Mater Dei High School Choir (CA)

Jodi Reed, conductor

Distinguished Concerts Singers International

Dr. Erin Freeman, conductor

Kristen Plumley, soprano; Colin Levin, baritone; James D. Wetzel, organ

Carnegie Hall, Stern Auditorium, New York, NY

March 27, 2022

A stunning bifurcated program was presented by the ever-reliable Distinguished Concerts International New York (DCINY) on Sunday afternoon (March 27, 2022) at Carnegie Hall. First, let me say what a pleasure it was to see two women conducting with such immense talent and joy. Sadly, it shouldn’t be an issue, but at this moment I still feel it deserves emphasis.

The afternoon began with an exciting, polished, beautifully sung, acted, and mimed performance by the prize-winning Mater Dei High School choir (CA), conducted by Jodi Reed. All of the music was selected from the very finest arrangements available. What was thrilling and memorable was the gorgeous blend of sound they achieved, at all dynamic levels, and their absolutely perfect ensemble.

The choir first took the stage with about a third of its members, the young men dressed in matching grey suits with red ties, the young women in red gowns. Later they were joined by the complement, elegant in black. All music was performed from memory, and the large amount of intricate “riser choreography” was coordinated to a fault. Some of the music was performed a cappella, some with piano, some men only, some women only.

The musical influences ranged from Basque to Georgia (the Eurasian republic), Poland, Ireland, Bach, and gospel, to name but a few. The choir members are eager actors, with many theatrical possibilities, yet even with those opportunities, nothing was tasteless or overdone. On many occasions, various intrepid soloists stepped out from the choir to sing with amazing poise and talent. I trust these young people will never ever forget having performed solo on the main stage of Carnegie Hall.

On a day when a film called CODA (Children of Deaf Adults) won two Oscars, the gospel tune Ain’t No Grave Can Hold My Body Down had extra power- it utilized five individual signers and then presented one stanza entirely silent, with the whole all-female choir signing. If you think about it, the difference between singing and signing is just the transposition of a letter.

I can only mention a few highlights from their copious menu, but in addition to the above, I’d say: the Alleluia from Bach’s motet Lobet den Herrn, alle Heiden, the Crucem tuam adoramus, Domine by Paweł Łukaszewski, the male chorus in Danny Boy, and an exciting version of Nearer My God To Thee (banish images of string quartet on the deck of a sinking Titanic).

After a brief pause, the stage was filled with  a modest-sized (for DCINY) composite choir of about 139, composed of individual adult choirs from California, Connecticut, New Jersey, Virginia, Washington, Maryland, and Canada. They were expertly and sensitively led by Erin R. Freeman in the sublime glories of Gabriel Fauré’s Requiem.

Having performed and studied the Requiem for over fifty years, and even with renewed intense score study leading up to Sunday’s performance, I was astonished at my own capacity for surprise and awe as each harmonic sidestep worked its ineffable magic. Yet there is an austerity of means, a discipline, a restraint that belongs uniquely to Fauré. This places the work at an incredibly high taste level when one thinks of the music that was being used for liturgy in Paris at the time: potpourris and improvisations on hit tunes from Rossini, for example.

Perhaps Dr. Freeman had a more difficult task than Ms. Reed, for the DCINY choirs have to prepare individually, arrive in New York, rehearse with their overall conductor, and achieve unanimity in a very short time. Trust me, they did on this occasion.

Although this Requiem is known as the “gentle” one, the “lullaby of death” so to speak, it does have its moments of brief outburst. The choir handled both the tender wizardry of the soft passages and the louder moments that set them off beautifully. Dr. Freeman brought a marvelous sense of elasticity and expansion to the choral sound.

The work was presented with organ, one viola/violin (the soloist, DCINY’s excellent Jorge Ávila), and one harp. This corresponds much more closely to Fauré’s original intent, and allows one to hear certain strands of his immaculate counterpoint much more clearly than when a plush full orchestra is playing.

Both soloists, baritone Colin Levin, and soprano Kristen Plumley, dispatched their arias very well, with Mr. Levin impressive in the Offertorium, but underwhelming in the Libera me. Ms. Plumley’s Pie Jesu was sensitive, and she didn’t try to sound like a boy soprano. Interestingly, the Libera me has some of the more agitated music (finally mentions the Dies irae); it was adopted wholesale from a much earlier composition (1877), dating from Fauré’s unhappy, ultimately unsuccessful engagement to the daughter of Pauline Viardot. This raises the question of whether (as Fauré put it “I simply wrote it for the pleasure of it”) its sensual harmonies perhaps speak of matters both profane and sacred.

My heart went out to the excellent organist James D. Wetzel, who had to contend with the electronic organ in Carnegie Hall, whose sound emanates from two pathetic speakers and was not imposing enough when it needed to be. The transparent scoring, saving the violin for the angelic spirit of God hovering over the Sanctus, was a wise decision. Jorge Ávila’s final trill in the Sanctus allowed me to perceive, suddenly and instinctually, how Maurice Ravel developed the closing trill of the slow movement of his Piano Concerto in G major. He was Fauré’s composition student, after all.

All told, a glorious afternoon of choral achievement, and a balm for these wounded times.

Ian Hobson, piano

The Chapel at Saint Bartholomew’s Church, New York, NY

April 22, 2022

It has been more than two long years since virtuoso pianist Ian Hobson has graced New York. His Schumann series was cruelly interrupted—even the venue where he began presenting it (SubCulture) became a casualty of the pandemic. The original idea was to present the complete solo piano music and the piano-based chamber music in fifteen concerts over three seasons, and I sincerely hope he continues.

Undaunted by all this, Mr. Hobson changed the location to the inspiring Chapel at Saint Bartholomew’s Church on Park Avenue. Among Schumann’s many obsessions was the Kölner Dom (Cologne Cathedral) on the Rhine, so I imagine he might have approved of the liturgical setting, which provided an extra layer of irony to the “Carnival Jests” theme of Mr. Hobson’s program.

The carnival/papillons subjects were largely inspired by Schumann’s feverish discovery and reading of the works of Johann Paul Friedrich Richter, known as Jean-Paul. Contemporary Thomas Carlyle said that his writing groaned “with indescribable metaphors… flowing onward, not like a river, but an inundation, circling in complex eddies, chafing and gurgling now this way, now that, the proper current sinks out of view amid the boundless uproar.” This is similar to what many listeners thought upon hearing Schumann’s piano music.

Let us recall that even Schumann’s wife, Clara, one of the great piano virtuosi of the nineteenth century and one of her husband’s staunchest advocates, was constantly begging him to produce something more comprehensible and easier on the listener. The larger cycles of his music were almost never presented in their entirety, but as a group of a few extracts. Our modern concert culture frowns on such abbreviations.

Mr. Hobson, one of the great virtuosi of our century, gave us not one, but four of these “butterfly” or “masked ball” sequences on Tuesday night. The atmosphere of the masked balls, commonly held during Carnaval, the multi-month period of indulgence prior to Lent, invites disguise, intrigue, and romance. Jean-Paul (and by inference Schumann) saw people as potential butterflies who first had to emerge from their larval state, an apt analogy for a composer just starting out. Schumann’s works abound in ciphers, coded musical references to places (ASCH), himself (SCHA), and Clara (a descending scale motto found in many works). Asch was the birthplace of Schumann’s pre-Clara fiancée, Ernestine von Fricken. Even the word Faschingsschwank contains both the ASCH and the SCHA.

Mr. Hobson began with the rarely played Intermezzi, Op. 4, a set designed to be played without interruption, which Schumann referred to as “longer papillons,” and pièces phantastiques. He played with great impetuosity and brought an appropriately feverish anxiety to these works that “begin in the middle,” so to speak. Their discourse is often fragmentary, jumping from one thought to another. The second Intermezzo has words printed above its central section’s theme: Meine Ruh ist hin (My peace is gone), the famous song sung by the betrayed Gretchen in Goethe’s Faust. Mr. Hobson brought a lovely yearning to this section. The final Intermezzo contains an exact quote of the “ABEGG” theme (Schumann’s Op. 1), the name of a countess Schumann may have fancied.

Hobson then preceded to the Faschingsschwank aus Wien (Carnival Jest from Vienna), Op. 26, which Schumann regarded as a five-movement sonata, though only its Finale is in sonata form. The first movement is the one filled with jest: fleeting musical portraits of Schubert, Beethoven, and perhaps Strauss the elder; but its greatest laugh is the appearance of the Marseillaise, which was forbidden to be played in Vienna, so devastated were the Austrians by Napoleon’s ravages of thirty years prior. The three succeeding movements are a tender Romanze, a light-hearted Scherzino, and the turbulent Intermezzo in the exotic key of E-flat minor. At times, Mr. Hobson’s orchestral treatment of the piano would allow smaller note values to swamp the melodic lines, but his sense of the big picture was admirable. I began to be worried that either the acoustic of the chapel was too live, or the piano had been voiced too glassy. But suddenly he  would pull the dynamic back and the result was gorgeous.

Following the post-pandemic fashion of intermissionless concerts, Mr. Hobson proceeded directly to Schumann’s Papillons, Op. 2, another masked ball, this one based directly (though not programmatically) on Richter’s novel Flegeljahre (Adolescence), with its disguised twin brothers, Walt and Vult, both after the same girl, Wina. After the Grossvatertanz (Grandfather’s Dance) which signaled the end of every ball, the clock strikes six (a.m.) through misty memories of what went before, and it all vanishes. Here, Mr. Hobson played divinely, with the intended pedaling. Also of note, this ending features another one of Schumann’s stranger ideas: a chord is played through the release of each note, rather than it being played. At some places during the whole, I wished for greater delicacy and lingering or stretching of phrases. For me, the essence of Romanticism lies in the Faustian bargain, one says to the moment “Stay, for Thou art so fair,” of course, once one does, everything goes to the devil. However, I could also see how Mr. Hobson was de-cluttering the music of decades of sentimentality by amateur players.

The rousing conclusion was provided by the ultimate masked ball, Carnaval, Op. 9 (Cute scenes based on four notes, the ASCH and SCHA). This is no “roman à clef” since everyone is identified in the titles of the dizzying succession of movements: Pierrot, Arlequin, Eusebius (Schumann’s dreamy side), Florestan (Schumann’s fiery side), Charina (Clara), Chopin, Estrella, Pantalon et Colombine, Paganini to name only some. Here Mr. Hobson seems to have lived with the music longer, it somehow went deeper into his pianism and his poetry. Of particular delight were: Pierrot, Chiarina, Chopin (breathtaking pianissimo repeat), Reconnaisance, Valse allemande, Aveu, and Promenade. Here Mr.  Hobson enjoyed the softer colors and brought out the sense of longing. The work closes with the “carnival jest” of a march that is in three-four time, of the “League of David” (sensitive comprehending artists like Schumann and his friends) versus the Philistines (sounds kind of relevant doesn’t it?). The most admirable thing about Mr. Hobson’s overall take on these works is the headlong plunge he takes, seems very Schumann-esque to me, though Schumann was also a hyper-refined poetic sensibility.

Dear Mr. Hobson, please return soon and often, and show us these treasures in whatever venue is available.

Helios Trio: Chi-Chen Wu, piano; John Fadial, violin; Beth Vanderborgh, cello

Weill Recital Hall at Carnegie Hall, New York, NY

March 1, 2022

I can’t speak with authority about the State of the Union, but I can assert that the State of Chamber Music in Wyoming is very fine, as manifested by the Helios Trio (Not to be confused with the French-based Trio Helios!): Chi-Chen Wu, piano; John Fadial, violin; Beth Vanderborgh, cello; on Tuesday, March 1, 2022. They gave the audience a rich Mardi Gras indulgence, but I hope they’re not giving chamber music up for Lent.

The program of two pillars of the piano trio repertoire and one novelty was played with great togetherness, sensitivity, solo ability, unanimity of phrasing, and dynamic planning.

The program began with The Spirit and the Maiden (2004, rev. 2013) by Elena Kats-Chernin (b. 1957), born in Uzbekistan but a resident of Australia from an early age. This is a programmatic trio, based on a mystical tale, a sort of “reverse” Ondine, if you will: the seductive water creature is male and the mortal victim is female. One often hears that with program music, the important thing isn’t the program at all, but the quality of the music without the program. If I had heard this work without reading the story, I would have enjoyed it; however, I can’t really detect an “illustration” of the story in its three movements, as lovely as they are.

The three movements are what I like to call “maximal” minimalism—there are some of the usual hallmarks (motoric energy, repeated patterns), but Kats-Chernin also uses modal melodies that are very accessible and sounding almost folkloric. The performance was beautiful and engaging; the enigmatic ending almost prohibited the audience from applauding.

Helios followed this with the first of Mendelssohn’s two piano trios, the oft-played D minor, Op. 49. Once again, everything was scrupulously prepared, with fine attention to phrasing. One small caveat: I found pianist Chi-Chen Wu to be extremely virtuosic but overly deferent in terms of balance. This made the work sound “small-scale” when, in important places, it should have sounded more heroic. She played so softly that in too many places there were notes that didn’t sound; this was particularly detrimental in the final chord of the Andante movement, where one only heard B-flats from strings and piano, instead of a full B-flat chord in the piano. The writing is indeed thick at times (Mendelssohn’s piano was lighter), but all notes must be played and then a dynamic determination made. Never mind, the blistering speed Ms.Wu adopted in the Scherzo showed her credentials as a pianist to be admired.

I also particularly enjoyed the fine playing of cellist Beth Vanderborgh, especially in the Andante, but throughout. So often in piano trios the cellist tends to be the “ignored” one. Her musicality would allow none of that, and she brought attention to lines that one often doesn’t pay attention to. Perhaps besides the discretion of the pianist, she was aided in this by violinist John Fadial, who never played like a diva, but  I felt he even scaled some of his big moments down. The ensemble took many of the “standard” places where one expands the tempo, but they also contributed some of their own individuality to what amounted to an exciting rendition.

After intermission, they tackled Maurice Ravel’s only piano trio. Ravel viewed each one of his relatively few compositions as the unique and perfect solution to a musical problem he posed to himself. Thus, the piano trio, with its perennial balance issues became his thesis. Ravel the master orchestrator brings his skill to the three instruments perfectly, while not neglecting to create heartbreakingly simple modal themes to express emotion.

In this work, Helios really opened up. Ms. Wu came out of her shell and really rose to the immense climaxes that are required. The first movement’s main theme, in a Basque rhythm called zortziko, is “of Basque color,” as Ravel said. He composed it just adjacent to his birthplace of Ciboure in Basque country, in July 1914 “despite the rain and freezing temperatures” (unusual on the Côte Basque in July), a sort of harbinger.

The first three movements were finished prior to the outbreak of World War I. Ravel loathed any association of his music with current events (the violence of La Valse, for example), but it is hard not to hear in the fanfares of the Final, the desperate hopes for victory in the coming conflict.

The Pantoum, second movement scherzo, is based on an esoteric Malaysian verse form with interlocking lines within the stanzas. Here, Ravel does find some musical equivalency with the two main themes interweaving. Ever the master constructor, the first (silvery rapid) theme of the Pantoum, greatly slowed down, becomes the melody of the Passacaille.

Equally hard not to hear is the De Profundis despair of this Passacaille, which in the Baroque was a composition based on a repeating bass line. Of course Ravel the fastidious perfectionist knew he wasn’t writing a strict passacaglia at all, only the melody repeats, climbing out of the depths, building to a shattering climax, and then retreating, mirror-fashion, to its tomb-like conclusion. This journey was gorgeously rendered by the three members of Helios.

By this time, everyone in the audience knew, as well as I, that the Final would be an exciting ride, and indeed it was. Ravel himself, despite repeated rejections by the French army, managed to enlist and serve as a truck driver in 1916 and early 1917, near the Verdun front. During this time, he became ill, and his beloved mother died—he was discharged to attend her funeral. The premiere of the Trio was in January 1915, and during those anguished early months of heavy losses, it went virtually unnoticed. Thank goodness for wonderful advocates of the trio repertoire like Helios, who bring it to us in our own anguished time. Dear Helios, please return often!

Seong-Joo Kang, piano

Weill Recital Hall at Carnegie Hall, New York, NY

February 23,  2022

One of those rare events happened on Wednesday evening: a recital that made the reviewer set aside his analytical self and simply surrender to the beauty of what was unfolding. Seong-Joo Kang, a 27-year-old Korean-born pianist, was the creator of this magic.

Seong-Joo Kang began piano studies in his native Seoul at age five, but has done his collegiate-level music study in various locales in Germany, playing for the leading lights of that culture, and obviously absorbing everything he can about the Austro-Hungarian and German traditions.

However, there are some things that can not be taught. Ah, therein lies the mystery of talent! With the first clear notes of the Haydn F minor Variations, Hob. XVII:6, a pianist of taste, style, poetic feeling, intellect, and discipline was revealed. This work, written in a key Haydn rarely used, is almost painfully private; a double variation set. In keeping with the most authentic style practice, Mr. Kang had the good sense to play the F major sections just a tad faster (nothing radical), but when he returned to the minor key, the deliberate pace he resumed each time became ever bleaker. Just prior to the conclusion, the piece breaks into what I call a “mad scene” from some imagined Baroque opera, or a reference to Bach’s Chromatic Fantasy, before resolving into a very uncertain F major. Not a note was out of place, the sonority was beautiful, and there was no idle “passagework” – every note sang.

Next came Schubert’s Fantasy in C Major, commonly known as the “Wanderer,” after the song quoted in the second part (of four continuous “movements”). The archetype of Romantic period longing, “Da wo Du nicht bists/Da ist dein Haus” (Wherever you are not/There is your home). The continuous dactyls of the poem (long-short-short; commonly used in ancient Greek epics) are represented musically in this monothematic masterpiece. For Schubert, even the epic triumphs of this Fantasy may be more desperate than joyful; this rhythm also became an oft-used signifier for death.

The sheer bravado of the three quick sections should really make us reevaluate what Schubert may have been like as a piano performer. In the Fantasy, Mr. Kang was able to thunder (without ever banging!), then turn immediately to a whisper. He savored every color change from minor to major, and knew exactly how to make the required subito pianos, as well as pacing the repeated climaxes. This is the work that does not want to “say goodbye,” its C major coda restates itself again and again. Yet Mr. Kang’s grasp of structure is so strong, the work never wandered. One hint: After playing such a titanic work, dear Seong-Joo, please take a much bigger bow- you’ve earned it!

After intermission, the entire second half was devoted to delicious Rachmaninoff, one transcription and one original set. One could hardly imagine a composer more diametrically opposed to Viennese classicism than Sergei R. the “6-foot scowl.” Yet, in his own abundant recordings Rachmaninoff reveals himself to be quite “classical” in his expression, unlike the sometimes highly exaggerated versions we hear today. Mr. Kang followed in this straightforward path, to great effect.

The first work was Fritz Kreisler’s delectable Liebesleid (Pains of Love, originally for violin and piano), a Viennese waltz of such charm that one scarcely notices how difficult Rachmaninoff’s arrangement is (!), especially in the hands of a pianist like Mr. Kang. His economy of motion is a joy to behold. Everything goes into the music, no gratuitous display.

He followed with Rachmaninoff’s Six Moments Musicaux, Op. 16, an obvious reference to Schubert’s set of the same name. But what a difference. Four of these pieces are awash in decorative filigrees of either lacy delicacy or thundering power (or both). Mr. Kang clarified every single texture without ever sounding taxed or busy. Frankly, I could have used a little more exaggeration in these works, as well as that hallmark of the Russian school: attention paid to bringing out inner voices. The two lyrical movements were also beautiful, with No. 5 in D-flat bringing a spontaneous tear or two to this crabby old reviewer’s eyes. Have I gone soft due to the pandemic? I think not.

Mr. Kang favored his small but fiercely devoted audience with the Schumann/Liszt song transcription Widmung, which was perfectly sensitive.

Opus Two: William Terwilliger, violin; Andrew Cooperstock, piano

With Eric Stern, host, arranger; Elena Shaddow, vocals

Feinstein’s/54 Below, New York, NY

November 23, 2021

First off, let me say what a pleasure it is to attend a violin/piano duo recital that does NOT contain the Franck Sonata (not that there’s anything intrinsically wrong with that work). Opus Two has well established its unconventional approach, with special attention to genres other than the standard ‘classical’ repertoire. In the “swellegant” atmosphere of Feinstein’s/54 Below they provided an evening of good listening. The few caveats I cite below are quibbles, but important ones. This concert was planned for the ninetieth birthday observances for Stephen Sondheim (2020), but a certain virus derailed all of our plans.

To begin, although the well-heeled audience was eating ($36 dollar hangar steaks and the like) and drinking, necessarily maskless, William Terwilliger and Andrew Cooperstock performed with masks on, robbing them of important visual emotive cues, rendering them somewhat remote. The host, and their arranger of ten years, Eric Stern, narrated his somewhat superfluous chat without a mask; and the singer they brought to assist in three numbers, Elena Shaddow, sang maskless as well.

The dry acoustics of Feinstein’s, while not injurious to most cabaret-style performances, were somewhat unforgiving, especially to Mr. Terwilliger’s violin, and they made the beautiful Steinway, ably played by Mr. Cooperstock, sound glassy and brittle. One longed for some reverberance. The Duo’s recordings are much more refined than this.

Transcribing and arranging are noble and ancient arts. Many composers have enjoyed doing so. I’m thinking especially of Franz Liszt, who brought entire operas to life with his ten fingers to small towns across Europe

where the residents may not have been able to access an actual opera in a large cultural center. He also transformed dozens of songs by Schubert, Schumann, Mendelssohn, and others for piano solo.

The best transcribers of vocal music manage to make us “hear” the words despite their absence. I feel Opus Two’s program would best be appreciated by people who already know the words. Bernstein’s reputation as a classical composer is canonic at this point, I feel Sondheim should equally be in this category—he himself cited Britten, Ravel, and Stravinsky as his main influences, and of course, Rodgers and Hammerstein.

Many years ago, the common wisdom stated that Brahms’ Lieder were so instrumentally conceived that they could easily be played on violin, viola, or cello without losing any of their value. I would never argue with one of my professors, but for me a poem, and its evoked emotions, inspired the work to begin with. Thus the fun arrangements this evening, some extravagantly virtuosic, by Mr. Stern, ought to have done more than just ornament the notes.

They began with the Four Moments from Bernstein’s Candide, which suffered from a technical mishap in the slide projections which wrongly labeled each selection. Sadly, I don’t think anyone but me and the reviewer seated next to me knew the difference. The tempos seemed stiff and conservative especially in Glitter and Be Gay. Here is a prime example of my point: When a coloratura soprano sings a high E-flat amid a welter of rapid bouncing back and forth, it’s quite an achievement—when a violin does it, it’s normal, not so extraordinary. I often felt that the sense of giddiness didn’t make it into the arrangement, though Mr. Stern kept Mr.Terwilliger quite busy with difficult figurations, most of which were met with aplomb, despite intonation issues and the acoustic mentioned previously.

For two songs about ‘houses’ the Opus Two brought onstage Broadway’s soprano Elena Shaddow, who had an appropriately Wendy-like innocence for My House from Peter Pan, though she lacked the gravitas for Abigail Adams singing Take Care of this House (1600 Pennsylvania Avenue) amid the ruins of the White House in 1814, sounding merely petulant. She should have held her final notes longer, to end together with the violin/ensemble; it left a curious, unfinished feeling.

I am stridently against the transformation of Somewhere from West Side Story into a sort of feel-good Muzak number. Of course, at its initial appearance, the song heralds the love of Tony and Maria against all odds—but for me it is the reprise with Maria holding the dead Tony in her arms that is the true psychological underpinning of this music, and it should end with the discordant tritone found at the end of the musical, not a bland “C major,” even at the risk of making the listener uncomfortable. After all…

Shaddow returned for the beautiful I Remember (Sondheim) from Evening Primrose, a television drama from 1966. Ella, who was trapped in a department store at age six, but is now nineteen, falls in love with The Poet, who has taken refuge in the store present-day. The evil master of all the souls who come to life after closing hours turns them into mannequins in the window, where Ella can finally, tragically, see her sky again. Ms. Shaddow lacked the poignance and complexity of this song of memory—when the line comes “I would gladly die, for a day of sky,” one should not feel good about it.

Finally, the Duo performed Mr. Stern’s Suite from A Little Night Music, whose music is all in ¾ waltz time. Here again, the violin/piano failed to suggest the words. The longing of a certain syllable, the stresses and releases, the wistful floating off, especially in Send in the Clowns, didn’t find their way into Mr. Terwillger’s playing, busy as he was with figurations provided by Mr. Stern, which here I felt oddly could have been even more extravagant.

At any rate, as I said before, these are the quibbles of a cranky reviewer approaching this from the classical side. The audience didn’t mind, and was extremely appreciative.

InfraSound: Luke Paulino, countertenor; Stefanie Proulx, flutes; Yoshi Weinberg, flutes;

Bradley Frizzell, clarinet; Giancarlo Latta, violin; Dudley Raine IV, viola; Austin Philemon, piano; Hunter Somogie, electric guitar

TAK Ensemble: Laura Cocks, flutes; Madison Greenstone, clarinets; Marina Kifferstein, violin; Ellery Trafford, percussion; Charlotte Mundy, voice

Tenri Cultural Institute, New York, NY

November 13, 2021

I can safely assert that the state of contemporary music in New York is vibrant and enthusiastic, as represented by the winners of the Dwight and Ursula Mamlok Prize: InfraSound and the TAK Ensemble. Ursula Mamlok, a legendary pedagogue for decades, principally at The Manhattan School of Music, was also represented on the program by each ensemble. Perhaps ironically, her works, dating from 1961 and 1967, proved to be the strongest musically. As Mamlok often said, all the explanation in the world won’t help the listener coming to the work for the first time. They must be able to perceive the emotional content, as projected through rise, fall, climax, and proportion.

While the music on the program may have been somewhat uneven, the performances were excellent throughout, with tight ensemble and excellent partner communication. This event was diverse from the standpoints of race, gender, and sexual identity. The first half was consecrated to InfraSound, the second half to the TAK Ensemble.

The concert began with Mamlok’s Variations for solo flute (1961), superbly played by transgender flutist Yoshi Weinberg, who was also represented later as composer. This was Mamlok’s first 12-tone composition, and you could hear her rigorous training, however she sported with the row (and its many permutations), never allowing it to become didactic. Her sense of proportion kept the length to just over seven minutes, long enough to enjoy without overstaying its welcome.

Next came Julius Eastman’s 1974 work, JoyBoy, for voice, 2 flutes, and violin. Eastman is undergoing something of a renaissance recently, thanks to the rediscovery of a large cache of compositions. He was a multi-talented composer, pianist, vocalist, and dancer, co-founder of the important S.E.M. Ensemble, among many accomplishments. He was also black and queer, which was difficult for him within his community. Sadly, he became dependent on drugs and then homeless (hence the loss of his manuscripts), dying at age 49. JoyBoy is a celebration of the possibilities of a single note, E, that expands into chords or contracts into itself. It was beautifully done.

Though I can’t name every performer in InfraSound (“below” sound), I must single out the work of counter-tenor Luke Paulino, capable of myriad colors and unfazed by any score, no matter how difficult.

Yoshi Weinberg (they/them) was then featured as composer with their 2020 work Infravize, a largely improvised work, and the first time I have encountered an accordion in a chamber music concert. I imagine that after a year-and-a -half of Zoom rehearsing and performing, playing together in person must have seemed a relief. Their ensemble was perfect, even with the loose structure of improvisation.

Vasily Ratmansky was born in 1998. He is not a medieval Russian Grand Prince, despite his bio. He also gets the award for longest title: “I think maybe the shape of new music yet to come? I’m not 100% sure though, since I am a new music composer and I don’t really know what shape new music has” used to be the title of the piece, but now my mouth is open and speaking isn’t what I want to do right now. This work is hot off the manuscript and was a world premiere. Unfortunately, as with much contemporary music dependent on technology, said technology doesn’t always behave. Although Ratmansky seems like an ironic commentator, it was hard to tell where the computer woes ended and the piece began, so to speak. The commitment of all involved was vivid however.

After intermission, David Bird’s Series Imposture (2012) was given an excellent, haunting rendition. Charlotte Mundy’s vocalism was wonderful. This piece is a musical transposition of a bizarre psychological experiment in which test subjects faked auditory hallucinations in order to gain admission to psychiatric hospitals, where they were diagnosed, medicated, and not allowed to leave (even though they were fine).

More Mamlok followed, in the shape of her Haiku Variations (1967). The short poetry brought forth brief musical responses from the composer, icy waves, seagull, nightingale, sparrow, etc. Mundy and the ensemble were superb.

Two excerpts (Casida de las palomas oscuras & Arqueros) from the song cycle Love, Crystal, and Stone (2017) by Iranian composer Ashkan Bezahdi closed the evening. Bezahdi skillfully mingles fragments of indigenous Iranian music with other advanced compositional strategies and weaves a striking sound world.

After the enthusiastic ovation, the two ensembles were presented with their framed award citations. Well done!

Adrienne Haan, chanteuse

Richard Danley, piano; Bart Shatto, chanteur; Mike Campenni, drums

Triad Theater, New York, NY

October 13, 2021

If indeed there is to be any hope for our fractured world, it is to be found in the power of music, on this occasion the specific gifts of Adrienne Haan. I have reviewed Ms. Haan several times in these pages, always with pleasure, and “One World” was no exception.

Ms. Haan is high-energy, which is not to say manic. In the intimate confines of the Triad Theater, the sheer power of her voice at climaxes was gratifying, and she also found the intimate moments when appropriate. She has the thing which cannot be taught: charm.

The program was a tour-de-force of linguistic investigation. I wish classical singers had such curiosity. A total of eleven languages were employed: English, French, German, Yiddish, Hebrew, Spanish, Swedish, Turkish, Luxembourgish, Mandarin, and finally Italian. The only one I found to be somewhat less idiomatic than the rest was the English. (And the final ‘e’ neutral in French.) And Ms. Haan doesn’t stop exploring: Zulu is on the menu for her next show.

I can guarantee that this is the only theatrical/cabaret show, perhaps anywhere, but certainly in the United States, where you will hear the Luxembourg national anthem, sung in Luxembourgish.

The playlist I was given announced that she would open with Kander and Ebb’s iconic Willkommen, Bienvenu, performed memorably by Joel Grey in Cabaret. Instead she gave us Liza’s (Minnelli) equally iconic Life is a Cabaret. That leads me to my only tiny quibble- I wish Ms. Haan would branch into the slightly more sinister, cynical, world-weary, louche, dangerous colors of cabaret. A largely see-through outfit isn’t going to satisfy that. Evidently that’s not really Ms. Haan’s temperament, and I can truly understand why, in view of the pandemic and various political evolutions to the “right” (the only pointed commentary she made), that she chose to keep things positive and harmonious.

For me, the most successful numbers (no surprise) were the Yiddish Bokserboym and the Hebrew song for the Holocaust remembrance of 2020 Rikmah Enoshit Achat (One Human Tissue), both sung with exquisite poignancy and identification.

Insistence on a perky up-tempo spoiled Besame mucho. She has a way of ending all the up-tempo songs with a sort of ‘whoop’ cry—once is fine, but not every time. Ms. Haan’s own composition Contemplation, sung in English, was lovely. Only in New York (Thoroughly Modern Millie) and La Vie en rose and Milord were well done. Although Haan’s repertoire covers songs etched permanently in our cultural collective memory by the famous: Minnelli, Andrews, Piaf, Dietrich, Aznavour, etc., what I so admire about her is that she never goes for a cheap imitation, she finds her own originality with the material, which is no mean feat.

I could have lived without the German version of Superfragilisticexpialidicious; and although I understand I’m in the minority, I absolutely cringe whenever I hear anything associated with Andrea Bocelli, in this case, Il Preghiere/The Prayer (wonderfully partnered with her regular singing partner Bart Shatto) and Con te partirò. For me, they’re clichéd, just not good as music, when there’s so much high-quality rarely performed material available. At this point, let me mention the superior quality of her music director, pianist Richard Danley, assisted by Mike Campenni on percussion.

This very generous program which began late was welcomed with enthusiasm by her devoted fans in the nearly sold-out Triad. As an encore, Ms. Haan offered a whirlwind tour of some early Broadway musical theater songs from Showboat, Porgy and Bess and the like, unchallenging for the listeners. One part of it, a frantic Summertime had the wrong mood. I urge Ms. Haan to continue to branch out, while acknowledging what a treasure she is in an increasingly shrinking field, and what pleasure her positivity brings to the world.

Emily-Jane Luo, piano

Merkin Concert Hall, Kaufman Center, New York, NY

September 19, 2021

For me, youth has always equated to bravery: bravery in selecting the most daunting repertoire, bravery in playing one of the first indoor solo recitals since the pandemic, bravery in billing it as one’s New York debut. As to the repertoire point, I’m quite on board with it, since if the pupil is apt, it is wise to familiarize neural connections with issues of speed, accuracy, and volume as early as possible.

Fifteen-year-old Emily-Jane Luo is no longer technically a child prodigy, though her early training and appearances qualify as such. She began piano studies at an early age, and has already been making the rounds of competitions, and had her orchestral concerto debut. Normally, I’m a bit leery of prodigies, only because I fear they may be over-developing one aspect of themselves at the expense of a holistic sense of self. I needn’t fear for Ms. Luo, for she also excels in science, writing, taekwondo, and French.

Her recital was exciting throughout, with fiery bravura technique, thoughtful phrasing, lots of temperament, and even an old-fashioned sense of the “big line,” which doesn’t get caught up in details but propels and keeps things together. She chose a program of fearsome difficulty that would make a colleague of four times her age sweat with anxiety.

Ms. Luo possesses that rare quality, an individualism, when the mass of other young pianists are striving to fit in and get “all the notes right.”

She will have time to develop more subtlety and control, but for now . . . wow! This was not careful, cookie-cutter playing. Tempi were sometimes pushed to the extreme (ah, youth!); however, a few seconds later, in a reflective passage, she had that rare ability to make time stop with her generous breathing. I, for one, am glad she wasn’t careful; had she played every single note correctly, I might have thought I was witnessing some supernatural evil contract with the devil.

As far as a debut recital is concerned, the program was short on the Classical period (Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven and the like) and some twentieth century music (or twenty-first!) more adventurous than Rachmaninoff. I suspect she might be a great Prokofiev or Bartók pianist. It was also just an hour long (perhaps logistics of the hall), but what an hour!

This was also my first (COVID-19 “re-opening”) live indoor concert, and every melting phrase meant so much to me. Those who read my reviews regularly know how I value a fine set of program notes, which was provided here, though their author was uncredited (Ms. Luo?). Even the words to the Schubert Lieder transcribed by Liszt, so important to Liszt that he had them put in the published score, were printed.

Ms. Luo’s handling of the three Schubert songs (Ständchen, Gretchen am Spinnrade, Erlkönig) was divine. I’m going to be heretical here and say, one didn’t really miss the singer, her rendering was so complete, with great voicing and a “linguistic” musical phrase. Ms. Luo’s Ständchen was so seductive it would have made any lover hop out the bedroom window to join the beloved in the garden. The mad dash of the galloping horse in Erlkönig was thrilling. I’m glad these transcriptions are coming back to the recital stage more often. Once seen as nothing but show-off vehicles, they are in fact so much more, but only in the right hands.

Ms. Luo’s Bach C minor Partita I took some exception to, on two points: it was a shame to have the piece amputated of its dance movements (she played only the opening Sinfonia), and either she hasn’t been taught, or has made a deliberate decision not, to change the sixteenth notes in the French overture first part to thirty-second notes, which they should be. The second and especially the third sections of the Sinfonia were played too quickly, robbing them of depth. But, as one is playing on a nine-foot Steinway, perhaps Richard Taruskin is right about the illusion of authenticity.

She followed this immediately with two of Rachmaninoff’s sublime Etudes-Tableaux, one from Op. 33, G minor, and one from Op. 39, the famous E-flat minor. Both were played with command, poignancy, and grandeur: every opportunity was taken. Ms. Luo speaks this language quite naturally.

Then came the “center of gravity”: both books of Brahms’s Variations on a Theme of Paganini, Op. 35. This fiendish torture-chamber of pianistic difficulties showed off Ms. Luo’s many strengths, again particularly in the slower, more thoughtful variations, though there was great excitement in the headlong rapid ones. She knows how to vary voicing and dynamics upon the repeat of a section, a talent that is so necessary and valuable.

She favored the audience with an encore: one of Rachmaninoff’s Moments Musicaux, E Minor, Op. 16, No. 4, marked Presto, and was it ever! Ms. Luo, at this point completely unfettered, simply plunged into the maelstrom, and it was worth it.

I wish her all success in whatever she chooses to do with her music, or her other interests. Thank you, Emily-Jane.

Da Capo Chamber Players 50th Anniversary Celebration

A Conversation with Patricia Spencer

It is rare for any ensemble to reach fifty years with identity intact—a few string quartets, a piano trio have done so. The Da Capo Chamber Players have become known as a “Pierrot” ensemble—that is, their instrumentation (flute, clarinet, violin, cello, piano, with flute and clarinet doublings) is exactly that needed to perform Schoenberg’s seminal Pierrot lunaire with a vocal artist. And perform it indeed they have: “way back” with Bethany Beardslee, then Lucy Shelton numerous times (most recently in 2016, available on YouTube), and Elaine Bonazzi.

The legacy of Da Capo is a virtual encyclopedia of contemporary music in New York, America, and the world. They have commissioned a staggering 150 works over the years—think about it: that’s an average of three per year.

Earlier in 2021, despite the pandemic, the ensemble created a highly entertaining and educational web series Music for Human Rights ,with a wide range of different styles and cultures contained therein, not only in the music, but also in the informative discussions. (Still available on YouTube: Hearing the African-American Experience; Asian Echoes; and Paean to Merging Cultures)

I was able to sit down recently with the only founding member still active as performer, the legendary flutist Patricia Spencer, (she premiered the Elliott Carter Flute Concerto, and so many other works), for a wonderfully wide-ranging talk.

My first task was to peer into the origins of such a mixed ensemble in the year 1970. Ms. Spencer said that they gravitated around each other as a result of performing on a series that pianist/composer Joan Tower (another founding member) had organized at Greenwich House in New York. She also insisted strongly that they were always “people oriented,” there had to be the highest level of playing quality of course, but there had to be a simpatico too. If the originals had met an oboist instead of a clarinetist, the formation may have been different.

It didn’t take long for the group to achieve a prominent position in New York’s musical life. With a built-in composer, so to speak, they were able to commission and premiere works by Joan Tower, and Tower had the advantage of getting to hear those works under ideal conditions.

In 1973, a scant three years into its existence, Da Capo Chamber Players won the prestigious Walter W. Naumburg Award for chamber music, which came with a monetary grant for commissioning and a debut recital at Alice Tully Hall. That recital had two commissions, by Milton Babbitt and Harvey Sollberger, thus firmly cementing their reputation of working with the foremost living American composers, as well as advocating for American chamber music throughout the world.

And the awards would follow frequently: the Naumburg Foundation sponsored Da Capo’s tenth anniversary at Alice Tully Hall. The Andrew W. Mellon Foundation gave them a grant for creating guest composer residencies (1990-1993); Chamber Music America gave them the first prize award for Adventuresome Programming (1988), as well as three commissioning awards; National Endowment for the Arts Consortium Commissioning award, New York State Council on the Arts, and on it goes to the present day.

For their twentieth anniversary, Da Capo premiered eight pieces written for the occasion by Gunther Schuller, George Perle, Shulamit Ran, John Gibson, Stephen Albert, Bruce Adolphe, Richard Wilson, and Yehudi Wyner.

Skipping ahead, I asked Ms. Spencer, somewhat unfairly in light of fifty years, if she could pinpoint three absolute highlights of her Da Capo life. She reluctantly allowed as follows:

• Their residency tours to Russia and Belarus in 2003—2007, during which she said she became aware of the hunger of the young composers in these countries for exposure to this repertoire.
• The Chinary Ung series at the Smithsonian, and release of the all Chinary Ung CD in 2010, named by National Public Radio as one of the 5 Best Contemporary Classical CDs of the year.
• The 2012 centenary of Pierrot Lunaire with Lucy Shelton in New York and its reprise in Florida in 2016.

I asked her if the state of contemporary music was more vibrant now or in 1970, and she said definitely now, mainly due to the fact that there are so many more ensembles taking the leap and forming, commissioning works, and spreading their individual niche missions. She emphasized that quality must always be the touchstone.

Working with so many composers, Ms. Spencer said that Da Capo always proceeded from the general to the specific, that is, the ensemble’s thematic concept and the genesis of a work from a specific composer was primary, more than any considerations of whether they would be able to play it (!).

In their early concerts, because of the challenging nature of the scores, each work was performed twice, hence the name Da Capo, “from the beginning” in music. A valuable luxury that they eventually had to sacrifice to keep concert length and variety feasible; but the name stuck. I also asked her about getting the second performance, meaning that premieres are easy, but does a work actually enter the repertoire? Da Capo has a strong record here, with many of its works displaying staying power.

Funding is always an issue, especially when commissioning so many works—Spencer is also the group’s grant writer, an occupation for which many non profits have a full-time person. They have been fortunate not only in grants, but private donations, and once their reputation was made by the Naumburg, many composers “gave” works to Da Capo, knowing they would receive the best possible premieres. Some of the private funders are: Aaron Copland Fund for Music; Alice M. Ditson Fund of Columbia University; Amphion Foundation; Hulbert Charitable Trust; The Fan Fox and Leslie R. Samuels Foundation; Trust for Mutual Understanding (Tours to Russia and Belarus); The Zethus Fund; and numerous individuals.

The ensemble has a democratic system as to choosing which works to perform, with no one person controlling, and everyone having a vote. From time to time (though rarely) if one or two of them don’t care for the work, the mutual respect they have for each other demands that they give it their all, and no one is the wiser for it—a process that all ensembles would be smart to employ.

One of Ms. Spencer’s real joys is the educational mission of the group, as experienced mainly though numerous residencies in colleges (notably Bard) and even high schools, where they get to humanize the face of contemporary or “art” music through interactive classes and workshops, thereby sharpening the skills of their own audiences. They also have always had a mission to bring the composers into contact with the listeners, removing the sense of the “isolated genius” working on a metaphoric remote mountaintop.

The coming New York season, the extended observance of the fiftieth anniversary, has not set exact dates and location, but is planned for spring 2022, with the theme “Bridges.” Three concerts: Bridging Eras, Bridging Cultures, and Bridging Styles are outlined, each with a major commission (Bruce Adolphe, Shirish Korde, and David Sanford). I humorously suggested that with all those bridges, perhaps funding could be secured from the Infrastructure bill.

The current members of Da Capo are: Patricia Spencer, flute; Marianne Glythfeldt, clarinet; Curtis Macomber, violin; Chris Gross, cello; Steven Beck, piano.

Rest assured that there is no “double bar” for this ensemble, they will keep circling back “to the beginning” with their music-making joy. I was reminded of the Four Quartets by T.S. Eliot: “We shall not cease from exploration/And the end of all our exploring/Will be to arrive where we started/And know the place for the first time.”