The San Francisco Symphony wraps up their centennial season with Beethoven's 9th

The San Francisco Symphony wraps up their centennial season with a performance of Beethoven's 9th featuring soloists Erin Wall, Kendall Gladen, William Burden and Nathan Berg. Photo by Kristen Loken.

It seemed an inevitable and right choice for the San Francisco Symphony to close out their centennial season with a four-night run of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. A performance of it, despite its omnipresence, still has the air of an event, as was the case in 1995 when Michael Tilson Thomas began his tenure as Music Director with a program similar to this week's, conducting the Ninth, Schoenberg's A Survivor from Warsaw and three pieces for the chorus by Charles Ives. This time around Schoenberg is still on the bill, but Ives has been replaced by Gyorgy Ligeti, perhaps because of the prominence of Ives' work in the recent American Mavericks festival.

Then, as now, it's a nice bit of thematic programming. On their own, the two works seem radically different from Beethoven's, but when placed together they create a musical symmetry not only commenting and expanding upon Schiller's themes of the Ninth's fourth movement, but as performed here in reverse chronological order of composition, illustrate how these themes have evolved in Western Art music over the past 200 years or so. Or something like that.

The Ninth on its own would have been enough to get me in the door, but to me these concerts seemed designed to put a final exclamation point on a season which had an extraordinary amount of highlights. If it didn't quite feel that way after all was said and performed, that may be due to my heightened sense of expectation.

Chorus Director Ragnar Bohlin led his charges through a ghostly, mesmerizing account of Ligeti's Lux aeterna, five lines of text from a Roman Catholic mass, not a word of which is decipherable as the sixteen-part mixed chorus moves through polyphonic clouds of sound. Alternating between moments which sounded beautiful and frightening, and often both, the nine-minute performance showed off the Symphony Chorus at its finest- at times their voices sounded not human, but seemed to emanate from some great, reverberating otherworldly presence. At others their sound was like that of an organ being played in a vast, empty and echoing cathedral. There really is nothing like hearing a Ligeti choral work performed live and this was an excellent example of why.

Schoenberg's Survivor, lasting only seven minutes or so, goes by too fast for me to really be able to grasp beyond a superficial level. I found my attention focusing on either Shuler Hensley's narration or Schoenberg's spiky music, but experiencing both together as a coherent whole escaped me.

The first movement of the Ninth got off to a ruddy start- it unfolded with neither extreme force nor sleek delineation, with MTT seeming determined to hit a spot between the two extremes. During his tenure MTT's interpretations of Beethoven have proven to be fluid- I've heard him lead stripped-down, sprightly, lean-machine performances, only to revisit the same score a couple of years later and turn it inside-out, as if wanting to savor every morsel found within. Often one can tell where he's going from the beginning, but Wednesday night's first movement really didn't provide much of a clue as to what was going to follow.


The second movement scherzo featured Bill Bennett's oboe to lovely effect in a fleet, though not lean, rendering that never quite captured the score's dancing rhythms. The third movement seemed focused on rhythm over melody, with the pizzicato portions from the strings receiving more emphasis than the bowed. While it lulled my companion to sleep, I found it a curious and alluring choice.


The fourth movement didn't really take off until the orchestra hit the Turkish march with its sprightly rhythm. Nathan Berg's invocation rang with sincerity. Berg held the score in his hands but never once even glanced at it, which I found pleasing. The same was true for soprano Erin Wall, who was, as usual in excellent voice. Mezzo-soprano Kendall Gladen (SFO's Carmen last season) was also in good voice, though once she began singing I don't think she ever took her eyes off MTT, except for occasional glances to the score. Tenor William Burden shone toward the end. Musically, the chorus was simply on fire, delivering an emphatic, passionate performance which rivaled those of the recent Verdi Requiems for sheer power and precision. The orchestra itself didn't quite match these levels of intensity until the last couple of minutes- when everything finally gelled and the music burst from the stage. Had it been that way from the start it would have been phenomenal. As it was, in the end it proved to be a nice way to end a wonderful season, but fell short of being a triumphant culmination of the orchestra's major milestone.

Duke Bluebeard's Castle

Michelle DeYoung, Alan Held, and the San Francisco Symphony inside Duke Bluebeard's Castle. Photo by  Kristen Loken

For the penultimate program of its centennial season, the San Francisco Symphony decided to go big with a semi-staged production of Bartók's Duke Bluebeard's Castle featuring two strong singers, Alan Held in the title role and mezzo-soprano Michelle DeYoung as Judith, his most recent wife. I had never heard it live before Thursday night- it's been more than thirty years since it was last performed by the Symphony, and San Francisco Opera hasn't staged it since 1965, making the opera a rarity I've been looking forward to all season long.

Jeremy Denk opened the show as the soloist in Liszt's Piano Concerto No. 1, a piece which I've long considered somewhat vulgar, akin to watching elephants performing a line dance at a circus- one admires the work it takes to pull off, but it's too gross to appreciate as more than spectacle. However, Denk seemed happy to take a break from the challenges of the thornier works he's played during his recent visits and show off a bit. Still, the audience seemed to want to get on to the main event, and the response was somewhat tepid. Perhaps I'm not the only one in the house who thought it an odd thing to appear on this program. One of Bartók's piano concertos, especially the 2nd, would have made more sense.

After the intermission Duke Bluebeard's Castle began with Ken Ruta placed high above the stage in one of four turrets reading the prologue, setting the stage for an ambiguous interpretation of what was about to unfurl- the tale of Bluebeard's newest wife wanting to know what's behind the locked doors, and learning the truth one horror at a time. There are a few ways one can interpret the work- from Bluebeard's perspective, from Judith's, or from somewhere outside looking in, with each one offering multiple vantage points. With only two characters involved, and little "action," it becomes a psychological chess match. Is one of them crazy? Are both? Is it the story of a murderer or of a man letting his guard down. Is Judith a sympathetic, but insecure new bride, or is she just a loon? For the record, I side with the latter interpretation on both counts.

Somewhere between the third and fourth door I began to wonder if the staging was really adding all that much to the show. The stage was surrounded by grey castle walls with turrets leaning in to create a sense of the claustrophobic. Projections on walls and lighting effects sought to create atmosphere and illustrate the text. During the sequence depicting what lies behind the first door  (Bluebeard's torture chamber), the castle walls filled with "Hellraiser"-ish imagery of protruding bloody nails and short spikes in a fun, Grand Guignol way, but the after that the images and lighting began to feel somewhat rote- not taking away from anything, but containing few surprises. So I tried to wipe the staging from my mind and imagine how it would play without it and realized it really did add something to the whole. But I thought that it shouldn't- that this small drama between a couple played for high stakes would be best without the distraction of images and lights- just let the voices, the dramatic capabilities of the singers and the music do the work.

That wouldn't have worked however, at least here, because of one real problem- the placing of the singers behind the orchestra instead of in front, which created a sense of distance too hard to penetrate despite the best efforts of Held and DeYoung, whose performances were invested with as much attention to the physical as they were to the vocal, but even singers as skilled as these two had a hard time connecting from the back of the stage. The placing of the surtitles on the sides rather than above the stage also hindered the whole, causing those of us who don't know the libretto by heart or speak Hungarian to look away to follow the lines.

Still, the singing and music were splendid, and when the fifth door opened to reveal Bluebeard's treasure, the Davies organ kicked in (it's the largest in the country) with the brass blaring behind it, creating a sensationally loud and thrilling effect, though the blinding lights shining into the audience were a bit obnoxious. The percussion section especially shone, but the entire orchestra under Michael Tilson Thomas seemed committed to bring everything to the performance.

The final program of the centennial season, featuring MTT leading the orchestra in Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, Ligeti's Lux Aeterna and Schoenberg's A Survivor from Warsaw has a few tickets left and you'd be foolish not to get one before the entire four-night run sells out.

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.

The post-mortem interval, Hilary Hahn, and a cigar

This past Saturday was really quite strange.  In the middle of the morning I saw the Femme Fatale's doppelganger pushing a shopping cart full of French shoes through the Tenderloin. An hour later I saw the same woman pushing a cart again, this time full of dress bags. Not paper bags, nor the large green trash bags you usually see being wheeled around the Tenderloin in a shopping cart, but dress bags like the ones they send you on your way with when you buy something from Saks or Neiman's. She had an immense pile of them in the cart, mostly black, gleaming in the morning's bright sun. 

Watching the doppelganger, I had to laugh- in fact I laughed harder than I have in a very long time. If I didn't know she was dead I'd swear it was her. But she is dead- this much I know is true, because I heard it straight from the one who dealt the fatal blow.

That blow came from Thaïs, and though she refused to explain how, she somehow knew all about my relationship with the Femme Fatale and sought me out in the aftermath, seeking a place to lie low to until everything blew over. That wouldn't take long- the San Francisco police are notoriously inept at solving crimes. Without any witnesses (and so far none have come forth) they'll move on, label it a "missing person" case and be done with it. Just another woman who one day decided to walk out of one life and into another. Happens every day. Just don't ask me to explain why I agreed to harbor a fugitive- especially an assassin- I just did, knowing it was the right thing to do. After all, the death of the Femme Fatale wasn't something I was going to shed any tears over at this point.

Between the time I learned of her death and last weekend, I hung fire, waiting for some kind of sign, not really knowing how this was going to play out for me. Though I tried to go about my business, not too far in the back of my mind was the expectation of an imminent knock on my door from one of two possible sources, or perhaps both: the first would be people with badges armed with a bunch of questions for me; the other would be a lone man armed with something else seeking retribution for my complicity in the whole thing, be it real or imagined. None came, so after a week of lying low, I was ready to venture out again and hear some music. 

I asked Thaïs to accompany me. Initially she had reservations, but in the end she agreed. Now I was partnered in crime with the woman who killed the Femme Fatale. Watching her get ready, I was struck by the similarities between the two of them- one a seeming inversion of the other. We left my place at 7:30 and walked into the quickly cooling night, the fog coming in heavily over the Civic Center. We settled into our seats at Davies with just a moment left before the lights dimmed. The house was packed. Osmo Vänskä, Music Director of the Minneapolis Orchestra, strode onstage. 

I recalled reading a review of the premiere of first piece on the program, Kalevi Aho's Minea, which piqued my interest in it. It proved to be a delight, beginning with the sound of the wind, the origin of which proved impossible to detect in the orchestra. From there it built into something new but familiar, laden with references to Ravel, Stravinsky, Rimsky-Korsakov, soon sounding like a mash-up of the theme from "Mission:Impossible" and Saint-Saëns' Bacchanalia Suite, as performed by The Incredible Bongo Band- it would fit perfectly in the soundtrack for the next remake of "King Kong" in the scene where Carl Denhman leads his band through the jungle in search of  Ann Darrow. What it all had to do with Minneapolis wasn't exactly clear, but it was a great twenty minutes of music with a thrilling climax.

During the break an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu settled upon me as I gazed at the terrace seating behind the stage. The point of view suddenly became clear- and the sensation of an unpleasant memory collided with present reality in a most unusual way. The feeling was fleeting but sharp, cut short by the appearance of Hilary Hahn taking the stage, wearing a stunningly gorgeous gown.

I'd never seen Hahn before, for no good reason other than a reflex aversion to precocity and the weird fame which often surrounds it, and only the urging of a certain sage prompted me to hear her this night. It really hadn't occurred to me that the young girl whose youth was so much a part of her mystique and hype is now a grown woman and my previous prejudice turned out to be my loss. Hahn was simply incredible as the soloist in the Prokofiev's first violin concerto, turning in an impassioned performance which grew more impressive with each movement.

I wouldn't miss her again given the opportunity. As an encore she performed a solo piece called Speak, Memory by Lera Auerbach, one of 24 pieces Hahn's commissioned from contemporary composers and is performing on her current tour. She'll soon record all of them and I applaud this advocacy and effort to bring this kind of exposure to her composing peers. Having never read Nabokov's memoir, I couldn't find the thread to its namesake, and its effect proved fleeting compared to her bravura performance of the Prokofiev, with the exception that the conclusion was a lovely fade out, like an old memory fading away into nothingness. I appreciated the opportunity to hear just a little bit more of Hahn's playing, and she received a well-deserved ovation from the audience.

Following the intermission came Shostakovich's 6th Symphony, which the Cleveland Orchestra performed in the same house just over a month ago. In the hands of the San Francisco Symphony under Vänskä it sounded quite a bit different- brighter in the wind sections, more subdued in the strings, and with the William Tell Overture elements more pronounced here. A sense of cohesion to the three disparate movements went missing, though each grew noticeably louder. The Largo first movement did hearken back to to Aho's work, creating a pleasing symmetry within the program.

After the concert ended we went back into the night, making a stop at a new restaurant with a somewhat silly name that proved to be a mistake. I won't name it, and doubt it will be six months before the space is vacant again. The food we were served was terrible and I felt like we had somehow ended up in Sunnyvale or Pleasanton. 

The next night we joined the immense crowd to watch the fireworks marking the 75th anniversary of the Golden Gate Bridge. It was a spectacular show. Afterward we waited until there were few people left, found an empty bench facing the water, and shared a cigar I've held onto for a long, long time. As the cigar burned down, so did certain memories of the past, becoming ashes left behind in the sand.

And as for the weird formatting of this post... well, that's another mystery!

A pastoral performed during an iterated prisoner's dilemma

I left my apartment at 7:30, thinking it really was over this time. After almost two years what more could she and I put each other through? It had passed the point of reason, of anything resembling sanity long ago, and now felt like the slow unraveling of the remaining threads which had held both of us trapped in a vicious web of our own design.

Maybe I was even resigned to it, probably for the first time. Not happy about it, not even angry really, but willing to accept that this was how it was going to end and that it had all been essentially for nothing- an iterated prisoner's dilemma with three other casualties left behind in a nasty, zero-sum, side game. Everyone's a loser.

After crossing Hyde I was a third of the way down the block when I heard the footsteps coming up quickly behind me. A woman's footsteps, taken at a run- I could tell by the sound of how the heels hit the sidewalk. I pulled my ear buds out, preparing to see something ugly coming up behind- some cracked-out whore running from someone she just ripped off or something like that. I turned to face it and the Femme Fatale came to a stop up behind me.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"To the Symphony," I replied.

We stood there, facing each other, like we were in one of those stand-offs from John Woo's Hong Kong-era films. Neither of us spoke. Words weren't necessary at the moment- her presence there on the sidewalk said it all.

We began walking toward Davies, down Polk Street, saying little along the way. She was walking much faster than I wanted to, seemingly in a hurry. When we arrived she asked whom I was meeting.

"No one. I knew you'd be busy. Want to join me? I have an extra ticket."

She declined, though I could see her weighing it all before doing so. I watched her walk through the door onto Grove Street and then went to my seat.

The small irony of the concert beginning with Mahler's Blumine wasn't lost on me, and checking the program I was surprised to learn it hasn't been performed by the orchestra since 1970. Somewhere I've heard this performed before, and now I couldn't recall where or when. The ten-minute piece, originally the second movement of his first symphony, is, to use Mahler's own description, "a sentimentally indulgent movement, a love episode." He pulled it from the work after its disastrous premiere. In the middle of it is a solo by the trumpet, effectively performed by Mark Inouye, as was Nadya Tichman's violin solo. The orchestra sounded lush and it was a gorgeous performance, but it's almost a given at this point that with MTT on the podium, any work by Mahler performed by this band is going to sound wonderful.

It was the rare presence of Schnittke's fourth violin concerto on the program that really drew me to this performance. Composed in 1984 and only performed in the house once before (2003), the soloist for these performances is SFS's own concertmaster Alexander Barantschik. Before they began, MTT commented that all the pieces on the program spoke to a sense of nostalgia. That tone is immediately set by the concerto's beginning- tolling bells, creating a sense of something past, an idyll which is interrupted by the harsh reality of the present when the violin enters with shocking discord. A kind of struggle between the two continues into the second movement, where the violinist engages the extensive percussion section in what looked like an agonizing and thankless duel, which the violin loses, finally sawing away silently against a battery of sound.

The third movement Adagio is very cinematic. The presence of an extra violinist performing above the terrace, a prominent harpsichord, and lovely moments from the cellos, all merged into a wonderful whole as it became a dance in the end. The fourth movement brings back the bells, different this time, suggesting a darker, different reality- a wake-up call to the futility of it all as it ends with a visual cadenza, in which Barantschik, after another furious round of soloing, goes down in a conflagration, his instrument is silenced despite his attempts to keep playing, to keep pushing back against what will be an inevitable surrender to larger forces.

Alfred Schnittke

Perhaps it was foolish of me to think of the presence of Beethoven's Sixth on the program as something to perhaps enjoy, but not necessarily get excited about. But my experiences with Beethoven in MTT's hands have run the gamut from extreme disappointment to pleased astonishment and after all these years I never quite know what to expect from him. This performance was really all one could want from this particular piece. The first movement had almost every string player swaying along to its buoyant melody, performed with a lightness that hearkened back to what MTT had previously said regarding nostalgia. It was incredibly expressive, reminding me of why I love Beethoven the way I do.

The second movement's scene by the brook had a languid capaciousness about it and at times it seemed it was going to come undone, but MTT was just pushing it toward the boundaries without ever letting loose of it, and Tim Day had an excellent solo. The last movement's Shepherd's Song was performed with an almost Furtwangler-like sense of pacing and deliberation, with the strings again swaying toward the end. In all, it was pretty damn good Beethoven, exquisite at times, and really, what more could you want than that? Well, maybe for the guy sitting in Row O, seat 9 to shut the fuck up for once, but I still managed to leave the hall feeling rejuvenated, calm, and looking forward to hearing the 9th which will be performed at the end of the season.

The following night I was at home, watching a movie when the phone rang. It was the Femme Fatale, who had read what I'd written about 1978 and wanted to tell me she didn't want to be just another part of "your story." What I didn't tell her then, but she'll know now when she reads this, is that I'd like to bring this story to an end. It's gone on for way too long and soon, very soon, it will indeed be finished.

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.

Quick takes from the weekend

The New Century Chamber Orchestra's season ending concert was Saturday night: Schoenberg's  Verklärte Nacht (Transfigured Night) is the kind of music this ensemble does best and it was fantastic; ten minutes of variations on "Happy Birthday to You," not so much; Ellen Taafe Zwilich's Commedia d'ell Arte proved accessible, interesting and entertaining- a rare trifecta for contemporary premiere; Michelle Djokic probably has no idea how sexy she is with a tambourine in her hand.

The New York Philharmonic's first of two nights at Davies: if I described Magnus Lindberg's 2nd Piano Concerto as a mash-up of a 50's sci-fi movie soundtracks and Rachmaninoff you may not think that's a compliment, but it certainly is; Yefim Bronfman is simply f_cking amazing; the principal wind players of this orchestra are dazzlers, as is their brass section; that was an amazing Tchaik 4 and the finale went through the roof; a bit of Bernstein for the encore was a nice touch; Chloe Veltman looked pretty fetching in that hat.

The burgers at Flippers in Hayes Valley kind of suck but the waitresses are really kind. The food at Burmese Kitchen in the Tenderloin is a steal for how tasty it is. My mother is pretty much the only person I know who can get me to eat Popeye's fried chicken, which tastes much better in the South than it does in California. The Minister's Rebellious Daughter paid me the kindest of compliments when she said, "it's nice to see you're back." Lara Downes sent me an email, but I can't tell you what she wrote. There was an explosion of hits coming to A Beast from Thailand, all searching for images of "ASIAN NEWSWOMAN TURNS PORN SLUT"-what they found on arriving here was a picture of Linda Blair taken from "The Exorcist."

RIP Duck Dunn and my Aunt Rose.

Two wild girls- my grandmother on the left and her sister Rose on the right, circa 1935.

Denève, Thibaudet, and the French influence

It really wasn't a concert I was all that interested in, but when the Sly Wit asked me if I'd like to accompany her I said yes in no small part because I looked forward to catching up with her. After coffees at Arlequin, we headed over to the Sunday matinee performance at Davies to hear the almost all-French program led by Stéphane Denève.

Denève. Photo by Drew Farrell

Denève reminded me of a stay-puft version of Dudamel, with his dirty blond curls and hyperkinetic movements, but he worked wonders with the orchestra and I enjoyed the entire concert much more than I expected. Leading off with a fleet version of Berlioz's Roman Carnival Overture, some of the musicians looked to be a bit behind from where we were seated, but it I didn't notice it in the sound. However, as it remained visually apparent throughout the rest of the performance that certain performers seemed behind, it did leave some questions in my mind about the effects of age on musicians and how things are supposed to be played- that is, are two players performing from the same score supposed to be in sync or is there sometimes a deliberate difference to create a desired musical effect? It's something I need to learn- if you know this, feel free to drop me a note.

Thibaudet. Photo credited to Kasskara.

Jean-Yves Thibaudet came onstage next, sartorially splendid in that low-key Liberace way of his, now toned down a bit from years past, to give a dazzling account of the peculiar Saint-Saën's Fifth Piano Concerto- a work that has little critical respect and no aural explanation for its nickname Egyptian. The Adante had an especially lovely finish as it disappeared into stillness then silence. Say what you will about the piece, but Thibaudet slayed it. 

After the intermission came a wholly unexpected treat in fragments from The Spider's Feast by the rarely performed (around here at least) composer Albert Roussel. It did indeed conjure up the image of a tremendous arachnid waiting for its prey and then devouring it with a hungry glee. The piece featured some really nice work by principal flute Tim Day. This was followed by Stravinsky's Firebird Suite-  a piece whose popularity I've never really understood, but this was the most pleasing performance of it I've heard yet.

During most of this season, at almost every concert I've attended, I've spotted a man with a blond brush cut in a Billy Zoom-ish, 80's-style 50's retro look, seated in the front row of the terrace seats on the left side of the stage. He's a mover-  usually rocking out to the music to a degree that more than once has prompted me to wonder if he was a distraction to the conductor. At first he seemed to show up alone, but for the past few months he's had the same brunette seated beside him. He was there in his usual spot, which I only thought odd because I don't usually attend matinees and yet here he was again. I wonder if he's at every performance.

There was also a rather ravishing blonde in an orange dress I noticed as we headed into hall, the kind you always assume is never there by herself. Turns out she was, and seated on the opposite side of the terrace, where from my vantage point she seemed quite enamored with the blond rocker, as she apparently couldn't keep her eyes off of him even though the brunette was on hand. Well, what of it- the French are different, no? Perhaps she was just inspired by the thought of a ménage-à-trois with the two of them. It was an amusing side-show and I do wonder if a connection was forged somewhere, sometime after the show.

The Barbary Coast and beyond...

Lola Montez- an uncanny resemblance to someone I know.

I really don't remember how it was initially described in the press conference which took place more than a year ago, but the impression I got was that the "The Barbary Coast and Beyond" was going to be an exuberant extravaganza along the lines of "The Thomashefskys" (to this day one of the most delightful performances I've ever seen). It actually sounded even more promising given the subject- the musical history of San Francisco from the Gold Rush of 1849 through Panama-Pacific Exposition of 1915, and coupled with the huge plans the San Francisco Symphony was making to celebrate its Centennial, this seemed like it would be a highlight of the season, perhaps the crown jewel in a season that has actually far-exceeded expectations. So it's with a tinge of regret I write that while the show was certainly entertaining I found its potential went largely unfulfilled.

To go back to "The Thomashefskys" for a moment (which you can see on PBS or on DVD), one of the elements that made that production so successful was Tilson Thomas himself, who was not only the ringleader, but also its most surprising performer. It made me, along with many others I've spoken with since, see MTT in a different light- who knew the guy could loosen up so much and be so endearing and funny? Glimpses come through occasionally, like when he does his impression of Morton Feldman, but for the most part "The Thomashefskys" exposed a side of MTT the audience rarely gets a chance to see and I was hoping to see more of that last night, but there were only glimpses.

The ringleader role was turned over to Beach Blanket Babylon's Val Diamond, who did a good job with it, but her persona wasn't large enough to make the evening feel like an event, nor was the presence of some pretty high caliber guests- Laura Claycomb, Vadim Gluzman, Anton Nels, Cameron Carpenter, and the U.S. Air Force Band of the Golden West. When a woman (Caroline McCaskey) playing a saw threatens to steal the show from the likes of these performers, something has gone awry.

Some of that was the show's narrative structure, which favored chronological order without creating a sense of significance or relevance. For the most part, the numbers went by one at a time, without much backstory given for why they were being performed beyond the anecdotal or biographical. This, coupled with the fact that the theatrical promise of such a show went unrealized, and the "multimedia" elements were little more than a slow series of still images shown on a screen above the performers, led to some pretty long stretches- Jack Van Geem's marimba solo among them.

However there were some delights- especially the stories and images about Lola Montez and Adah Menken, if not the music that accompanied them. Carpenter performed an acid-drenched version of "Star and Stripes Forever" on the organ, mostly with his feet, and Gluzman was exceptional, even with material that grew wearisome. And the choice of material was problematic- there's a reason audiences haven't heard much of this music performed in a very long time- it's simply not very good. The orchestra itself, which played well throughout, seemed to only hit its stride during a movement from the Tchaikovsky 4th. The sing-along at the end brightened things up a bit, creating an air of exuberance in the hall that was missing for most of the two and a half hour performance.

The Cleveland Orchestra in San Francisco

The Cleveland Orchestra came to town this week, the fourth of six visitors lined up for the American Orchestra Series, which brings the leading orchestras of the country to Davies Symphony Hall for two-night stands during the San Francisco Symphony's Centennial Season. While all of the visitors have been impressive, I have to say that so far, and with no small amount of surprised amusement, the Clevelanders have been the band who've impressed me the most. But then it's par for the course, almost expected isn't it, to have lower expectations for Cleveland? I mean that's what America does, right? Remember when the lake caught fire? What about those Browns? Does anyone take the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame seriously? How can one when Alice Cooper and Santana are in it while Kiss and War are not?

Sorry, I'm off topic. I'll stop.

Such a bland name for a post, isn't it? But there was only one other possible choice and it felt too easy- and then Brian took it, so I couldn't use it even if I wanted to. Oh well. I have no connection to the city of Cleveland except for an ex-girlfriend who came from there and then decided to return after living in L.A. for fifteen years. But I don't want to write about her in this post. What can one say about Cleveland? Does anyone not originally from there go for a pleasure visit? Well, should I ever find myself there I do hope it's during the Orchestra's season. Good grief, what a band!

The first night's concert featured works by Mendelssohn, Saariaho and Shostakovich and it became evident early in the concert the orchestra possesses a magnificent sound, the strength of which emanates from its string section, but I wouldn't want to give the impression that's where it stops. During the first movement of Mendelssohn's 3rd Symphony, the Scottish, the orchestra perfectly captured the feel of a rolling tumultuous sea before turning it into a swashbuckling romp. Principal oboist Frank Rosenwein's playing shone especially well through the orchestra's blended sound.

The second half revealed Music Director Franz Welser-Möst's real strength to be a mastery of tempos. Kaija Saariaho's Orion,  a commission by this company and the one I was most looking forward to hearing on this night, was stunning. The orchestra for this work is immense- one of the largest I've ever seen onstage, including a battery of percussionists. The first movement is full of chugging, Hermann-esque sounds of ominous energy. Sounds came from the musicians that were almost impossible to identify and I found myself scanning them constantly to see who was playing what, or which instrument(s) was responsible for what I was hearing. In 3 or 4 places the music hung in the air before evaporating into silence, with Welser-Möst wringing every possible moment of dramatic impact from it before the only sound left was total silence before commencing with the next part- you could feel the audience's rapt attention- I've never, ever heard it so silent in Davies, and the house looked to be at capacity. The piece didn't receive a standing ovation, just hearty applause, but I certainly thought it merited one.

After that came Shostakovich's 6th Symphony, and the wind section of the orchestra shone brightly here, with especially notable playing coming from Mary Kay Fink on the piccolo. I also appreciated the restrained, thoughtful playing of Paul Yancich on the timpani. The second half of this concert rivaled anything else I've heard this season in Davies for simply superb execution and musicianship. I left the hall that evening greatly impressed.

The next night I returned for more, especially looking forward to hearing the Beethoven Violin Concerto- a personal favorite of mine. The soloist was Nikolaj Znaider, with whom I was unfamiliar- I'm not sure the Danish performer has ever made it this far west before (though the program noted he frequently plays with East Coast orchestras). Even a substandard performance of this masterpiece holds many pleasures, and though I found this particular performance to have some oddities, if I could combine it with the second half of the previous night's performance it would have been something close to perfection.

Welser-Möst made some fascinating decisions regarding the tempos of the piece, especially in the first movement, with each section performed at a different pace than its predecessor, all of them slower than I would have expected, which gave the orchestra room to stretch the grandeur of it to maximum effect. Like in the Saariaho work the night before, the phrases hung beautifully in the air. Znaider, on the other hand, seemed intent to work with a cross purpose, playing as fast as possible within Welser-Möst's slower, expansive tempo. It was strange, and while conceptually I thought it an interesting choice, I frequently found myself disliking what I heard- this was especially true in his rough and tumble treatment of the cadenzas, where Znaider's earthy folk-inspired playing jarred against the elegance of the orchestra to ill effect.

The pizzicato of the second movement never sounded more like a dance than it did here, and the lyrical waltz of the third brought out all of the exuberant joy of it shares with Beethoven's Sixth Symphony, the relation between the two being well rendered under Welser-Möst. Despite my qualms with Znaider's approach, it was still a pleasure.

As was Thomas Adès' Dances from Powder Her Face, his chamber opera that I hope will one day show up on a stage in this city. The fifteen minute piece elicited laughter from the audience- the music easily conveys the more farcical elements of this work about the "Dirty Duchess." There's a heavy, heady mix of musical genres within the score and the orchestra handled it with panache. The final piece were three of the six symphonic poems from Smetana's Ma Vlast (My Country), which were richly performed with robust tempos, but I have to admit to feeling like the visit to Bohemia was longer than I would have stayed on my own itinerary, though the first, The Mighty Fortress, was certainly evocative of a lonely, forbidding castle.

American Mavericks IV: Sundays with Cowell, Partch, Riley, Subotnick, Reich, Monk, Foss, Del Tredici

Meredith Monk and Vocal Ensemble with members of the San Francisco Symphony (SFS) perform the world premiere of the SFS commission "Realm Variations" by Meredith Monk at Davies Symphony Hall, San Francisco on Sunday, March 18, 2012. Photo by Kristen Loken 

Along with the three concerts featuring the full orchestra, San Francisco Symphony's American Mavericks festival featured two programs of chamber music on consecutive Sundays. The first had a fair amount of empty seats, but a very appreciative audience to hear a real grab-bag of 20th Century American music. It began with Jeremy Denk performing five solo pieces by Henry Cowell. These pieces suited Denk's talent and temperament almost perfectly- the usual physical expressiveness of his playing found a perfect foil in Cowell's demanding score, and he rose to the challenges of each, making them look easier to play than they had any right to- or to put it another way, he looked like he was enjoying the himself. Each piece had its own merits and challenges, but the one with the most impact was the gorgeous Exultation, with the aptly titled The Banshee leaving an almost equally strong impression.

Another five pieces by Harry Partch followed, performed by PARTCH on instruments created by the composer to accommodate compositions written for special tunings and a forty-three note scale featured in the works. The instruments are stunningly unique and beautiful, and the members of the ensemble obviously were masters of them. The PARTCH folks were performers as much as musicians, lending the selections a theatrical flair that was initially amusing, especially in San Francisco, which played well to the home crowd, as did Barstow, but the set stretched on a bit and became repetitive.

Terry Riley's G Song for String Quartet received a lush treatment from the Symphony musicians performing it, but its roots as a chaconne made it feel rather ordinary and out of place in context, and in a hall as large as Davies.

The final work of the first concert was Morton Subotnick's Jacob's Room: Monodrama, featuring a chamber orchestra and the composer's wife, singer Joan La Barbara, on vocals. Originally envisioned as a larger work on an operatic scale, the current version features La Barbara and musicians performing a piece not easily described- a Holocaust-themed work incorporating elements of Virginia Woolf's novel. Haunting, especially int he cadenzas where La Barbara let loose with an emotional vulnerability in her voice which was equally thrilling and disturbing. It felt a little long, with the limitation of having only one voice, even with one as chameleon-like as La Barbara's, eventually making itself felt. Still, it's power was undeniable and proved to be a potent ending to the afternoon.

From left to right San Francisco Symphony percussionists Tom Hemphill, James Lee Wyatt III, David Herbert, Jack Van Geem and Raymond Froehlich perform Steve Reich's Music for Pieces of Wood during the American Mavericks Festival, March 18, 2012 at Davies Symphony Hall. Photo by Kristen Loken.

A week later the house appeared full and people were eagerly seeking tickets out front. The concert began with Jack Van Geem, Raymond Froelich, David Herbert, Tom Hemphill, and James Lee Wyatt III performing Steve Reich's Music for Pieces of Wood, the pieces of wood being distinctly tuned claves. Not only was this piece a musical and rhythmic delight, it was amazing to watch the five percussionists perform it.  Requiring a level of physical and mental concentration that looked exhausting to execute, it was exhilarating to watch and hear as each musician entered one by one to create staggeringly complex patterns that shift in meter 58 times during the three separate sections. I loved every moment.

The audience seemed primed to hear the world premiere of Meredith Monk's Realm Variations, including the woman seated next to me who had flown up for the afternoon just to hear it. No one was disappointed. Monk's piece has a unique power and a palatable sensuality coursing through it. Featuring six singers and seven musicians, it was written for the Symphony's Catherine Payne, whose solo piccolo opened the work and continued to have a strong presence within it for the remainder. Monk at 70 years old still possesses an amazing voice, making herself clearly heard among the other talented singers assembled for the work. Sid Chen's bass was a standout among the excellent ensemble. On every level, Realm Variations felt like a complete triumph and the one piece commissioned for the festival that really felt substantial.

Pianist Jeremy Denk and members of the San Francisco Symphony perfrom Lukas Foss' "Echoi" during the American Mavericks Festival at Davies Symphony Hall on March 18, 2012.
Photo by Kristen Loken 

After these two splendid performances the afternoon was beginning to feel like it may prove to be the sleeper success of the entire festival, but the momentum didn't hold for the second half. Lukas Foss' Echoi, performed by Denk on piano, Carey Bell on clarinet, Peter Wyrick on cello, and Jack Van Geem manhandling an array of percussion including the lid of a trash can, had moments of interest during its four sections, but in the end proved too dense and hard to follow on a cold listening (I couldn't locate a version to hear beforehand). The four musicians worked hard to make it seem like something more than the sum of its odd parts, but they lost me early on and by the time Van Geem beat the strings of Denk's piano and hit the lid of the trash can in the Echoi IV I was ready to move on.

Michael Tilson Thomas conducts Kiera Duffy, soprano, and members of the San Francisco Symphony in David Del Tredici's "Syzygy
Photo by Kristen Loken 

Doing so took awhile, as it took some time to set the stage for David Del Tredici's Syzygy, which made for a long and dreary ending to the afternoon. Even the splendid vocal talents of soprano Kiera Duffy couldn't salvage it as she alternately yelped, barked and sang two poems by James Joyce, used here as the work's text, while MTT led a small ensemble that never quite made it to anywhere musically interesting.

American Mavericks III: It Might Get Loud- Varèse, Feldman, Adams, Bates

I've long admired Thomas May's program notes and I was halfway through reading about Mason Bates' Mass Transmission, commissioned by San Francisco Symphony for the American Mavericks festival, when I thought to myself May must have written this, so I turned to the end and lo and behold, I was right. He also wrote the notes for the other commission premiering this night, John Adams' Absolute Jest. May's notes are so well-written and intriguing that my anticipation for hearing these two pieces rose substantially- and I was already thinking this would likely be the best concert of the five offered. He almost got me thinking of the other pieces on the program, Morton Feldman's Piano and Orchestra and Edgard Varèse's Ameriques, for which he didn't write the notes, as afterthoughts.

I only mention this because the reality of the concert itself proved to be the opposite of what of I anticipated. After hearing Bates' wonderful Alternative Energy performed by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra when they rolled into town as part of the American Orchestra series last month, I was primed for more. Mass Transmission is nowhere near that level. Resting somewhere between Deep Forest and The Art of Noise, the three part work for organ (Paul Jacobs), chorus (conducted by Donato Cabrera) and electronica (Bates), seems like an extended fragment culled from something larger, but there's little in it that led me to want to hear more.

Adams' Absolute Jest should really be credited to another composer- Beethoven, because on hearing it for the first time the only memorable parts are those lifted by the former more or less straight from latter's late quartets and scherzo of the Ninth Symphony. Great choices to borrow (steal?) from, to be sure, but if the listener knows these works even casually, Absolute Jest comes across as little more than a Beethoven mixtape performed by an orchestra- "Ah, there's Op.131! That's from 127! Yes, there's the Scherzo again..." and so forth for twenty minutes. This didn't stop the orchestra from giving it a strong, vigorous performance, and there was something quite thrilling indeed in hearing an entire string section play riffs from the quartets, with the added bonus of having the powerhouse St. Lawrence String Quartet rocking the center of it all with glee, but I was somewhat dumbfounded by the standing ovation the work received and felt like we had all just been had- as if the joke were on the audience for thinking there was something substantial in it all.

I will say, however, The St. Lawrence String Quartet really impressed me. This was the first time I've seen them and I would go out of my way to do so again- even if that means heading all the way down the road to Stanford.

Just before launching into the Feldman, MTT decided to say a bit about the piece, which he obviously didn't plan on because he didn't have a microphone at hand. He was hard to hear from where I sat toward the rear of the orchestra, but I think he was alluding to the similarity between the composer's work and those of the painters he admired- especially Rothko. Sadly, MTT didn't do his impersonation of Morty, which is pretty damn funny.

I vividly remember going to SFMOMA on a rainy afternoon one day years ago, looking at Rothkos, and thinking what the fuck?- I could paint that. Thankfully I was with a guy who was an art history major and I asked him to explain the paintings to me. It only took a few minutes of his comments for me to realize I could never paint anything like that. Feldman's Piano and Orchestra is similar in that on its surface it appears quite simple, and its slow, meditative pace, quietly played, isn't easily penetrated without concentration. This isn't made any easier by the part for the soloist, here performed by Emmanuel Ax, who seems to do little more than chime in somewhat regularly with two dissonant chords. But as the piece progresses, and once I started understanding what I was hearing (it did take some time and some deliberation) I was amazed by its structure and the power underneath its placid surface. By the time it concluded, I was deeply moved and impressed by the performance and felt it truly defined the spirit of the festival.

But MTT wasn't finished, and after a long break to organize the stage to accommodate 125 musicians, including fifteen(!) percussionists, he led the orchestra in a stunning, pulverizing performance of Varèse's Ameriques. The antithesis of Feldman's quiet complexity, this was a barrage of sound I could physically feel coming from the stage. Mark Inouye led the brass section through a storm of outbursts and the percussionists created more noise than I would have thought possible, and in the most wonderful way. Taken together, the pieces on the second half of the program proved to be the highlight of the festival (though there's one more program left of chamber-sized pieces)- and truly defined what makes a "maverick."  

American Mavericks II: Bring the Noise- Cage, Foss, Cowell, Ruggles

The somewhat subdued response in the house last Thursday night for the opening night concert of the San Francisco Symphony's American Mavericks festival gave way on Saturday night to a rambunctiousness onstage that made itself felt in the audience.

John Cage's Song Books performed by Joan La Barbara, Meredith Monk, Jessye Norman, Michael Tilson Thomas and members of the San Francisco Symphony during the American Mavericks Festival at Davies Symphony Hall. Photo credit: Kristen Loken  

How could it have been otherwise, with the Symphony starting the night off with a delightful staging of John Cage's bizarre performance piece Song Books? Cage's piece contains 90 different "songs," each a solo in "one of four categories: 1) song [an actual one or something approximating what we know as one]; 2) song using electronics; 3) theater; 4) theater using electronics." The categories alone are hint enough that what's about to be performed was going to be unusual and it certainly was. The SFS brought some serious vocal talent to make it work: Meredith Monk, Joan La Barbara, and Jessye Norman. Also appearing in the piece was Michael Tilson Thomas and assorted members of the orchestra. What did they all do? Well, Norman used an antique typewriter to compose a note in French. Monk sang a quote by Thoreau as if it were a taunt and waddled around the stage like a duck. La Barbara did a take on her own "Circular Song." Cellist Amos Yang and Principal Bassoon Stephen Paulson played cards. MTT played with string and then noisily chopped up some cucumbers, threw them into a blender, turned it on and drank the results. Someone barfed- repeatedly and a pianist took a nap at the keys. There were 80 other things going on, but I can't tell you what all of them were, as most of it was unfurling simultaneously across the stage and it was almost too much to take in. There was "real" music and "singing" as well, some of it quite striking coming from all three guests and the assorted players, but in the end it hardly felt like that was the point and yet it was the entire point- what exactly does constitute a song? Song Cycles, at least as performed here, is one of those things you either go along with and love, or could just as easily hate. The audience seemed split into thirds- the lovers, the haters, and the baffled. I loved it.

After the intermission came three works which sounded almost traditional compared to the first half. Lukas Foss' Phorion was played in its non-aleatoric version, which I have to admit was a bit disappointing since the Festival is about breaking boundaries- why not go with the version which is more challenging? Thomas gave us the reason- when the piece was premiered in its aleatoric version by Bernstein in 1967, the ten minute work required ten hours of practice. Fair enough. A composed version of sampling using the prelude of Bach's Partita in E, Phorion (the word is Greek for "stolen goods") is an inventive novelty with enough charm and wit to seem more substantial than it is- but that's really the key to sampling- start with something good and use it well, and most folks will find it entertaining.

Speaking of entertaining, pianist Jeremy Denk was the soloist for Henry Cowell's Piano Concerto. Requiring a level of almost absurd dexterity to perform, including playing two octaves with a forearm and hitting tone clusters with a fist, once the novelty of how it's played wears off, the result is a pretty substantial piece of music that doesn't come across as a gimmick, but rather three movements of inventive, attractive melodies and rhythms, though I could swear I heard the "Mexican Hat Dance" music somewhere in the third movement. Denk handled the piece with aplomb, coming out in Johnny Cash black and performing with a James Cagney-like swagger.

Carl Ruggles' Sun-Treader has two things going for it- an absolutely fantastic opening and an equally wonderful finish, and it may be the loudest thing you've ever hear performed by an orchestra. However, in between those massive wall-of sound bookends, the piece lost me as it meandered over assorted sunspots, but man, that black-hole of a finish was some incredible noise.