Classical Ear

Audacious, informal, and energetic, Brooklyn Rider performs music that is not only cross-cultural but also cross-genre. The string quartet is named after the city in which it is based – quite fitting, considering the fact that Brooklyn is most famous for its vibrant multicultural background. On Monday, February 16^th, the quartet gave a relaxed concert in FUEL, a trendy lounge in the basement of the Collis Center. Performing pieces that range from Franz Schubert and Philip Glass to Mexican rock and gypsy folk music, Brooklyn Rider seems to value pure musical enjoyment over technical prowess.

That night in FUEL, the quartet played seven extremely diverse pieces that were (paradoxically) united by a theme of cross-culturalism. After all the pieces had been performed, I was confused by the strange amalgam, but astounded by the sheer energy that the musicians had channeled. I was also amazed by the ease with which the musicians were able to shift from piece to piece (genre to genre, culture to culture, etc.) so seamlessly, as if no transition were taking place at all. After the concert, Johnny Gandelsman, the first violinist, was sure to explain the incongruousness of the repertoire that we had just heard. “This music,” he told us, “is so diverse, but [it] has no boundaries.” Only then was it apparent that the pieces were united by the diversity itself. Switching from traditional Japanese flute music to a jazzy blues melody was just as easy as walking from the Irish side of the street to the Jewish side of the street in Brooklyn, New York. The transitions were not meant to be jarring, but liberating.

The first piece of the night was called “Brooklesca,” which – judging from a quick glance at Brooklyn Rider’s website – is one of their most popular pieces. The piece, written by second violinist Colin Jacobsen, is a fast and vigorous adventure that combines gypsy themes, Spanish motifs, and American “hillbilly” fiddle, all in a vaguely classical milieu. Although that may sound confusing, the piece came together as a heart-pounding masterpiece, much of which was improvised. During one of Gandelsman’s improvised solos, the cellist (Eric Jacobsen) even cracked a giggle! I also noticed that Gandelsman held his bow about four inches above the frog, allowing for greater versatility while sacrificing power. Unfortunately, this technique seemed to produce a couple of missed notes and some faulty intonation during some parts of the concert. The second piece was Philip Glass’s Company. Despite its repetitiveness, the musicians made it remarkably dynamic and gave it direction without taking too much artistic freedom. The next piece was a somber theme in variations by Schubert, which completely changed the mood; however, the musicians seemed disconnected. The intense connection that existed in some of the other pieces was severed during the Schubert, perhaps because there was less room for improvisation and embellishment. Next, the quartet played La Muerte Chiquita, a tune made popular by a Mexican rock band. Full of glissandos, heavy pizzicatos, and percussive tapping, the piece had a spirited attitude. The fifth piece was a collaboration with shakuhachi player, Kojiro Umezaki. Despite my initial disbelief, the string instruments blended perfectly with the traditional Japanese flute, mostly through call-and-response imitation. Even though Umezaki frequently improvised and made great use of microtones (in between the notes of the normal tonal scale) the string players were able to copy him flawlessly. The concert ended with a piece written by Gandelsman’s cousin, called Cross Town, a mimetic representation of a bus ride through Brooklyn, plagued by traffic and constant honking. As expected, the piece was comedically excruciating and playfully discordant, full of false starts and random changes in tempo. The piece was folksy and lyrical, and included Umezaki at one point as well.

While Brooklyn Rider may not always be as technically proficient as other string quartets, it is certainly more playful and diverse. By constantly experimenting with their instruments and playing music from all around the world, the quartet embodies the cross-culturalism of Brooklyn with avant-garde flair.

Giuseppi Verdi was the shining star of the Romantic Era, and was best known for his operas. However, Verdi’s Requiem is not an opera; rather, it is a piece written for orchestra, chorus, and four solo singers: a male tenor, a male baritone, a female soprano, and a female mezzo-soprano. It has seven movements, one of which (Dies Irae) is divided into nine sub-movements. Requiem is unnervingly powerful, both in its musical ardor and its biblical resonance. It covers a wide range of tempos, rhythms and keys, beginning in quadruple-meter A minor and ending in a duple-meter C Major. Verdi’s Requiem was made to commemorate an Italian poet named Alessandro Manzoni, whom Verdi greatly admired; the piece is sometimes called the Manzoni Requiem.

To hear the piece’s magnificence flow through Carnegie Hall on March 11, 2006 (seems like yesterday) was a breathtaking experience. All four soloists performed beautifully, but in my opinion, Frank Lopardo (the tenor) could have expressed a bit more emotion, notably in Ingemisco. (I say this with regret, because Ingemisco is entirely a tenor solo, and includes many challenging intervals and maneuvers.) There were some times, however, in which I felt that he was singing more with his lungs than his heart.

The baritone (Greer Grimsley) was my favorite of all four of the soloists. He hit every note with pinpoint accuracy, and could release a bass tone that felt like an earthquake. His performance at the end of Tuba Mirum was spectacular, where he hit a low G that literally made me tremble. Speaking of Tuba Mirum, let me say the following: If I had to prove to someone that Giusseppi Verdi was a genius, I would invite that person to listen to Tuba Mirum. In preparation for this particular movement, Verdi instructed that two pairs of trumpets be separated from the rest of the performers; one pair was to be to the left of the stage, and one to the right. In this particular performance, the two pairs of trumpets were placed in opposite box seats, on the balcony. Tuba Mirum is a trumpet fanfare, beginning with a diminished triad that bears down on you from all sides (due to the isolated trumpet pairs). This gives the whole movement a sense of entering heaven (or hell, depending on how you hear the music!). Regardless, the listener feels as if he is being exposed to God himself. Tuba Mirum is an inescapable call to Judgment. By the end of it, you feel — as horribly silly and cliché as this may sound — purged of sin! And if you do not believe me, I invite you to listen to it yourself.

The fourth-to-last movement, Sanctus, is a joyful yet complicated fugue. In this movement, the orchestra and chorus seemed to be straining to hold together; the chorus always seemed to be a bit ahead of the orchestra. Perhaps the conductor (Robert Spano) chose to move a bit too quickly for the performers, causing the movement to sound sloppy at times.

The piece was concluded with the angelic Libera Me. The last words are, “Libera me, Domine, de morte æterna, in die illa tremenda… Libera me… Libera me.” This translates to, “Free me, Lord, from eternal death upon that terrible day…” Every person in the audience held his breath as the tenor sang those last words. To my delight, the audience delayed their applause for just a few seconds longer, as that last C Major chord dissipated into the air around us.

Last Thursday, I went to the ballet, Romeo and Juliet, and didn’t like it.  I don’t normally go to the ballet, but I threw caution to the wind that night.  When I came home, I tried to figure out what I didn’t like about it, and broke it down into its individual components:

Was it the dancing? – Perhaps.  I’ve never really liked dancing.  It’s always seemed to me that there is only a finite number of maneuvers one can make, and that the only way to make it more interesting is by putting more and more dancers on the stage.  (Unlike music, where the possibilities are endless.)  But that’s only my ignorance speaking… I know that there is certainly more to dance than meets my eye: passion, interaction, and so on.  I simply have never been able to appreciate it at all.  I suppose I’m just not sophisticated enough to appreciate it.  Or maybe I don’t know what to look for.  Regardless, I didn’t particularly like the dancing when I went to see Romeo and Juliet on Thursday evening.

 The music, by Sergei Prokofiev, was not particularly awe-inspiring either.  Although the melodies were undeniably original, the music in general did not inspire any strong emotions within me.  It struck me as shallow and meager.  Particularly jarring was the inclusion of a tenor saxophone in the ensemble.  It fit as well as a square peg fits into a circular hole.  (What in gods name was Prokofiev thinking when he put a tenor saxophone into a ballet?)  During one of the two intermissions, I began a conversation with the woman sitting next to me, who brought up an interesting point.  She told me that she’d always liked the music because “the melodies are whistle-able,” and that she always finds herself whistling the themes of Romeo and Juliet on her way out of the hall.  Although many would disagree with her – claiming that the musical value of a work involves so much more than its memorability — her opinion was quite valid.  In fact, I discovered it to be more than valid, as I began to whistle the tunes as I exited the concert hall as well!

What have I learned from this experience?  The ballet is for some, and not for others.  I suppose I’m just more of an “opera addict” than a “ballet buff”.  But the important thing is that I tried it.  This is all that I preach: have an open mind!  Take that leap of faith across the perilous chasm of musical ignorance!  Go to your first opera!  Go to your first ballet!  And if you don’t like it, at least you can say that you tried.

Avery Fisher Hall, NYC   —   June 20, 2007

Last night’s Strauss-Mahler program at Avery Fisher Hall featured the accomplished diva Deborah Voigt, and the New York Philharmonic, conducted by Lorin Maazel.  In the first half of the evening, we heard 4 short operatic pieces by Richard Strauss, followed by an even shorter encore.  The second half brandished Mahler’s Seventh Symphony, which unfortunately, was not as well received.

The night opened mysteriously with the song Befreit (”Set Free”), a melancholy yet tender piece of music.  Shifting between major and minor modes allowed Strauss to create a shadowy atmosphere, and coupled with Maazel’s expert instruction, the effect was astounding.  Deborah Voigt — looking wonderfully elegant – opened her heart to the audience, singing a soothing poem by Richard Dehmel.  Her voice glided across the concert hall, ripe with emotion.  Yet, the song was over in the blink of an eye: five minutes, more or less.  In fact all five of Strauss’s works were small tableaus, picturesque visions, rather than full-blown pieces.  The next song, Lied der Frauen (”Song of the Women”, the longest of the five, lasting 8 minutes) was furious and ominous, yet still smooth and flowing.  It was during this song that I took my first criticism: at times, the orchestra seemed to overpower Voigt.  This is not to say that Voigt’s tone was muddled, or that her delivery was weak.  The unbalance in volume was probably due to a combination of faults: perhaps Voigt’s projection was not her best, and perhaps the orchestra was a bit blaring.  Speaking as an orchestral performer — a french horn player — I can honestly say that it is easy to get caught up in the emotion of a piece, and consequently overplay.  With a piece as riotous and moving as Lied der Frauen, I can’t be too eager to deal out judgement.  The music rocked back and forth, like a raging storm, that finally calmed and concluded softly.  Next was the four-minute jewel, Morgen! or “Tomorrow!”.  It featured a violin-harp duo, with Voigt gliding amongst them.  The connection between the instrumental soloists and the diva faltered a bit though; at times it seemed as if the two weren’t absolutely in sync.  Connection is invaluable in an orchestra, especially when it is condensed into a pair of soloists.  This is not to say that the performances themselves weren’t flawless.  The violinist played astoundingly well, earning thunderous applause after the song.  Next to be performed was Fruhlingsfeier or “Celebration of Spring”.  To me, the piece seemed to be defined by flight.  Voigt, together with flute and piccolo soloists, gave wings to the entire orchestra, and with flawless intonation.  Maazel gave a clean, sudden ending to the song, leaving the audience awe-stricken, yet somewhat unsatisfied.  The piece, after all, was a mere 6 minutes long.  After all the excitement and anticipation of seeing Deborah Voigt onstage, I was pleased but unsatisfied.  For Voigt, this was quite a “short gig”.  The audience cried out in admiration, provoking another short yet beautiful encore, the song Zueignung.  This last song felt almost like a psalm — inspiring and powerful.

Now lets move on to the Mahler.  Before I begin, let me first explain that I am a Mahler-freak.  I believe that he was a living, breathing god of music.  And yet, I had never actually heard his seventh symphony until this concert.  I was practically holding my breath before it started.  Despite my excitement, I was able to continue writing my notes during the performance.

The symphony was in five movements; each movement is said to symbolize the progression from dawn to dusk, giving the piece its unofficial title, Song of the Night.  Mahler saw this to be a false name, and frankly, so do I.  The five-part symphony was so spontaneous, and even humorous, that I had trouble consolidating it into one whole image.  The symphony began mysteriously, featuring a tenor horn solo (very odd and revolutionary, especially for Mahler’s time) that was executed perfectly but still felt a bit out of place.  I noticed a high concentration on melody — signature of Mahlerian music.  Maazel and the New York Philharmonic are hardly strangers to Mahler by now; his style was well recognized, and seemed natural to the performers and the conductor.  Not only the tenor horn, but rather the whole brass section played flawlessly, and Mahler’s high concentration on brass made the symphony seem heavy, weighed down.  It was almost theatrical.  The music passed between the brass section and the string / woodwind sections, a transition that was urged along by Maazel’s insistent conducting.  The orchestra applied grace and passion at all the right moments, yet something greater was amiss within the performance: the constant, relentless melodies lacked direction.  Sometimes, there was no clear destination, just an endless horizon, making the piece seem long and somewhat burdensome.  It seemed as if Mahler used his seventh symphony to play around with different effects (oh, what a revolutionary he was…)  The symphony seemed almost like an experiment — Mahler’s chemistry set, if you will.

Much to my dismay, quite a few members of the audience walked out during Mahler’s Seventh.  Here’s the bottom line: although I enjoyed the Mahler, I must admit that it was harder to appreciate than most of his other symphonies.