Patricia Spencer, flute and alto flute; Marianne Glythfeldt, clarinet and bass clarinet; Curtis Macomber, violin; Chris Gross, cello; Steven Beck, piano
Guest Artists: Yoshi Weinberg, flute; Hannah Levinson, viola; Michael Lipsey, percussion; James Baker, conductor
Tenri Cultural Institute, New York, NY
February 26, 2023
I wish I could split this review of the Da Capo Chamber Players’ 51st Season into two parts—I shall explain in a moment. Their 50th season was spread over several years due to you-know-what. But think about a fifty-year legacy rich with commissions and a fierce desire to present works by living composers in addition to a few canonic works.
When you attend a concert by Da Capo, you hear transcendent virtuosity, including stunning extended techniques, as we did on this occasion. You know that each time you hear a performance you are hearing the finest possible rendition—as if it were a ready-to-release CD. Da Capo’s survival is largely due to the unwavering labor of its remaining founding member, flutist Patricia Spencer.
Three of the four works on this occasion were by women, and three of the four works by living composers- two of whom were present. However, and here’s where I must return to my above comment, I sat in the intimate gallery space of the Tenri Cultural Center, and aside from my admiration for the playing, I was left absolutely cold. How I longed for just one melodic phrase with some expansion, some yearning, or any sustained mood. Today’s composers seem more preoccupied with innovations in sonority and rhythmic dislocation—two important elements of music to be sure, but not the whole picture. The head/heart ratio, as I call it, is out of whack.
Bach’s Die Kunst der Fuge (The Art of Fugue), the work I have spent the most time living with in my career, is one of the most abstruse treatises on counterpoint ever conceived by a human, yet it is at the same time a gripping, emotionally moving statement.
The concert began with Barbara White’s Learning to See, her musical response to four prominent 20th century visual artists: Tinguely, Brancusi, Hesse, and Johns, with their technical preoccupations translated into her music. The title of the first section (after Tinguely) with its phrase “junk heap” did not bode well for me, though I was able to appreciate the fine shades of instrumental blending the players achieved. Brancusi’s music (Bird) formed an alternating episode between the others, similar to a rondo. This was the only work in which Patricia Spencer played—she generously gave the rest of the evening to a young colleague, Yoshi Weinberg.
Next was, for me, the most successful work of the evening, Eleanor Hovda’s Ariadne Music (1984), in which one could imagine the mounting terror of being trapped in a labyrinth with a monster, as represented by wisps of sonority that grew to a shattering climax over an excruciating amount of time, then subsided to the point at which it began. This work was conducted by James Baker.
After intermission, a brief hard-to-hear interview was conducted by David Bridges of the Composers Now initiative with Barbara White and David Sanford. Folks, if you’re not going to use microphones, please project and enunciate. They discussed how the ensembles they work with may, or may not, influence their composing, and they talked about the importance of quotation (transformed, of course) to their process.
Then came the world premiere: David Sanford’s time isn’t holding us (2023), leaning on his great knowledge of jazz and “unstable” (as he calls it) music from the 1970s, including Jimi Hendrix, George Crumb, Miles Davis, and Charles Mingus, all demonically sampled and transformed. Among the new techniques I observed (perhaps I need to get out more often!), was the xylophone being brushed with string bows. I must single out pianist Steven Beck for his tremendous musicianship and versatility.
In conclusion, Da Capo offered Belinda Reynolds’ light hearted coming around… (1995), a sort of musical portrayal of a Californian working in New York City for a few years, then returning to her true homeland. Particularly enjoyable was a “fractured waltz” in the middle of the work, never staying in 3/4 too long.
I have every confidence that Da Capo will continue far into the future—and I hope they are, in fact, able to get a younger generation interested in placing and keeping groundbreaking works in the repertoire.
by Frank Daykin for New York Concert Review; New York, NY
Lukáš Windřich, Director; Lenka Navratilova, Piano
The Music of Mack Wilberg
Distinguished Concerts Singers International
Mack Wilberg, Composer/Conductor; Gabriel Evans, Piano/Organ
Stern Auditorium at Carnegie Hall, New York, NY
February 20, 2023
Distinguished Concerts International New York (DCINY) offered another typically generous evening of a wide variety on President’s Day. The three groups featured could not have been more different, and each showed its personality successfully.
First up was the gigantic Langley High School Concert Band from Virginia. Under the sensitive, efficient direction of its conductor, Doug Martin, they played six short pieces (one of them was conducted by the young Kai Smith). John Philip Sousa’s Gridiron Club march made for a rousing opener, with beautiful contrast between the “A” theme and the Trio. Kai Smith then led Adam Gorb’s A Little Tango Music, which displayed little of the dangerous ritual of attraction/repulsion of the dance. Praetorius’ Dances from Terpsichore were rough going in such an inflated version, and they’re not even by Praetorius. Elgar’s beloved “Nimrod” variation (from the larger Enigma Variations) had melting legato. Johan Halvorsen’s Entry March of the Boyars was full of character. Finally, Brian Beck’s La Madre de los Gatos, the most recent work (2009), cleverly named for a middle school band director, Velma Shine, aka “Kitty Mama,” was spirited fun.
After considerable stage remodeling during intermission, the Cancioneta Praga, a group I had never heard, took the stage. A “mere” three dozen women, there is nothing “mere” about this precision choral group: their harmony, blend, dynamics, and precision were marvels. Their six Czech selections showed enormous range, from Dvořák, and Smetana, to Martinů, and they were exciting and controlled. Where I took issue was with the final two pieces: two traditional American spirituals: Michael, Row the Boat Ashore and When the Saints Go Marching In. (Is this what they mean by cultural appropriation?) Their English was heavily accented, and when Maestro Jindřich turned to the audience to solicit participation in the “Hallelujahs” at the end of each line of Michael, Row, I was left with this uncomfortable image: I (for some reason) am at a $700/person tasting menu dinner, and the chef invites me into the kitchen to put some finishing touches on the food.
Finally, Mack Wilberg, conductor of the iconic Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square (formerly the “Mormon T.C.,” Salt Lake City), was in charge of the assembled DCINY choirs who traveled from North Carolina, South Carolina, Texas, Utah, and Virginia. They were in charge of a group of inspiring sacred choruses (German, American), all arranged by Mr. Wilberg. I wonder if it was difficult working with these disparate forces, well-trained though they were, after the glories of his home choir, this group was somewhat short on male voice parts. He and his valiant organist Gabriel Evans also had to fight the disgraceful plug-in organ that serves Carnegie Hall. The American folk hymn My Song in the Night was particularly lovely. DCINY really made us wait for its umbrella title, the Shaker hymn Simple Gifts, which was performed nicely, if somewhat “complicated” by Wilberg’s arrangement. In conclusion, a blessing was offered, gorgeously sung, to the tune of English folksong O Waly, Waly, with words “Thou Gracious God, Whose Mercy Lends.”
The loud ovation showed that on many levels, people do understand (or feel) that “simple” gifts such as communal music-making, are not achieved without intricate work.
by Frank Daykin for New York Concert Review; New York, NY
Pianist Ian Hobson continues his Colossus stride through the complete piano music of Robert Schumann, on this occasion offering two contrasting Schumanns: 1) the purveyor of Biedermeyer coziness to a burgeoning amateur piano market and 2) the prickly innovator, with one of his most neglected oeuvres. The normally excellent program notes by Richard Dyer were wrong about one fact: Schumann did not compose 28 consecutive opuses of piano music, for Op. 24, 25, and 27 are Lieder sets- though there is sometimes a discrepancy between composition and publication.
The two opening works, which included the beloved Arabeske and the lesser-known Blumenstück, are thought to have been conceived as parts of the same compositional outburst of flower pieces, Guirlandes (Garlands). Schumann was trying, against his nature, to create works that would not scare off pianists and listeners. He even denigrated the Arabeske as “slight, for ladies.” However, this “slight” rondo possesses thematic unity among its compositional qualities.
In Mr. Hobson’s traversal of the Arabeske, I found myself wondering why so many phrase endings were being accented instead of “lifting,” and other issues of phrasing, accentuation, legato, tone, and volume then began to usurp my attention. Was Mr. Hobson trying deliberately to de-sentimentalize this work, which indeed has been, shall we say, abused, by so many well-meaning pianists over the years? It’s just that the piece (and the recital as a whole) craved more tenderness. Its marking is Leicht und zart (light and tender).
The Blumenstück, conceived at the same time as the Arabeske, is an episodic interleaving of two ideas (including the famous “Clara” cipher). It offers much less variety musically than the Arabeske, therefore it needs even more poetic fancy in the repetitions than we were given. Had Mr. Hobson misgauged the room? For Theodor Leschetizky’s piano sounded very loud in the intimate space of the Tenri Institute. Every once in a while, Hobson found one of the softer, more intimate colors, and it made one wish for much more.
Mr. Hobson decided to divide the Noveletten in half, the first four ending the first half, then the concluding four after intermission. These are problematic works, due to their length, and repetitive square phrasing and rhythm. Although they contain many felicities, they have been neglected by pianists, and rarely played as a complete set. The term novelette, borrowed from literature, denotes a form shorter than a novel, usually light and rather sentimental. Schumann himself regarded them rather as “extended, interconnected adventure stories,” and he incorporated some of his intense study of Bach in the form of canons and other imitative textures.
There are eight character pieces, including Schumann’s favorite masked ball scene (No. 4), and an energetic polonaise (No. 5) that is extremely similar to one of Schumann’s swaggering macho songs Der Hidalgo (Op. 30, No. 3). Here Mr. Hobson’s approach conveyed some of the preening and boasting of a confident suitor. In some of the Novelettes, he was more hectoring than jovial, and contrasting lyrical episodes were shortchanged as to their intimacy.
For me, Mr. Hobson made us wait for his triumph in this group. The final Novelette was given a masterly rendition, with all the color and contrast one could wish for. In the moment when the Stimme aus der Ferne (Voice from Afar) appears, which is actually a quote from one of Clara’s own works, we were given all the haunting poetry this music is capable of in the hands of a great pianist. I tend to think of Mr. Hobson as a great “organizer,” that is, he doesn’t tend to linger, but has a great capacity to put wayward things together into larger wholes—not a bad quality for sure.
Dear Mr. Hobson, you know how very much I (we) esteem your great skill and commitment, but please “try a little (more) tenderness.”
by Frank Daykin for New York Concert Review; New York, NY
Theodore Kuchar, Principal Conductor; Stanislav Khristenko, Piano
Stern Auditorium at Carnegie Hall, New York, NY
February 15, 2023
Last night I attended a most memorable concert. It was both heart-warming and heart-rending. I came home both invigorated and exhausted. Driven out of their homes by Putin’s brutal invasion, these excellent musicians have miraculously regrouped in the U.S. They are showing the world that Ukraine is as rich in music as it is in bravery and resilience. I missed the first piece, Yevhen Stankovych’s Chamber Symphony No 3 for Flute and Strings, and entered just in time for Brahms’s Piano Concerto No. 1, featuring the consummate pianist, Stanislav Khristenko. Mr. Khristenko flew over the keyboard with ease, tossing off virtuosic passages and soothing us with his warm sound. For an encore he amazed and enthralled us with Horowitz’s Variations on a Theme from Bizet’s Carmen, a highly entertaining and fiendishly difficult piece.
In the second half the orchestra, led by its principal conductor Theodore Kuchar, came to the fore in a thrilling performance of Dvořák’s New World Symphony. The first thing that struck me about this performance was the very long pause after the initial theme in the strings. What potent silence! Almost over the edge but not quite, making the subsequent reiteration of the theme in the woodwinds all the more gratifying. This was a foretaste of what was to come. This performance was not only technically excellent, it was also individualistic and imaginative.
At the symphony’s conclusion there was a long ovation. At this point it is usual for the conductor to give solo bows to principal players. At first, it felt a little disconcerting that this didn’t happen, but then I realized that this was truly democracy and equality in action. Any individual recognition might have detracted from the feeling of group unity. Nevertheless, I felt a little disappointed that I didn’t get to cheer as loud as I could through my K95 mask for the most eloquent and poignant playing of the English horn solo I have ever heard. It was especially touching because this theme, which was adapted into the spiritual-like song “Goin’ Home” (often mistakenly considered a folk song or traditional spiritual) by Dvořák’s pupil William Arms Fisher (who wrote the lyrics in 1922), must have surely resonated with the performers and, by extension, with the empathetic audience.
For an encore we were treated to the Ukrainian composer Anatoliy Kos-Anatolsky’s Chasing the Wind from his ballet,The Jay’s Wing. This rollicking dance was performed with great verve and abandon. There ensued a long ovation in the sold-out hall during which a large banner, which was a combination of both the American the Ukrainian flags, was unfurled by brass players at the back of the orchestra. It brought a tear to the eye and a strange joy laced with pain.
by Barrett Cobb for New York Concert Review; New York, NY
Kathy Morath, Director; Christopher Stephens, Music Director
Gene Fisch, Jr, Producer
Weill Recital Hall, Carnegie Hall, New York, NY
February 14, 2023
For one of my more unusual reviewing assignments, I found myself on Valentine’s Day evening attending the musical “Jilted to Perfection” by Debra Cook at Weill Hall. What was unusual? Well, the whole night was, but to start, a musical at Weill Hall is unusual in and of itself (as a classically oriented recital hall). Then, despite its billing as a musical, one found that there were none of the usual sets or backdrops except the hall’s usual Steinway grand piano, and the only prop was an armchair (used chiefly for one angry slamming episode). The show would thus rely completely on the music and cast to inspire the audience’s imagination – but, wait, what cast? Apart from a special singing appearance in the last few minutes by McKinslee Mitchell (creator Debra Cook’s young granddaughter), the “cast” consisted solely of Ms. Cook herself, singing ten songs she composed and strung together with a memoir’s worth of tales and quips for the whole eighty-plus minutes (with no intermission). The collaborative pianist Tanya Taylor was a stalwart professional through it all but was inconspicuous, leaving it clearly a “one-woman show.” So, how was it? In a word, inspiring.
When my humorous “better half” mimics theatre raves, he says in a fangirl voice, “I laughed, I cried – it became a part of me!” Well, I have to admit that Jilted to Perfection did make me laugh – and cry – so call me a fangirl. That said, it might need some tweaks to become “a part of me”- but I’ll get to those.
The show started off centering on Ms. Cook’s life as a singer in her thirties and gradually shifted focus to a romance that became more central to her world over the course of (what I later learned to be) several decades. She opened, ably singing audition excerpts from Bel Raggio lusinghier of Rossini’s Semiramide, interrupting those to tell of the challenges facing young singers, from frequent sexual harassment to the micromanaging of an accompanist’s sheet music. The show promised to take a rather different direction from what followed based on that first scene (which one could say about several scenes), but since Ms. Cook is a trained classical singer and the show is part memoir, it did serve to establish her background. Ms. Cook’s singing credits have included solo performances with the National Choral Society at Lincoln Center’s Avery Fisher Hall, Utah Symphony’s Beethoven 9th, and several seasons in repertory with Utah Opera Company. In this scene, though, she was primarily the storyteller, exaggerating strenuous vocal feats to semi-comical effect, presumably for the entertainment of a non-operatically inclined audience. She occasionally pushed the singing volume beyond the point of a listener’s comfort (whereas I wanted more volume in the storytelling that connected it all), but it was presumably to establish the rigors of her calling.
Ms. Cook moved swiftly on to her more Broadway-esque numbers, First Sight (as in “love at first sight”) and Jilted Kiss (about a mysterious kiss shared after Debra had stood up her date, Fredric Cook) – though operatic flourishes would burst forth throughout the evening. In First Sight she recalled her earliest encounters with Fred (the ostensible subject of the musical), but those hints of romance barely took flight before comical touches returned, including what was called the “Four Divorce Mombo” scene (which I’d almost hoped to become a full Mambo dance scene), as Debra recounted a brief history of Fred’s four divorces. The realization that he was a Scientologist (not quite in synch with her Mormon background) set up the laugh line “what could possibly go wrong?” so one was led to expect a zany comedy about love gone awry. The title itself, Jilted to Perfection,helped that slight misdirection, though the song Jilted Kiss gave glimmers of love’s promise. All of the songs in the show were composed – and sung – with musicality and theatrical flair.
Even amidst Ms. Cook’s stream-of-consciousness style, one wasn’t mentally ready for the next song, Why Does Daddy Hit Me?, and it might have been good to have a few more hints about Fred before this plunge into his childhood. Only the final pages of the program booklet revealed that one of the goals of the musical was to “promote Fred’s work as a philosopher and teacher in preparation for books on his works.” Apart from program notes, an audience relies on proportionate timing and other cues to learn what to care about in a musical, and the focus up to this point had indeed been Debra more than Fred (with hints of various other themes in her life also showing potential for development). The program booklet included a “Composer’s Notes” section, aiming to address this issue, but it seems that still further clarification and focus could help. Sometimes artists’ gifts and ideas are so abundant that an artist wants to say too much all at once. This is not a weakness, as long as one can learn to mete out creations gradually towards, say, another few musicals. It also may be inevitable that a one-person musical will face challenges in appearing to be about someone else. There are many solutions, including narrowing the focus or simply adjusting the pacing in spots.
Good Fight Hallelujah with Debra Cook and her granddaughter McKinslee Mitchell
Moving on, Why Does Daddy Hit Me? dipped into Fred Cook’s traumatic childhood with a heartbreaking tone that reflected Debra’s growing insight into Fred, and how and why he had become a “seeker” in life (with interests ranging from Scientology to the LDS church, in which, as we read in the booklet, his final role was as a High Priest). It is a song that could easily be used on its own for crusades against abuse – just as several other songs could take on separate lives.
The next song, Nine (named for the number of other men Ms. Cook had been seeing), reverted to reinforcing my initial impression of a light rom-com, complete with flirtatious shimmying that would make a woman half Ms. Cook’s age envious. (Did I mention that Ms. Cook is a mother and grandmother to many children? and co-founder and Executive Director of Utah Conservatory, Partner in Professional Artists Group, and Park City Music?) Yes, she is a dynamo.
Then, before one could blink after the song Nine, we heard Surrendering Heart, the show’s most stirring love song. It was moving – and beautifully sung – but also left me with the sense that I’d missed some steps leading to its intensity. The popular texter’s acronym ELI5 (“explain like I’m five”) has its place in musical production, especially when a writer is so close to the material (such as anything autobiographical) that there may be neglect in filling in gaps for a total stranger (and n.b., the five-year-old in ELI5 must not be one’s grandchild). Ideally, an audience member needs no supplementary reading for a complete understanding of the heart of a musical.
Later scenes of Jilted to Perfection zigzagged rather fast. In record time there was a move to Hollywood, a marriage, a wacky number about fraud called Jodie Foster’s Father is a Con Man, a scene entitled “In Sickness & In Health,” some comical struggles with Utah terrain in King’s Peak, mosquitoes, jagged rocks, a recession, surgeries (not necessarily in that order), and an extremely touching song called Big Guy – all passing by in a bit of a blur of bubbling creativity. Even the passing of Fred was only briefly communicated before the song Come Back Home – as a concerned son cut short his phone call with the words “I’ll call you back.” The unspoken words there were a silent dagger, undoubtedly intentional, as perhaps the rapid blur was intentional, to signify the brevity of life … but then one tends to ask: what else was intended? Flipping through the program booklet, one finds that one of the two stated goals of this production of the musical is the promotion of Fred Cook’s work as a philosopher. Though Fred’s philosophies were not explicitly “front and center” to this listener, the printed list of “Dr. Fred’s Philosophies” could fill an entirely new musical, one song or anecdote for each homily perhaps. On the other hand, since Fred Cook’s credo includes the belief that “Man is made that he might have joy,” then the sheer exuberance throughout this show could be seen as its own form of homage to his belief, thanks to the energies of Ms. Cook.
In summary, any observations of mine do not diminish the fact that this musical is brimming with all kinds of life – love, frustration, humor, sadness, and ultimately an uplifting determination to go on, in a sense to start over. There wasn’t a dry eye in the hall after the closing number, Good Fight Hallelujah with Debra Cook and her granddaughter McKinslee Mitchell. The song itself shows a certain debt to the “Alleluia” part of All Creatures of Our God and King, a hymn of great importance over the centuries (drawing the attention of Ralph Vaughan Williams and others), so it tugs at very deep heartstrings. Its recurring line “I can still find my own destiny” is a lasting message, and it was the perfect “take-home tune.” I won’t even describe how the encore (a reprise) was handled (to avoid a spoiler), but it was potent, drawing on the sense of theatrics for which the presenter DCINY (Distinguished Concerts International New York) is famous.
Incidentally, the program booklet states that the second goal for this performance through DCINY is “to generate momentum to engage an iconic Broadway Diva to play Debra on Broadway.” If that is decided, I’ll put in my two cents: Kristin Chenoweth! That said, the big appeal of this musical in its current form is that it is the author-composer’s personal story, shared and sung by her. Who could match Ms. Cook there?
Jason Neukom, violin; Andrew “Gio” Giordano, violin (& whistle); Sean Neukom, viola;
Ryan Ash, cello
J.P. Morgan Library and Museum, New York, NY
January 31, 2023
Beo means: to bless, make happy, gladden, and delight. Based on this one introductory hearing, I believe the Beo String Quartet is poised to do just that, to an ever widening circle of audiences. It is not easy to distinguish one’s ensemble these days, with so much competition, especially in the quartet formation. The Beo players have an unusual feature: All of the players are multi-talented, playing other instruments (and electronics, video, etc.) than their principal one, however on this occasion, we were only treated briefly to some of Andrew Giordano’s whistling. Also, first violinist Jason Neukom is violist/composer Sean Neukom’s brother.
Let me begin by stating clearly their primary virtues: two areas of perfection—1) absolute purity of intonation, which was really evident in their Bach selections and 2) that supernatural “one-ness” of interpretive intent that animates the best quartets. Well, you might say, is there a “but” coming? Not so much a “but,” rather a cautionary admonition to choose better contemporary music. I sense that they are a “young” group in attitude though the quartet itself is eight years old, and I’m certain they will grow beautifully.
The recital began with Mizzy Mazzoli’s Enthusiasm Strategies, a work about which she states “I think of music itself as a strategy for mustering enthusiasm and joy.” Composed for the legendary Kronos Quartet, the flights of skittering harmonics do collapse into a modern version of a chorale, but the disappearing ending for me gave a quite unenthusiastic tone to the end, depressing in fact. There was a lot of non-vibrato playing from the strings, a severe test of intonation, which Beo more than met. In fact, there was a lot of non-vibrato playing throughout the program, but they knew when to turn it on for heightened expressivity.
They then followed with a quick tour through just over one-fourth of Bach’s seminal Die Kunst der Fuge, his musical last will and testament, beginning with the first two, and ending with the (projected) unfinished quadruple fugue, the third subject area of which contains the musical spelling of Bach’s name: B (B Flat)-A-C-H (B Natural). In this selection, I felt the need for more experience. What they did do very well was truly give the sense of a conversation among equals. The subject’s first five notes are: D-A-F-D-C♯ (in German, the word for a musical sharp is “kreuz” or cross [♯], a word that held great significance for the Pietist Lutheran milieu in which Bach worked). The quartet played the first four notes without vibrato, then poured it on appropriately for the “cross.” Since Bach wrote out the work in four-part open score, to stress the pedagogical aspect, and included absolutely no suggestions of instrumentation, phrasing, or dynamics, every soloist or ensemble who wishes to tackle it faces a daunting multitude of decisions to be made. There were two areas I found lacking, despite my admiration for the give-and-take: 1) some odd phrasing and articulation choices that would probably infuriate the “historically informed” people, and which plain old non-expert audiences would be blissfully unaware of; (appoggiaturas not resolving to their lower notes, questionable detaching of notes that could be smooth and vive versa) and 2) more important, there was a need for greater understanding of where the harmonic stresses and resolutions should be, the result of the vertical chords created by the horizontal lines, of which Bach was very aware. I’m being super-picky only because the greatness of this body of work deserves, as cellist Ryan Ash put it, lifetime study. However, it was a great pleasure, as the contrapuncti rolled over the audience, to gaze upward to the glorious coffered ceiling of J.P. Morgan’s library and its treasure trove of books and manuscripts, and to feel centered in a hive of civilization.
The quartet then turned to a composition by its own violist, Sean Neukom, whose People (2022) received its New York City premiere. Its program is a bit simplistic, “We’re born. We grow. We learn.” We achieve greatness… but wait, we’re so ineffectual at solving problems like war and poverty. Oh, we die and the cycle starts all over again with new birth. Such large themes, while often attempted in musical transformations, were not convincingly solved by this one. Although (!) we did get to hear the uncommonly pretty and pure whistling of Andrew Giordano. Sean Neukom is also the group’s producer, responsible for their already large (and growing) discography. In this work we heard the coalescing of elements into life, their increase, and the addition of chaos, and the slipping back into nothingness (reminiscent of the Mazzoli), where the whistling took on a poignant character. On the other hand, why are we whistling about the life cycle? Because there is nothing to be done about it? Today’s young people are clearly working out some existential unease.
The quartet saved the best for last: Shostakovich’s self-made memorial (though he would live another fifteen years), his eighth string quartet, Op. 110 (1960). Not only does it contain blatantly the musical spelling of his name (see Bach above) D-S-C-H (D, E flat, C, B Natural), but many fragments of his earlier works (First, Eighth, and Tenth Symphonies, Piano Trio, First Violin Concerto, First Cello Concerto, Second Piano Sonata, the song Tormented By Grievous Bondage, and the love theme from Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk, the work that got him in so much trouble with Stalin). All this is presented in five movements dedicated ostensibly “In memory of the victims of fascism and war,” which the bumbling, musically ignorant Soviet bureaucrats could interpret as pro-Soviet, and everyone who knew Shostakovich could know was exactly the opposite. I call this phenomenon “the secret signs, the impenetrable wall.”
The heat of Beo’s performance of this work showed me that its strengths may lie in the traditional repertoire, despite their commitment to adventuresome commissioning and their admirable educational outreach angle—so necessary if there is to be an audience for this sort of thing at all in the future. Every contrast in the work was brought out beautifully, from the violence of “the three knocks” of the KGB on one’s door at three in the morning, to the song the Jews were forced to sing while digging their own trench graves, to the sickly limping of the klezmer-inspired waltz, and the cloying romance of the doomed adulterers in Lady Macbeth. Now there’s a composer who can successfully put ALL of life into a piece of music!
Bravo Beo, I hope to hear many more good things from and about you for years to come.
by Frank Daykin for New York Concert Review; New York, NY
Is there any sound Charles Neidich can not make on the clarinet? If so, I have yet to know about it. I have reviewed the legendary clarinetist many times in these pages, always with the greatest pleasure, in the context of his groundbreaking Wa concert series in the Tenri gallery space in Greenwich Village (complete with a gourmet dinner, catered by his wife, Ayako Oshima); but this is the first time I have seen him in a more formal hall.
Mr. Neidich announced (in sometimes redundant verbal program notes) that not only was the Naumburg series titled “looks back,” but that one should also regard his artistry as perpetually “looking forward”- which is sage advice for all artists. Mr. Neidich has the mellow songfulness of decades of experience, but his youthful inquisitiveness informs his choices every bit as much.
There was a subtle thread of anti-Semitic persecution linking all the works on the first half. The recital began with Mieczyslaw Weinberg’s Clarinet Sonata, Op. 28, written at the end of World War II in 1945. Weinberg, once mentioned in the same reverential tones as Shostakovich and Prokofiev, was subsequently banned, and written out of Soviet music history. Bringing his substantial oeuvre to the public’s attention has been slow and difficult. Even his close friend and colleague Shostakovich couldn’t prevail on the authorities to let him out of prison (for “Jewish bourgeois nationalism”). Only Stalin’s death in 1953 saved him from certain execution (as had befallen other members of his family). Mr. Neidich likens the work to pages from a diary, a common enough “coded” musical practice in the Soviet era. The sonata begins with an ambling Allegro “as though one were going for a walk to buy some milk” and each movement slows down, with Jewish laments and mounting terror assuming center stage. This “universal prayer for humanity” was given the masterly Neidich treatment, and I must mention one clarinet leitmotif that characterizes his playing: the gorgeous, seemingly infinite qualities of his final notes, whether of a movement or a whole piece. They seem to hover in the air beyond what any mere mortal could achieve.
Ursula Mamlok, the puckish composition guru at Manhattan School of Music for 45 (!) years, had the “good fortune” (one feels strange calling it that) to escape Berlin with her family in 1938, directly the result of Kristallnacht, first to Ecuador, then the United States. Rückblick (In Erinnerung an die Reichspogromnacht 9.Nov.1938) (2002) was originally conceived for alto saxophone (or clarinet or bass-clarinet) and piano. It is the only direct reference in her vast works list to the Holocaust. What I took away from the superb performance was the sheer economy of her four mini-elegies, conveying in a few minutes what another composer might have turned into a gigantic symphony.
The Mendelssohn F major violin sonata, abandoned by the composer in 1838 as a “wretched sonata,” was discovered and revised by violinist Yehudi Menuhin in 1953, Violinists have been grateful for another Mendelssohn violin sonata besides the F Minor, Op. 4. And now, will other clarinetists dare to take up the Neidich clarinet transformation? Honestly, although the work has all the beloved hallmarks of the composer, especially the “elfin” scurrying of the Finale, so reminiscent of Carl Maria von Weber’s Moto perpetuo, I don’t think the work is really top-drawer Mendelssohn, and that if he himself had continued working on it, it may have ended up with more complexity, especially in terms of contrapuntal development. No matter, the two players sparkled. Mendelssohn’s connection to the “theme” I detected for this half: grandson of the Jewish Enlightenment philosopher Moses Mendelssohn, Felix and his siblings converted to Protestantism in that earlier period of anti-Semitism, then his posthumous reputation endured smearing by Wagner, as well as being purged from German concert life by the Nazis, in favor of Schumann.
At this juncture, I must devote a special paragraph to Mr. Neidich’s long-time collaborator, pianist Mohamed Shams, a perfect partner if ever there was one. There is nothing he cannot do, he possesses what I call the “quiet virtuosity” that only those in the know realize is happening, solving every potential issue before it occurs, perfection of balance, phrasing, and unity with the soloist. Simply amazing. One little quibble, at times I felt he was being overly deferential, he could have let the piano roar a little more (the lid was up).
The “persecution” theme followed into the second half with Edison Denisov, who composed largely under the Darmstadt spell: the aesthetic of Boulez and Stockhausen, who felt that all music that was not serial was beneath contempt. Denisov too was blacklisted by Soviet bureaucrats in 1979. His cosmopolitanism enabled him to get influential Western-European contemporary music to his students behind the Iron Curtain. There is a later added subtitle to Denisov’s Ode for clarinet, piano, and percussion (1968)- Mr. Neidich explained, not found on the autograph or any published version,“in memory of Che Guevara.” The work required Mr. Shams to play inside the piano, brushing and plucking strings. Percussionist Eduardo Leandro was masterfully sensitive, particularly in the chimes that got softer and softer. Mr. Neidich revealed the drama in his improvisatory flights (Denisov had been forced to write “one” way to play it by his publishers), the first time I’m sure New York has ever heard the work as intended.
Now Neidich the composer comes to our attention, with a recent (2023) reworking of his Icarus Ascending. Bear in mind that 2023 is only 30 days old! He uses the advanced techniques of microtones and multiphonics in his already huge palette. One sensed the soaring, questing of the disobedient son, but I do take issue with his conclusion that Icarus rises again, which for me removes the tragedy.
I will admit that I have never heard a note of Julia Perry’s music live in concert. This is almost unfathomable, as she was prolific and gifted. (She also attended my first undergraduate school, Westminster Choir College.). Serenity (1972) was originally written for oboe, then clarinet by the composer. Despite her health woes (paralyzed by stroke), Ms. Perry still believed in music’s healing power. The piece was offered as a sort of balm and mood-shift prior to the concluding work.
Although Brahms had virtually renounced composition, a chance meeting with the Meiningen orchestra clarinetist Richard Mühlfeld unlocked his heart as well as his desire to compose, resulting in the masterpieces: Clarinet Trio, Clarinet Quintet, and the two sonatas Op. 120. Signs of the misanthropic, gruff Brahms’s flirtatiousness (non-sensual of course, but collegial) were visible in his nicknaming Richard “Fraülein” Mühlfeld. His clarinet ability revealed to Brahms new horizons in sonority, in Brahms’s beloved middle and low registers that he had always favored in his vocal writing. The two Opus 120 sonatas were composed at the same time, and they do have a valedictory feeling: the obsession with Bach chorales, the advanced, compressed compositional devices, fearless dissonance (usually experienced as passing tones or suspensions). At times during the E-flat, the more serene of the two, the writing seems to be noodling around between the two players (again the superb Mr. Shams on piano), and neither is really dominant, it’s like a private conversation to which we have been invited to eavesdrop.
The ovation was tumultuous, and so richly deserved. Therefore, Mr. Neidich said the only possible encore was the Andante un poco Adagio (second movement) of the other Op. 120 sonata, the F minor. A healing balm, a sharing, what Mr. Neidich stressed was the “communal” aspect of music making, the infinity symbol of energy that passes from the artist to the listener and back and forth.
All of us will keep “looking forward” to more Neidich!
by Frank Daykin for New York Concert Review; New York, NY
Well, it has happened again. For only the third time in my nearly ten years of writing for this publication, a pianist has taken the stage, and by her very demeanor, and the way she played the very first note of her recital, I burst into tears (good ones!) and I knew that we would be in “good hands” for the rest of the program.
Qilin Sun, a Chinese-born prodigy, has had the best training imaginable (BMus, MMus, and now DMA at Juilliard with the superb Yoheved Kaplinsky), and she already has concerto touring experience.
Ms. Sun took the stage for the contemporary Chinese music half of the recital with her hair in a severe central braid and an aura of intense concentration. She waited at the keyboard until the hall had completely quieted down and she was ready. That was when that magical first note happened, the beginning of Pictures from Bashu (1958) by Huang Hu-Wei (1932-2019), six brief impressions of life in the pianist’s hometown, as she explained in her charming (but very soft) verbal program notes.
About those program notes, first of all, I thought we weren’t supposed to say “East” and “West” anymore, because: east or west of where? It implies centuries of colonial attitudes toward Asian countries. But lo and behold, during her small speech from the stage, Ms. Sun even said “Oriental” music, an even more pejorative term according to the late Edward Said.
Perhaps a more fruitful way to look at Ms. Sun’s program would be to focus on the dilemmas and compromises Chinese classical composers have had to confront. After all, any time someone is sitting down at a Steinway concert grand, and its twelve chromatic tones per octave, some degree of compromise is inevitable. In the best sense, all of her Chinese piano works are a “fusion,” a term we use in restaurants for example.
Ms. Sun’s pianism featured all my favorite things: liquid beautiful tone, fine rhythmic spine, and many many layers of sound (what the French call the plans sonores) in her voicing. Only when the dynamic rose above forte did her Hamburg Steinway not co-operate, instead producing its characteristic glassy upper register, I did not regard that as her fault. She also possesses that mysterious ingredient that can’t be taught: charisma. At all times, you could see, and hear (!), her strong sense of mission regarding Chinese music.
After showing us Bashu, the next work was Three Stanzas on Plum Blossoms (1973) by Wang Jian-Zhong (1933-2016), a work based on a piece from the Tang dynasty (618 – 907 A.D.) originally composed for the Guqin, a seven-stringed instrument of the zither family. Ms. Sun explained the importance of plum blossoms, which bloom first, even while winter’s cold is still present; that they symbolize vitality and vigor of nature, and courage and strength of the people. In this work, the musical compromise was most severe, as all the sliding and microtonal nature of the work that one hears on the Guqin was not revealed in the piano solo version, despite Ms. Sun’s continued gorgeous playing.
She then turned to Chen Qi-Gang’s Instants d’un Opéra de Pékin (2000). Qi-Gang (b. 1951), a naturalized French citizen and Messiaen’s last student, wrote a rhapsodic translation of (I imagine) his experience attending Chinese opera. If I didn’t know any better, I would imagine that this was a hitherto undiscovered work by Messiaen himself, and it refers at times to Debussy’s La Cathédrale engloutie.
Numa Ame (2017) by Zhang Zhao (b. 1964) followed. Numa Ame means Origin of the Sun or “most beautiful home,” a place where the Hani people put their good wishes. It represents the composer’s deep thoughts and good wishes for his hometown. I kept hearing numerous references to Zoltán Kodály’s folk rhapsodies, despite the 6800 km distance.
For me, the only unsuccessful work on the first half was Yin Qing’s Ode to Land, written last year by a twenty-four year old composer specifically for Ms. Sun. It was quite blustery, reminiscent of Liszt, but without that composer’s genius and experience. Here, the strident, bright piano was pushed beyond its limits.
After intermission, Ms. Sun took the stage with a change of gown, and her hair loosened, flowing free. She favored the audience with one work that had to convey the entire “western” portion of her chosen dichotomy, Prokofiev’s Piano Sonata No. 8 in B-flat major, Op. 84. This sonata, the last of the three so-called “war” sonatas, contains all the lyrical longing tinged with the undercurrents of fear and panic of the Russian people during WWII. Fragments of works originally conceived for homages to Pushkin (Eugene Onegin and Queen of Spades) waft in and out of the first two movements, and the work is cyclic as well.
In a similarity to the Chinese composers, Prokofiev himself was viewed as something of a compromiser for returning to his native Russia after a very successful cosmopolitan sojourn in Paris. All of Ms. Sun’s piano virtues were on vivid display. I don’t think I’ve ever heard the work played live with such exquisitely clear voicing, no matter how turgid the texture. She truly captured the sognando (dreaming) quality of the second movement. This sonata was premiered by the great Emil Gilels, and Ms. Sun may rightly take her place in the league of mastery.
After accepting a tumultuous, well-deserved ovation, and many bouquets of flowers, Ms. Sun ended with only one encore: Tchaikovsky’s poignant June-Barkarole from The Seasons, Op. 37bis, No. 6. Perfectly delineated, it scattered a balm over the hall if anyone was rattled by the violence of Prokofiev.
I would go out on a limb and predict great things for Ms. Sun, if she wants them and if she pursues them. I would love to hear her do a complete Ravel cycle. Thank you, Ms. Sun, for restoring me musically.
by Frank Daykin for New York Concert Review; New York, NY
On January 20, Carnegie Hall was packed for a grand ending to the week of Martin Luther King Jr. Day as musicians from Oberlin performed a program featuring The Ordering of Moses, the fifty-minute oratorio (1932), by a noted black Canadian-American composer. Nathaniel Dett (1882-1943). The Oberlin Orchestra, Oberlin College Choir, Oberlin Gospel Choir, and Oberlin Musical Union all joined forces for this still-underappreciated work, along with a first half consisting of the Tragic Overture of Brahms and a 2018 work by Puerto Rican composer Iván Enrique Rodríguez.
To open the program, Oberlin President Carmen Twillie Ambar greeted the audience with words about Oberlin’s historic role in the struggle for diversity and freedom, an important one indeed, as Oberlin was the first American college to fully admit Black students and the first to admit women. Conservatory Dean William Quillen followed with his own welcome, adding to his words in the program booklet, which had noted that R. Nathaniel Dett was an Oberlin graduate in 1908, the first Black double major, and the first Black alum to receive an honorary doctorate from them in 1926. One can understand, for such an Oberlin-centric occasion, that the speakers might not dwell on Dett’s history with many other institutes of higher education, but these included also Harvard (where he won two prizes, 1920-21), the Fontainebleau School in France, where he studied with Nadia Boulanger (1929), and the Eastman School of Music, where he received his Master of Music degree in 1932, composing The Ordering of Moses as his thesis (to be reworked for its premiere in 1937). Dett was a model of the scholarly and artistic ideals that uplift individuals and groups, and as the final jubilant movement of his oratorio resounded at Carnegie, there seemed enough inspiration in the hall to fuel the entire planet.
The connection between the story of Moses leading the Israelites out of Egypt into freedom and the emancipation of the enslaved Africans needs little explanation, but suffice it to say that spirituals are incorporated and woven into the texture throughout, as was a growing pursuit during Dett’s Oberlin days studying Dvořák, Samuel Coleridge-Taylor, and others. As Dett wrote later in 1918, “We have this wonderful store of folk music—the melodies of an enslaved people … But this store will be of no value unless we utilize it.” The spiritual Go Down Moses permeates his oratorio from the work’s first descending four-note motive in the cello, foreshadowing the specific intervals matched to the words “Egypt’s land.” The solo cellist, presumably the listed Principal, Amanda Vosburgh, handled this opening and her recurring solo lines with sensitivity. The orchestral playing was excellent overall under the direction of conductor Raphael Jiménez.
Enter the singers. We first heard from excellent baritone Eric Greene as The Word (essentially the narrator of the story) and later as the Voice of God. Mr. Greene was regal in delivering his solemn account of the Israelites’ bondage, and he was soon joined by mezzo-soprano Ronnita Miller, equally successful in projecting torment as the Voice of Israel. She was then paired in a compelling duet with the impressive soprano Chabrelle Williams as Miriam (sister of Moses). The chorus was powerful and passionate, to say the least, and always well-timed and reliable. Just occasionally the upper choral voices were overpowering to the point of stridency – only mentioned because a poor tyke in front of me was forced to cover his ears, and I sometimes wanted to do the same. Dett wrote so much brilliance into his orchestration itself, including the clanking of chains in the percussion section, that no exaggerated choral volume is necessary to convey the power of his ideas. Where the chorus was particularly effective was in parts where they echoed or underscored certain phrases, such as “Mercy Lord” or later in the “Hallelujah” which, as Courtney-Savali L. Andrews aptly put it in her program notes resembles “call-and-response – much like the climax of sermonic exegesis in the Black church.” Their timing was just right, and their preparation, credited in the program to conservatory faculty Gregory Ristow and Ben Johns, was excellent.
Though God in a traditional oratorio is generally a bass or baritone, tenor Limmie Pulliam is divine the second he opens his mouth. He was superb in his role as the hero Moses, projecting a warm, rich tone that captured the leader’s strength, but also the touch of vulnerability as he undertook his mission to cross the Red Sea.
All in all, these combined forces created a memorable interpretation of Dett’s magnum opus. High points were many, including the March of the Israelites which sets a haunting choral hum over an irresistibly driving beat. The latter’s kinship with later film scores (e.g., Rózsa’s King of Kings) may even suggest that later composers owed a certain debt to Dett (!). The highest point, naturally, was the rousing final section, He is King of Kings, in which all the musicians united in unbounded jubilance. Their ecstatic music of praise and deliverance was exceeded only by the roar of applause as listeners jumped to their feet. Bravissimo!
Incidentally, at the risk of sounding heretical, one wonders whether, just as Handel’s Hallelujah chorus is sometimes excerpted from the oratorio Messiah, this last movement of Dett (paired with perhaps one other) might allow audiences more valuable exposure to this very special composer for programs where there are not fifty minutes to spare. Perhaps this happens already, but I haven’t encountered it.
Meanwhile, with a first half that had fifteen minutes of spoken introduction, there was room on the program only for two relatively short works before intermission, the Tragic Overture of Brahms, Op. 81 (composed in 1880, the same year as the Academic Festival Overture) and A Metaphor for Power (2018) by ASCAP award-winning Puerto Rican composer Iván Enrique Rodríguez (b. 1990).
The Brahms was majestically done, with the passion that tends to be seen more frequently with student ensembles than with professionals (no “phoning it in”) – and there were only fleeting moments of rough edges where there could have been tauter ensemble. Especially beautiful were some of their hushed piano dynamics. The entire orchestra and their conductor Raphael Jiménez can be very proud.
A Metaphor for Power (taking its name from a famous James Baldwin quote) closed the first half. It is, in the words of its composer Iván Enrique Rodríguez, “a musical essay that attempts to address the present turbulence of ideologies, dreams, and hard-hitting realities. The piece unfolds as an expedition through an expanse of troublesome experiences visited by fleeting and unsuccessful moments of hope.” One need look no further for the latter “unsuccessful moments” than the fragments of America the Beautiful that dissolve into a dissonant chromatic puddle, the rumble of indecipherable spoken words that convey unrest, and the hints of My Country ‘Tis of Thee cast in irony and despair.
The orchestration reflects imagination, employing everything from harp and glockenspiel to Mahler hammer and tubular bells. There was no question that this composer is a gifted colorist with an abundance of emotional energy and the means to communicate it. He certainly had some fans in the audience, and he bounded to the stage exultantly afterwards to take his bows.
Contemporary musicians have many tools at their disposal with which to promote their artistry. The Chinese pianist Chang Li, a doctoral student at Michigan State University, and an active solo and collaborative performer, has released a digital album, Trace Back, available on iTunes and various other digital music platforms, as an introduction to his work for listeners who may not otherwise encounter him in a concert setting. Like many other compilations of this variety, it is a collection of short pieces, some familiar to the casual listener, some not, meant to form an initial musical portrait of the pianist.
After having listened to the album, it is now clear to me that its title refers to the genealogical journey from the first composer represented here, Lowell Liebermann, all the way to his historical ancestor, Domenico Scarlatti. This temporal reversal, from Liebermann through Scriabin, Debussy, Schubert, and finally Scarlatti, functions as a brief history of the piano as a lyrical, expressive vessel for the composer, allowing Mr. Li to use his natural gifts for flexible rubato and a singing tone. The one composer conspicuously absent from this collection, Frédéric Chopin, is the unacknowledged link in this chain, the one to whom all of his successors pay homage. Judging from the care and attention given to all of these selections, it would be a pleasure to hear some of Mr. Li’s Chopin on a future recording.
The most revelatory performance comes right at the beginning, with Liebermann’s Nocturne No. 1, Op. 20. I have always been a fan of this composer, especially of his works for piano. In his treatment of this piece, Mr. Li gives ample space to the constantly shifting harmonies in both right and left hands, creating a sense of unease and mystery. These passages are then interrupted by brief, fortissimo outbursts of brutality before returning, each time more quietly, to the nocturne rhythm. This is a sensitive performance of a modern classic of piano literature.
The link between Liebermann and Scriabin is cleverly made more obvious by the pianist’s immediate segue into Scriabin’s Five Preludes, Op. 16. Right away, No.1 continues a similar left hand motif, though now in Scriabin’s voice, still harmonically surprising, but of an earlier era. Again, perhaps to emphasize the connection, Mr. Li employs ample rubato, phrasing with much freedom. The remaining preludes are all gems, in particular, No. 4 and No. 5, which show the unmistakable influence of Chopin in an uncanny way. These preludes fit the pianist like a glove and served to remind me of Scriabin’s essential place in the history of Romantic composition.
Mr. Li’s interpretations of Debussy’s Suite Bergamesque and the four Schubert Impromptus, Op. 90 (D. 899) were equally impressive for sheer tonal beauty and sensitive phrasing. I have heard the Debussy played with more reserve, more brain than heart, but these were valid approaches also. In Clair de Lune however, a little less pedal and more emotional distance from the music might have served it better.
What a brilliant idea to end with Scarlatti, another titan of the keyboard, whose joyful Sonata in C major, K. 159, brought this album to a close. With impeccable fingerwork and crisp execution, Mr. Li proved his versatility as an artist here, as in the entire recording. I look forward to hearing more from him, perhaps even in a real concert hall someday.
by David La Marche for New York Concert Review; New York, NY
