel Ax plays Beethoven

Although it was almost 20 years ago I can still remember the precise moment I fell in love with Beethoven. I don't mean when I started to like Beethoven- I mean when his music became something of an obsession with me. At the time I was living in an apartment above the post office in La Honda (pop. 500), working at an Italian restaurant near the Stanford campus, and taking a survey course on Western music appreciation at a community college. The class had progressed through Bach, Vivaldi and Mozart and though I had taken to playing The Four Seasons in my car at a volume level usually reserved for Social Distortion, I hadn't yet experienced that moment where it all made intuitive sense to me. An upcoming assignment was Beethoven's Piano Concerto No. 3, so after checking my Penguin Guide for some recommendations I picked up a copy of Emanuel Ax performing the 3rd and 4th, with Andre Previn conducting the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra (RCA), at a local store.

It must have been after dinner when I put the CD in the player because I remember it was already dark outside. I was alone, so I turned the volume up pretty high and sat down on the couch. The disc came with no liner notes so I was just sitting there listening to what sounded pretty good Mozart on steroids for about three minutes when orchestra heaved three times and fell silent. What came next I could only relate to as a monster riff. It was like hearing "Smoke On the Water" or "Whole Lotta Love" for the first time. Though the orchestra had just played pretty much the same theme, hearing it coming from the piano was a revelation. The thought "now that's rock and roll" popped into my head, and my obsession began. By the way, I found the rest of the disc to as compelling, and once I heard the 4th Concerto I wondered why we were studying the 3rd, since the 4th was so obviously superior (I still think of it as being one of Beethoven's very finest compositions- certainly it's the best of the piano concertos).

So needless to say I've always had a soft spot for that particular recording, though until this week I had never seen Ax perform in concert. But now here he was, in town to perform the 3rd with the San Francisco Symphony. I had been quietly looking forward to this concert for weeks.

It began with Mahler's Blumine, which received a gorgeous performance less than a year and a half ago but I welcomed the opportunity to hear it again. It offers Principal Trumpet Mark Inoyue an outstanding showcase of which he took complete advantage to show off his formidable skills with a series of elegantly elongated notes that melted into one's ears. Concertmaster Alexander Barantschik was equally impressive.

While the piano was being raised to the stage I tried to eavesdrop on what the two ladies seated next to us were saying to composer Samuel Carl Adams, who sitting alone in front of them, but I couldn't make any of out as I was also paying attention to Margarita's narrative about an upcoming adventure she has planned. I found it intriguing to see Adams here, and wondered if there was one particular piece that drew him to this program.

Ax's performance was everything I had hoped for, and even taking my sentimental bias out the picture, he and the orchestra were marvelous. I noted in a post at the beginning of this year how foolish I had been to choose not to attend many of the concerts featuring the standard rep in recent years, and here was another reminder of how good this orchestra is with the basics. MTT and Ax were in perfect sync with each other, taking the 3rd at a robust tempo in the first movement, amplifying the early heroic tone of the work, noticeably bringing out textures which make it seem hard to fathom this is 200 years old because it sounds so thoroughly contemporary in many aspects. As Ax soloed through the first movement I thought that someone hearing this for the first time in 1804 must have felt the same way people did when they heard Eddie Van Halen's "Eruption" in 1978- "well, no one's done that before," since Beethoven was incorporating new design elements for the piano into a composition for the first time. And even if one isn't susceptible to the pyrotechnics, Ax was still remarkably on target with it, never showy, but very precise and noticeably engaged with his fellow musicians at every moment. They kept it up all the way through, and Ax received one of the most deserved standing ovations I've witnessed in some time. He returned for an encore- Schumann's "Des Abends," which only left me wishing there was more.

The second half of the concert looked quite odd on paper but turned out to be something I would like to see a lot more of in the future. MTT explained he modeled this half of the program based on his experiences at USC attending the salons of Jascha Heifetz, where short pieces would merit the same attention and level of dedicated performance as would normally be found for longer works. Copland's music for the film version of "Our Town" was first, and though the program stated it was about nine minutes long it felt like twenty for some reason, though that's not to say I didn't enjoy it the first half of it before I felt like we were driving around it in circles. Shorter gems from Debussy, Delius, Sibelius, Rachmaninoff and Delibes followed, and it worked quite well. More, please.

As we were leaving the concert I learned Ax was signing CDs in the lobby, so I did something I never do and stood in line to thank him personally. He was quite gracious about it, which only made me like him that much more.

Catching up, looking forward... (odds and ends)

Paradise: Love

Though I’ve seen Marc-Andre Hamelin perform a couple of times in the past two years I had yet to be swayed that he was really all that, as so many claim. My opinion changed after hearing him perform with the San Francisco Symphony last month in a terrific concert which featured the pianist soloing in Ravel’s Concerto For the Left Hand as well as Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. Hamelin performed with nuanced beauty and a heady authority during the Ravel and if the Rhapsody didn’t quite reach the same heights it was due to conductor David Robertson’s less than wholly convincing control over the jazz elements in the score, which resulted in a performance which sang but didn’t quite swing. The concert also featured a knockout opener of Elliot Carter’s Variations for Orchestra and closed with Ravel’s La Valse. I’ve said this before but I’ll say it again- it’s inexplicable to me that Ravel is not given more respect as a composer- he was as good and often better than any of his contemporaries. During the intermission Lisa Hirsch and I had fun trying to determine the identity of the timpanist, Michael Israelievitch, who was terrific and hopefully is being considered for the seat being vacated by what-his-name.

In the second of three concerts in their inaugural season, Curious Flights celebrated the Britten Centennial with a diverse program featuring the Valinor Winds performing the Movement for Wind Sextet, the Friction Quartet with violist Jason Pyzowski performing the Phantasy in F Minor for String Quintet, tenor Brian Thorsett in a stunningly gorgeous Canticle III¸and best of all, Movements for a Clarinet Concerto- a work cobbled together from an unfinished concerto originally intended for Benny Goodman. This was performed by what was essentially a 50-odd piece pick-up orchestra featuring Curious Flights founder and prime mover Brenden Guy as the soloist, and led by Marin Symphony Music Director Alasdair Neale. Hearing this orchestra one would have never guessed they were organized for this particular concert- they sounded well-rehearsed and played at an exceptional level all around. The next program by Curious Flights, Transatlantic Crossings, will take place on October 18^th and will feature collaborations between contemporary British and Bay Area composers, performed in the concert hall of the San Francisco Conservatory of Music. Tickets ($15 GA, $10 for students) are available here. Program here.

Last weekend at The Lab in San Francisco’s Mission District, the Other Minds Festival brought Rhys Chatham to town as a warm-up of sorts for the November West Coast premiere of A Secret Rose (100 Guitars). Chatham was one six people playing electric guitars (with all amps seemingly turned up to “11”), and with a phenomenal drummer whose name a didn’t catch and a bassist who provided a booming Geezer Butler-ish bottom, they tore through an enthralling re-working of his Guitar Trio¸ renamed G3 to reflect the additional instruments. It was the most exhilarating 30 minutes of music I’ve heard all year, and I can’t wait to see what’s in store come November 17th. If you’re a local guitar player who wants to take part, contact the Other Minds Festival or apply online here- they are looking for people to participate ranging from talented amateurs to serious pros, and the rehearsal time will be minimal, but it promises to be a maximum pleasure, maybe even the event of the year.

This coming week has the SF Symphony performing lots of Stravinsky, and over at YBCA I'm really intrigued about the screenings of Ulrich Seidl's Paradise trilogy- three films under title Love, Faith, and Hope happening now through June 30th. Check their website for the full schedule, but the films are being screened sequentially so don't wait- Love only has screenings left on 06/15 & 06/16. It's not necessary to see them all, but if it turns out to be your kind of cinema it would be a shame to miss one. Note that the films are deemed provocative and controversial, raunchy and explicit- Seidl had been compared to Fassbinder by none other than John Waters. Works for me. And of course Ojai North is taking place this weekend- last night's performance was, in a word- sensational (more to come on that).

Yuja plays Beethoven

How much time do you have? Photo by Rolex/Fadil Berisha

The Center Terrace section at Davies is always interesting people watching. The only regular I espied last night was the drooper in the golf hat, who always sits in the same aisle seat, legs sharply crossed, head hanging down as if he's sleeping, which I'm pretty sure he isn't. But last night an exceptional array came out, no doubt to see what Yuja Wang would do with Beethoven's 4th Piano Concerto. There was this guy, resurrected and now wearing a saffron suit in place of a robe, and this guy, who turned out to be a woman on closer inspection, this guy, who's traded in his tux for a bearish lumberjack in a flannel shirt look, and two dowagers dressed to the nines sitting in the center of it all, one of whom kept looking around as if asking herself what had become of all of her peers.

Samuel Carl Adams must feel pretty good right now. Back in October the Symphony premiered his new (and first) work for the orchestra, which they also commissioned- a piece called Drift and Providence, which received good notices and silenced anyone who thought some nepotism may have been somehow involved in this coup for such a young and seemingly inexperienced composer, who has a famous father named John. And here they are, playing it again on a highly popular program featuring the red-hot Yuja, whose appearances nowadays are almost guaranteed sell-outs. Well, I liked the piece the first time I heard it, and I like it as much the second time, where it's form became really apparent and surprisingly easy to digest, though I don't think that's because it's simple music. For some reason, I just started following the tri-tones in it, which actually reminded me of Black Sabbath's eponymous song from their eponymous debut album, which has actually been on my mind lately, but that's another story altogether.

As it opening "Embarcadero" section was unfurling I realized this piece would make the perfect accompaniment to the new light show on the Bay Bridge. Like it was the first time I heard it, we had already drifted into the "Drift 1"section before I realized we had done so. During the Divisadero section, I enjoyed the sound of the lighthouse's foghorns, though it felt incongruous attached to a section with such a name. Somewhere along this section the the man in the saffron suit looked toward heaven, his mouth agape, and never moved again for the remainder of the evening- as if he had suddenly froze in a moment of religious ecstasy or anticipation.

Yuja Wang came onstage wearing a richly-hued purple gown that almost looked sapphire blue, gathered in the back to give her a surprisingly Kardashian-like silhouette, with a crepe-like lower half and black, five-inch, patent leather spike heels that looked divinely painful.

She bowed deeply and from behind the bench, which for some reason struck me as odd, and then sat down. For me, the interesting thing about these concerts was what she would sound like performing a more nuanced, thoughtful piece like this one instead of the finger-busting Rachmaninoffs, Prokofievs and Bartoks we usually hear her perform. A piece that required, well, for lack of a better way to put it, a more intellectual interpretation than a physical one.

MTT helped shape the interpretation by having the orchestra play a gorgeous, sensitive accompaniment that brought the heroic romanticism of it to the fore. Yuja followed, though she exploded a little harshly over the faster parts of the first movement and I detected more than a couple of mistakes from her left hand. That's not a bad thing- she was making calculations and taking risks. Some paid off, others didn't, and if the general impression she left is that she can play anything, she also left me thinking perhaps she should take on this particular piece in another ten years when she can feel it more acutely rather than think her way through it. Her sensitive playing during the second movement changed my mind a bit, except when she would abruptly pull her feet off the pedal. Seeing her take it on at this stage of here career will make it interesting to see what she does with similar pieces in the future- there's no doubt Yuja Wang will be drawing audiences for a long time.

Brahms' Symphony No. 1 followed the intermission, and though I have tried, dear reader, to understand what people find so wonderful about Brahms, I just can't seem to find that particular door. Brahms bores me, and though the second movement featured an exquisite performance by Concertmaster Alexander Barantschik, I found myself happy for all the wrong reasons when it was over.

Note, if you are attending the Friday night concert, Davies After Hours will feature Tin Hat, a really great band featuring the brilliant Carla Kihlstedt- make sure to check them out. Most of the seats for this series are gone, but call the box office for turn backs or see what's available online here.

Yo-Yo Ma & Kathryn Stott

Oh, shut up- you already know what he looks like. Besides, doesn't the background in this photo of Kathryn Stott by Lorenzo Cicconi look like a Gerhard Richter painting? 

A couple of weeks ago I saw Yo-Yo Ma and Kathryn Stott perform together in UC Berkeley's Zellerbach Hall. I can't decide if being Yo-Yo Ma would be a wonderful or terrible thing. I do know it sort of sucks to write about one of his performances. What can one say that hasn't been said already? Is possible to separate the man's abilities on a given night from his aura and reasonably critique his performance at this point in his career? To say something negative, anything at all, would make one appear petty, spiteful and small, because not only is Ma such an extraordinarily gifted performer, but his spirit and sense of generosity toward the audience, and his fellow artists, pervades every moment he's onstage.

Even if it were true there would be very few people who would even believe you if you ever said, "Yo-Yo Ma? He was just okay." I wonder when the last time was when that was actually true. He's gotta have an off night too, right?

Maybe. Maybe not. Because Yo-Yo Ma is just a little bit different that you, I or your everyday classical musician. I suspect he knows this to some extent, and it's how he wears this knowledge like a loose garment that is so incredibly damn flattering. What I find complelling about the world's most famous and recognizable classical musician is he is always willing to share the spotlight. He knows he can't avoid it, he can't escape it, so he might as well share it. And that's the mark of a uniquely confident and generous soul. And a class act.

Because Stott and Ma have a long history together, she seemed as comfortable as one could be for being in the decidedly unenvious role of the musician no one is paying to hear. However once the music started none of that really mattered and if one couldn't quite view them as equals on the stage, they were certainly peers and partners, which yielded a number of rewards since it never felt like "The Yo-Yo Ma show, accompanied by Kathryin Stott." Credit the canny selections performed by the duo, beginning with Stravinsky's Suite Italienne, which allowed Stott ample time to ingratiate herself with the audience before Ma tore into the Tarantella and reminded everyone who they came to see.

Of the three pieces which followed, all from the Latin world, only Piazolla's Oblivion stood out to me as particularly noteworthy, perhaps because none were originally scored for the cello, though the mournful craving of Piazolla's tango-infected music is perfectly suited for the instrument's voice.

That same lack of conviction was felt in Manuel de Falla's "Siete Canciones Populares Espanolas," but only when it came to the cello. Stott was fantastic with these songs, especially in Seguidilla Murciana and the Albeniz-flavored Asturiana. Ma appeared to become almost giddy as he watched her dominate the songs- not ceding the stage to her, but happy to let her take the wheel and drive the performance.

After the intermission came what was for me the highlight of the scheduled programming, Louange al'Eternite de Jesus from Messiaen's Quartet for the End of Time (Quatuor pour la fin du Temps), which was followed by the evening's most traditional selection, a Brahms sonata (No. 3 in D Minor for those of you keeping score). There's not much to say about either except they were exceptionally played. If you thought my earlier comments were some sort of intimation on my part that Ma was "just okay," well, no- he was as wonderful as we all expect him to be.

Yet for all that, the best part of the concert was still to come during three generous encores. The first was "The Last Song" by Clarice Assad, whose father was in the audience and graciously introduced by the star. Next came Ma's own Cristal, which felt like straight-up Brubeck and found him fiendishly following Stott's own alternating lead hands on the piano's keys like a leopard chasing down a gazelle.

The final piece of the evening was Saint Saen's The Swan, and even this familiar, gorgeously decadent piece, which the pair have performed numerous times together, had an air of freshness and possibility. The sold-out house departed happy, dazzled and delighted once again by the classiest man in the business. The concert was presented by Cal Performances, who have a number of noteworthy concerts coming up, including a recital by the magnificent bass Eric Owens this coming Sunday, and especially the upcoming solo recital next Tuesday by the white-hot violinist Christian Tetzlaff, which promises to be a highlight of the year.

Pandora steals the show from the Emperor

Mark Volkert. Photo by Kristen Loken.

Thaïs had one of those nagging little coughs that usually annoy me when I hear it coming from someone else. Another person seated close to us smelled pleasantly like soap. I was sitting next to a woman I've seen many times before and I wanted to introduce myself, but the proper moment never arrived. 

"Strauss is for old people. I don't like him. It's all 'boom boom bum bum,'" she whispered to me as Michael Tilson Thomas walked across the stage to the podium. 

That was fine. We weren't really there to hear the Strauss, but it turned out to be a fine performance of Till Eulenspiegel's Merry Pranks- one of the composer's tone poems which are beginning to appeal to me much more than they did when I was a younger person. I've become one of the old people, I guess. So is she, but since she's in denial about that I didn't bother to ask her what she thought of it. Till's march to the gallows reminded me of various points of discord in our relationship- after a bunch of pranks, boom booms signal the end is near, a head will roll, and some happy music brings it all to close, right back where it began. Applaud. 

What came next was the world premiere of Mark Volkert's Pandora, a 20 minute piece for string orchestra written by the San Francisco Symphony's longest-serving musician (an astonishing 40 years) and Associate Concertmaster. Volkert certainly doesn't look old enough for that first title, but he joined the orchestra at age 21. That long history has served him well in orchestrating his latest work- an engaging, accessible, yet challenging piece that should be performed by other, adventurous chamber orchestras. A different fate for Pandora would be an injustice and missed opportunity. I hope Nadja Salerno-Sonnenberg was in the house for one of the performances.

Structured in traditional sonata form, Volkert uses the Pandora story as told by Hesiod to create a musical narrative which relates all of sorts of ills being unleashed once the lid's come off the jar (or box in the more familiar usage), but isn't bound by trying to maintain them within the confines of programmatic writing. The opening reminded me of "Fire On High" by the Electric Light Orchestra, starting somewhere sinewy and mysterious, before it plunged forward. The piece contains some dizzying, virtuoso moments for many in the orchestra, including a cadenza whipped into a frenzy by concertmaster Alexander Barantschik, and has a satisfying narrative feel to it. Buzz-sawing violins give way to basses that sound like fiddles using odd string attacks and pitch changes. It's easy to get lost in a new work one hasn't heard before, trying to follow the thread of the music while listening for clues as to where it's headed next, but Pandora kept me guessing in a good way, nicely interjecting quieter moments within its overall quickly-paced structure. The ending felt right, but wasn't telegraphed in advance. When it was over I observed something rare- Nadya Tichman beaming with obvious delight. The audience gave it a well-deserved warm reception and Volkert, who was seated in the Symphony's VIP section in the Loge off the left hand side of the stage, looked enormously pleased.

During the intermission, while Thaïs queued for a vodka, I went outside to smoke. A slightly weathered, red-faced man in a bright blue shirt stood eyeing me. He was older than I by ten years at least, possibly twenty. I debated whether to approach him and make some small talk about the music we just heard, or take the more common, contemporary option of looking for something fascinating and urgent to read on my phone. I decided to go old school and actually talk to another person rather than stare at my phone while waiting for Thaïs to appear, knowing she could easily get waylaid. My choice yielded dubious results. 

The man was quite jovial and willing to talk. He lived at the far end of the BART line and was himself a musician- I believe he used the words "semi-pro" to describe himself, which meant that he played music for people in an assisted-living home. He began to explain the opening key of the Emperor, which was to be played next, and he did indeed appear to know all of the notes, which he exhibited in a sort of human beat-box delivery, one hand playing the notes on an air piano, the other holding his cigarette and drink. I listened and watched approvingly.

Then Thaïs appeared, so I made introductions. However, I had misheard his name, on which he corrected me. It seems his dentures often caused people to misunderstand him. He then popped them out with his fingers for a visual demonstration. Thaïs and I looked at each other, and I knew I was going to hear yet another lecture later about why I should quit smoking so she doesn't have to wait around for me and endure such people.

Out interlocutor/denture demonstrator then asked where we were from and we replied we lived here in town, which surprised him.

"You two don't seem like San Francisco people," he said.

"Really? Why not?" I asked.

"Well, most San Francisco people are snobs, I think. You two aren't snobs. This place" and here he waved his demo hand toward the brightly lit lobby, "is full of snobs."

I couldn't bring myself to look at Thaïs at this moment- the irony was too great.

He went on about this for a moment or two more, and then noticed people were re-entering the hall, and said he supposed he should get back to his seat. He extended his hand to me in farewell- the same one he used for the denture demo. Time almost stopped in my mind and it seemed like I was having an out-of-body experience as I reflexively took the demo hand and shook it. I wondered where else it had been but managed to stop myself before the entire list of potential horrors grew to a point which would trigger an anxiety attack. Out of the corner of my eye, still in slow-motion, I watched a tight grimace unfurl over Thaïs' face, her eyes hardening into blue steel.

We thanked him for his compliment, and lingered behind, just long enough. 

I waited for the scolding, but it didn't come. Instead she started laughing, "We're not snobs?"

"I guess not."

We re-entered the hall chuckling about this, and I made a beeline for the hand-sanitizer dispenser. 

Back at our seats, we settled in for the second half and Thaïs resumed coughing. 

I've mentioned before that Yefim Bronfman is my favorite pianist and because of that he was the draw for this particular concert, which originally didn't include Volkert's Pandora. However, I wasn't all that excited about what he was playing- Beethoven's Emperor Concerto. That's not because I don't like it. I love it in fact, but somehow it just seemed like an odd choice for Bronfman. Too safe a choice perhaps, for a performer whose recent performances have found him taking on some really challenging pieces. Not that the Emperor isn't a challenge, but it just doesn't feel like one to me at this point. Which seems like a ridiculous thing to actually write down but there you have it. That I would rather hear it performed by a younger, less-established pianist would probably be the best way to describe my ambivalence, and I'd prefer to hear Bronfman perform something more unusual- something which needs to be championed. Salonen's concerto, for example.

Then there's my additional ambivalence around MTT's approach to Beethoven, which can range from the full-throttled, sanguine/sublime end of the scale to stripped-down, lean performances bent on presenting the work as if it were performed on period instruments. I love the former approach, but the latter leaves me cold. I like my Beethoven ruddy, rude and transcendent.

That's not what we got. Now I'll admit I've probably ruined my ability to hear the Emperor correctly. When I first became enthralled by it I used to listen to it while driving in my car, playing it at volumes more suitable for Black Sabbath than Beethoven. Wait- I don't really mean that. Beethoven sounds great at that volume. The problem is a live orchestra is never going to play it that loud. And that's okay if it's performed with gusto and bravado. But on this night at least, everything seemed to be dialed down, with little of the piece's "heroic" character shining through.  The trumpets blended with the horns, instead of standing out clear and bright on their own. Even David Herbert's timpani sounded subdued. The sole bright spot was the string section, which sounded like they were still riding high from Pandora.

Bronfman, meanwhile, performed it seemingly note perfect, and with expressive delicacy at times, especially in the second movement, nicely conveying its sense of wistful loss and remembrance. But it was missing an individualistic stamp which would have raised it above a performance where there was nothing was at all wrong, but there little to be excited about beyond hearing a masterpiece. That's not a bad thing mind you, but this orchestra and soloist have spoiled their audience lately into expecting more. Still, that didn't stop more than a few folks in the center terrace from swaying to the music during the third movement, which was brought to a close with a lively, fast-paced flourish.

Yuja Rachs it again

Something special is developing between pianist Yuja Wang, Michael Tilson Thomas, and the San Francisco Symphony. She's appearing more frequently than just once a year now, and her appearances have taken on the "buzz" of being an event. Saturday night she popped in for a one-off performance of Rachmaninoff's Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini and she'll return on Halloween night to play Prokofiev's Second Piano Concerto. Rachmaninoff's 2nd Symphony is also on the program, which continues for two additional nights with Lang Lang playing the Prokofiev 3rd. It's a going to be a good week at Davies for Russian music.

I wonder what it must have been like to hear Rachmaninoff's Rhapsody the first time it was performed in public in 1934, in Baltimore, with the composer as soloist with the Philadelphia Orchestra, conducted by Stokowski (he was also the soloist the first time it was performed here in San Francisco), long before the music was over-used in film soundtracks to the point where it became a source of parody for "romantic music." I imagine the audience must have been dumbstruck by the beauty in the score. It's still there, but at this point, like one must do with certain Beethoven symphonies, Ravel's Bolero and Vivaldi's Four Seasons, it takes some effort to block out the music's contemporary associations and take it on its own terms once more. It's worth it however, because its absolutely gorgeous, inventive music, and as the late Michael Steinberg points out in the concert's program notes, full of darkness which only make it all the more alluring.

Wang and MTT made this easy to do, in what was perhaps their best performance together at Davies so far, with an outing that was precise without being fussy and brimming with passion. Wang's past concerts here have always been a mix of undeniably superb technique coupled with an underlying question mark about how deep her heart was into of the matter at hand. She dazzles, and brilliantly, but she doesn't smolder. At least I would have said that before this performance, where she went through each of the work's variations with equal intensity and without her propensity to overwhelm. Tilson Thomas and the orchestra were right there with her all the way. There was no encore, which surprised me because the applause for Wang was tumultuous. There was, however, waving of orange towels signalling the Giants had won the game.

The second half of the concert featured Mahler's Fifth Symphony, which the orchestra just performed a month ago in a subscription series. This outing felt less cohesive overall, though principals  Mark Inouye and Tim Higgins were both in exceptional form this evening and MTT seemed pretty loose, waving goodbye to a couple seated in the front of the orchestra section who departed after the second movement. And yes, since I must comment on what Wang the fashion icon was wearing, it was a long, red, backless gown with extremely sexy black platform slingbacks. She looked great, but the real fashion statement this time was displayed on the keys. So much so in fact, this post doesn't even need a photograph of her.

The Repressed Urges of the Middle-aged Male: Its Roots and Its Consequences

The Seven Year Itch certainly isn't one of Marilyn Monroe's best films, but its appeal is pretty obvious and easily falls somewhere between 5 and 8 if one were to rank her films in some kind of qualitative order. It has some great moments and features arguably her most overtly sexual performance as the young woman (never named) who wreaks havoc in the life of a middle-aged married man (played by Tom Ewell). Monroe doesn't ever actually do anything to totally derail Ewell's life, but within an hour of meeting her he's resumed everything he just swore off- smoking, drinking, and carousing and feverishly plots a way to bed Monroe. His secret weapon in the hunt? Rachmaninoff's Second Piano Concerto.

The "Rachmaninoff Reverie" is easily the highlight of the film. Ewell's absurd fantasy works so well because George Axelrod's script skewers male lust with a precise combination of mockery and fondness. Of course it certainly doesn't hurt that Monroe was at the apex of her bombshell years and would never be viewed (or filmed) quite the same way after Itch, since Bus Stop (her next film) proved once and for all she could really act. But even with a lesser female presence as the object of desire, the scene would still work because it's so spot on- men really do conjure up the most ridiculous fantasies when they unexpectedly encounter exceptionally good-looking women.

The other reason it works so well is because Axelrod made a perfect choice by using Rachmaninoff's concerto as the anchor of the scene, creating an amusing parody of its use in Brief Encounter a decade earlier.

In the film Ewell is home alone reading of a book entitled "The Repressed Urges of the Middle-aged Male: Its Roots and Its Consequences" when his wife calls and he steps outside during the call. After hanging up with his wife he's about to go back inside his apartment when a potted tomato plant crashes down from Monroe's balcony, nearly missing him.

His initial anger turns immediately to neighborly forgiveness once he sees Monroe's the culprit. He invites her downstairs for a drink, which she happily accepts. She just has to take her underwear out of the freezer first.

As he's getting ready for her arrival he peruses his albums, pondering out loud what to choose as the soundtrack for the great seduction that's about to unfold: "Let's see... Debussy... Ravel... Stravinsky... Stravinsky would only scare her." He let's out a little gasp, pulls a record from the collection and says, "Here's the baby, Rachmaninoff... give her the full treatment, come in like gangbusters."

He puts the album on the turntable, takes a sip of scotch, pulls a suave drag from his cigarette, and a dreamy look comes into his eyes. Looking off into somewhere only he can see, he goes on, "Good old Rachmaninoff... the second piano concerto, never misses," like he's done this a hundred times before.

As the piece begins, Ewell's dreamy look quickly morphs into a lecherous leer as he looks toward the closed front door of his apartment, and as the piano's opening chords descend into the orchestra's swirling accompaniment, an opaque Monroe descends down the stairs and through the door like a ghost. Monroe has never looked sultrier onscreen than she does here- she's palpably provocative, dressed in a skin-tight gown (tiger striped, no less), to the point where you can almost see steam rising from her. Seen on a large screen, she's perhaps best described as a disruption in the natural order of things.

Ewell is now seated at the piano dressed in a red smoking jacket, nonchalantly playing the piece, and in an affected European drool offers, "You came. I'm so glad."

Monroe writhes at the opposite end of the piano and snarls, "Rachhhhhmaninoff."

He replies "The Second Piano Concerto," as if this was the most inevitable thing in the world for him to be playing.

She looks down helplessly, avoiding his eyes, and says, "It isn't fair."

"Not fair? Why?" he replies, never missing a note.

"Every time I hear it I go to pieces."

"Ohhh?"

She approaches him and asks "May I sit next to you?"

"Please do."

She sits down next to him on the bench and turns her body toward the camera. To the audience, that is. She brings her long, dark cigarette to her mouth and inhales deeply. She sets the cigarette down and begins to caress herself.

Sorry.

Perhaps I'm getting a little carried away here. Well, no I'm not. That's exactly what happens. In the movie, I mean.

Marilyn Monroe on a subway grate in Manhattan.

This entire scene of The Seven Year Itch played through my mind in a flash as I watched Khatia Buniatishvili stride onstage at Davies Symphony Hall last week, where she was the guest soloist with the San Francisco Symphony for- yes, that's right- Rachhhhhhmaninoff's Second Piano Concerto.

Buniatishvili wore a white gown, skin-tight, with rhinestone sequins hugging every curve with cascades of something resembling mohair flowing from her thighs to the floor. Monroe would have applauded it. Monroe would have looked sensational in it. Kind of like she did at Kennedy's birthday at Madison Square Garden, and with a physique rivaling Monroe's, Buniatishvili's entrance caused my brain to fall out my skull, land somewhere on the floor, and roll under the seat in front of me. All I could really think to myself was fuuuuuck as she smiled, bowed slightly and took her seat at the bench, smiling like an ingenue.

It took me about four or five minutes to focus on the music and it was only then I realized that good old Rachmaninoff was having a rather turgid time of it in the first movement, with guest conductor Vladimir Jurowski and the orchestra out of sync with the pianist and nothing coming from the stage that would have made anyone writhe in ecstasy. Though I had a great seat where I could watch Buniatishvili's fingers on the keyboard and see her from a perfect forty-five degree angle, I found myself slightly envious of Alexander Barantschik's view.

The second movement only picked up with the contributions from the soloists of the orchestra, who rendered its lilting theme with grace, but it felt constricted and remained so through the third movement and though Buniatishvili played it with enough physical conviction to make her rise off the bench at moments, it sounded much tamer than it looked. Still, as she took her bows and the audience gave her a standing ovation, I couldn't help but think she's the sexiest woman I've ever seen on a stage. Any stage.

Khatia Buniatishvili on a red carpet in Germany.

During the intermission I stepped outside and encountered an acquaintance. We discussed what we had just seen and heard. I was more interested in the former, he the latter, but I couldn't help wondering if that was a decorous decision on his part and not reflective of his true thoughts on the matter. He was accompanied by a woman who was being accosted by a butch woman on a mission and I was trying to parse out exactly what was going on before giving up and returning inside.

I was seated next to a former rabbi and his wife, who had just returned from a European cruise. I asked him what he thought of Buniatishvili. I didn't ask his wife.

The second half of the concert featured the first North American performance of excerpts from Prokofiev's score for Sergei Eisenstein's film Ivan the Terrible, arranged by L.T. Atovmyan into a kind of mini-opera featuring two singers (mezzo-soprano Elena Zaremba and baritone Andrey Breus) and chorus. It was an exuberant performance all around- the chorus sang with boisterous precision, and the soloists not only sang it well, but seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely. Zeremba was often tapping her feet and moving along to the music, and Breus wore traditional  boots and trowsers, looking somewhat ridiculous with a whip in his hand. Chekov's gun maxim should have been applied here more forcefully than it actually was during "The Oprichniks" sequence. Nevertheless, Jurowski, making his debut appearance with the orchestra, showed why his appearance was highly anticipated, providing real contrast between this part and "Swan" segment before guiding the strings and flutes through the instrumental "Anastasya" segment, which was drenched in the uniquely Russian sound.

Zeremeba conjured her best Ulrica for "The Broad Expanse of the Sea," making me realize it's been too long since she's appeared across Grove Street. "The Fall of Kazan" featured wondferul playing from the tubas (!) and cellos before culminating in a loud finish which sounds like Prokofiev doing Fasolt and Fafner in Russian. "The Glorification" featured some extremely tricky parts for the clarinets, and brought things to an end with Russia united and still standing. It was a blast, and well worth hearing.

The concert began with Scriabin's brief Reverie, which was played so wonderfully it came across as much more than the amuse bouche I expected.

Yuja Wang Rachs a little red dress

Of course I am going to start with the dress because it would be impolite to do otherwise.  After all, if you don’t think that, yes, she does want us to notice, discuss, and think about what she’s wearing, you’re missing the point of why she’s wearing it.  It was again red (she does look great in red), but a deeper, warmer shade than last year’s model, with horizontal pleats similar to those of a cummerbund running its length, the hemline stopping well above the knee but further south on her thigh than the one which caused last year’s ruckus.

It fit like a glove- an expensive, perfectly tailored, hand-sewn glove made of the finest calfskin and it ravished her curves. Ravished them, I tell you! But the most alluring part was the back, which had a wide, vertical seam running down her spine, cinching everything together so the contours of her body were always presented in perfect, high relief. I kid you not, and during the moments when she would lift her right hip slightly off the bench, leaning into the keys, physically giving herself to the performance, carried away by its rhythmic thrust, a most wondrous curved silhouette would take appear. I sat there spellbound, awed, convinced there was no better seat in the entire house.

This is the dress, seen in a photo taken somewhere in Europe in October 2011. The picture doesn't do it justice, but I thought it would be cruel not to provide one. Source: Getty Images/Getty Images Europe.

Yeah, Yuja Wang looked fantastic on Friday night as she slayed Rachmaninoff’s Third Piano Concerto with the San Francisco Symphony, turning in a performance that probably cemented her status as one of the most talented musicians currently playing. So what if she missed some notes and doesn’t burn as intensely as Argerich. What of it?

Wang brought speed, clarity and precision to the extraordinarily difficult passages of the first movement, her fingers and then her hands soon becoming a blur above the keys as she articulated each note. The second movement was gorgeous, so much so that I noticed the orchestra’s musicians craning their necks to watch her- something I’ve never seen them do before. As the second movement flowed into the third, it became obvious she was on a tear, breaking loose from Michael Tilson Thomas’ lead to the extent he glanced over his shoulder as if say, “Whoa.”

But it was too late, Wang was on her way, out there on her own, and though the orchestra sounded wonderful, playing with her in equal volume, instead of behind her, as this score rightfully demands, it was still her show all the way, and even during the sections of the last movement when the soloist and orchestra combine to create those huge waves of Rachmaninoff’s unique romanticism, she could still be heard clearly through it all. If the rolling conclusion didn’t quite deliver on the promise of all that led up to it, it still felt like the final five notes were dispatched with triumphant verve. The applause was huge, as were the smiles onstage and off. She returned for a clever, charming encore of “Tea for Two,” in an arrangement by Art Tatum, which pleased everyone, including MTT, who sat onstage with a look of extreme delight on his face. If she’s this good at this still-early stage of her career, it somewhat mind-boggling to ponder what she’s going to be like ten years from now.

There was more. The first half of the concert began with Faure’s “Pavane”- a bit of pretty-sounding French fluffery which featured principal flute Tim Day quite nicely, and was followed by Sibelius’ Third Symphony, the allegro of which MTT led with a gallant loping, rendering it highly reminiscent of the 2^nd movement scherzo of Beethoven’s 9^th.

This was the first of the final three programs of the Symphony’s Centennial season, and if you missed Wang, there are still two more must-see programs in the next two weeks. The first is a semi-staged performance of Bartok’s Duke Bluebeard’s Castle featuring the fantastic mezzo Michelle DeYoung and the versatile Alan Held in the title role, and those concerts open with Jeremy Denk performing Liszt’s Piano Concerto No. 1. I can’t believe there are tickets available for these performances on Goldstar, but as of today there are, so get yourself one. The final program of the season, for which there are likely few tickets left, has MTT conducting Beethoven’s 9^th, with works by Ligeti and Schoenberg also scheduled. If you can find a ticket, get one. It should be a memorable conclusion to what’s been a marvelous 100^th anniversary season.

Kick some brass

The New York Philharmonic blasted into town for two concerts this week as part of the San Francisco Symphony's Centennial Season programming, which includes a special series inviting the elite American Orchestras to perform music they've commissioned, as well as rep that best represents their strengths over two consecutive nights. Judging by these performances, the New Yorkers can boast of having no equals at at least three things (and Philly ain't gonna top this when they hit town next month, so it's a done deal):

1. They're the best-dressed musicians in the country (especially the women). 
2. They can play faster and louder than anyone else.
3. Their brass section can kick your brass section's ass, no problem.

Ass-kickers extraordinaire

Starting off Sunday night with a boisterous, rowdy version of Dvorak's Carnival Overture, which served notice they came to play, the next piece was for me the main event of the entire visit- Yefim Bronfman as the soloist for Magnus Lindberg's Piano Concerto No. 2. The orchestra just premiered the new commission earlier this month and though its garnered some decidedly mixed reviews, I found it to be hugely entertaining in its back-and-forth pull between sounding like a lost Rachmaninoff concerto and the most sinister of 1950's sci-fi movie soundtracks. The Beast With a Million Fingers turned out to be Bronfman, who keeps upping the ante with every performance he's made here in the past few years, and if the material wasn't as brilliant as what he performed during his finger-busting recital in Berkeley last October, his playing exceeded even that incredible performance. 

Bronfman. Photo by Jennifer Taylor for the New York Times.

Fima- you amaze me. The orchestra kept up with him as he plowed, pulled and pulverized his way through Lindberg's almost maniacally dense score, at times the two were so interwoven it was difficult to distinguish who was following whom in a most thrilling way, especially when the piece hit the periphery of jazz.

Conductor Alan Gilbert began Tchaikovsky's Fourth Symphony with a loud urgency and never let up, taking the warhorse on an unusually high-spirited gallop (hey, Tchaikovsky deserves that groaner). It became apparent pretty early on that this brass section is really something special, especially in the Andantino of the second movement, where they created a burnished warmth as unique as it was inviting. It also became apparent that Principal Timpani Markus Rhoten is one of the best there is, his playing is full of incredible nuance. The Tchaik 4 turned out to be a canny choice, because it gave the principals of every section a chance to shine in a big way, and each rose to the occasion, with special notice due Mindy Kaufman on piccolo, Robert Langevin on flute, and Mark Nuccio's clarinet. The finale contained the most astonishingly loud brass playing I've ever heard and the audience ate it up with a tremendous ovation. I only wish I could hear this section perform some Wagner instead. An encore of Bernstein's "Lonely Town" was a classy way to end the show.

The first night raised my expectations for the second, because what was on the program didn't seem nearly as enticing. It began promisingly, and just as energetically as the first, with Berlioz's Le Corsaire taken at a breakneck pace that was as much fun to watch being played as it was to hear. Unfortunately after that it took a very long time for the night to regain the excitement of that opener. 

Concertmaster Glenn Dicterow, a fine musician, brought what he could to Bartok's First Violin Concerto, but there's a good reason it's a rarity- it's boring, and all of Dicterow's lyricism and nuance couldn't breathe much life into it. It wasn't that much better after the intermission with Debussy's La Mer, which Gilbert led with a light fluidity that became so delicate the impressionistic piece ultimately didn't leave much of one, it's twenty-five odd minute length soon seemed like an overlong series of ripples.

However, the night ended with a bang as Gilbert almost literally wrestled every last bit of oomph out of Ravel's La Valse. I can't understand why many classical music enthusiasts see Ravel as a second-rate composer- for my money he's on par with Berlioz in the top tier of French composers.  For an encore they performed Charbrier's "España," and then Gilbert let the brass take center stage for a gumbo blast medley of dixieland/New Orleans/Creole to close it out that had many in the audience shakin' it.

I'm going to skip the upcoming Philly visit because I'm not a fan of Dutoit. So having heard all the visitors I'm going to hear, I have to say that while New York sounds about as good as an orchestra possibly can, and has myriad strengths, aside from that killer brass section they lack a distinct identity that makes one say "Yeah, that's gotta be New York." If it were a contest, I'd have to say Boston took the series, with Cleveland coming in second.

Lara Downes in the Gulch

Lara Downes. Photo by Rik Keller.

Last Friday night I took a walk as the almost full moon was rising through what used to be called the "Gulch"- a stretch of Polk Street which used to be the seedy, gritty, gay epicenter of the City before the Castro took over. The remnants of that era have slowly disappeared one at a time and I noticed another one had bitten the dust as I walked by the new bar which has replaced Kimo's called The Sandbox, or Playland, or something juvenile like that. It looks dreadful- a dark-wood fishbowl with HD tvs. That pretty much just leaves The Cinch as the last gay bar in the neighborhood. I think I only had a drink in Kimo's once, but I still felt a twinge of sadness to see it go, because the last thing Polk Street really needs is another bar catering to young, white heterosexuals. I also liked that Kimo's had an upstairs where bands would play- even if I never went to go see them.

Almost twenty years ago, CC and I used to go to The Swallow quite often (now the Bigfoot Lodge) because we really enjoyed the piano bar and there were always a host of interesting characters in it. We were almost always the youngest people there, as well as the only straight ones, but none of that mattered to us nor anyone else. Sadly, there is very little of that left in San Francisco, and none to be found in this particular neighborhood. There are only three live music options left- the tiny backroom of the Hemlock (which is like a sauna), the Red Devil Lounge (which happily resembles a bordello), and the classical concerts which take place at Old First Church (which is neither impressive as a church nor an especially inviting place to hear music because of the strange acoustics) on Fridays and Sundays.

I was headed to the church, to hear pianist Lara Downes perform selections from her highly-regarded album, 13 Ways of Looking at the Goldberg- a collection of pieces inspired or influenced by Bach's "Goldberg Variations." This seemed somewhat incongruous to me because I had spent a good portion of the day listening to the Beastie Boys, prompted by news of the death of MCA (Adam Yauch), and listening to the Beasties led to a marathon listening of the first four Run-DMC albums, which left me feeling very nostalgic not only for my own past, but for the time when hip-hop and rap was fun to listen to- an era summarily destroyed by the release of NWA's Straight Outta Compton in 1988, though Run-DMC had set the table for them with their first single "It's Like That" in 1983.

Now I was headed to a church to hear music inspired by Bach, which under the usual circumstances wouldn't seem all that out of the ordinary to me, but on this night it felt strange. I felt even stranger when I entered and found a much smaller crowd than I expected, leaving me wondering where everyone was. I ended up taking a seat in the front row between an older couple and two attractive women of a certain age, thinking the closer I sat toward the piano the better it would sound. People filtered in behind me, making the audience a respectable size, but still smaller than expected. Then again, when I came to hear Heidi Melton here a couple of years ago, the room was inexplicably almost empty.

Downes came out in a flattering, sleeveless yellow silk dress, what looked like 5-inch heeled gold sandals, smiled, sat down, turned on a Kindle placed on the music stand, and began with Bach's Aria. After performing the piece she picked up a microphone and introduced the the program, explaining the logic behind how the pieces were grouped together.

I should probably stop here and tell you two things: the first is that apart from the cello sonatas and the solo violin works, I'm not a tremendous fan of Bach- I admire the music more than I appreciate it, respecting its influence and strengths, but it rarely moves me. The second thing I should reveal is that the sound of this particular piano bothered me to an extent I found distracting, so I spent a good deal of time trying to figure out the source of my displeasure. Was it the piano, the acoustics of where I was sitting, or Downes' playing? While I was parsing through these possibilities in my head I was further distracted by the constant clicking of a camera being used by a woman who was photographing the performance.

It wasn't until the fifth piece of the program, Lukas Foss' "Goldmore Variation" that is all started to gel for me. This was followed by Derek Bermel's "Kontraphunktus" which pleased my ear immensely, no doubt due to the rhythmic link to the music I had been listening to earlier. The contrast of Stanley Walden's "Fantasy Variation," performed with Downes' foot depressing the pedal throughout, and the complete lack of its use during Ryan Brown's "Ornament," was jarring. With the latter being written in only the extreme octaves, I really began to hate that piano.

I decided it was indeed the piano, because Mischa Zupko's "Ghost Variation" contained a number of higher notes that sounded just fine. I know that you're probably thinking I should have come to a different conclusion based on that. Blame it on the moon.

David Tel Tredici's "My Goldberg," was a Romantic slab of beauty, perhaps the work best suited to Downes' talents. After a reprise of Bach's "Aria," she returned to the stage and performed Dave Burbeck's "Chorale" from the Chromatic Fantasy Sonata as an encore. It was a fitting conclusion.

After the concert I hung fire because I wanted to meet her (we've exchanged some emails). While waiting I heard her remark to someone else that she liked the piano, which puzzled me. Downes proved to be warm and gracious when I introduced myself, which didn't surprise me and we chatted a bit. I told her I really hated that piano and she wondered aloud if it was her playing. I assured her it wasn't. I look forward to the next time I see her perform, hopefully on a piano we agree upon.

I left the church, re-entered the former Gulch, and began a weekend that was to hold many more things I wasn't going to like, courtesy of the Femme Fatale, who's return (yes, it's true), has brought no small amount of havoc in its wake.