Not content to be simply called a great recorder...ist...Piers Adams is, according to the playbill from our evening of Vivaldi, "heralded" (heralded, mind you) a "the reigning recorder virtuoso in the world." I'll admit that this was the first sentence that I read in the leaflet and for some reason it stuck with me as I read the rest and listened to Red Priest, bring forth an evening of baroque music.

What, I wondered, is the reigning recorder virtuoso like? I imagined the curious company one must doubtless keep to hold such a title. Who are the runners up? I had, and still do have, a difficult time imagining that the International Consortium of Professional Recorder Virtuosos (ICPRV...pronounced phonetically, hard c) were a great deal of fun. Their numbers probably consist of folks who've spent the better part of their lives being hit over the shins for one reason or another.

So I was confused and curious, reading about the bold, mustache twirling irreverence of Red Priest, a group that has been compared (and no doubt heralded as well) to Cirque du Soleil and the Marx Brothers. Well. Such company.

All of this comes from a difficult relationship I have with Renaissance music. Basically, I have always had a hard time imagining humans listening to it. In fact, being somewhat musical myself (and also having a kind of extravagant brain that conceives of ancient cultures weirdly sometimes), it damaged my opinion of the Renaissance in general. I imagined Leonardo Bruni slamming the shutters closed and wishing the dreary droning quartet of sackbuts lutes and those weird sprouting stringed thingies would stop being so persnickety and mournful while he was trying to conceive of a theory of humanistic liberal arts.

That's what I thought of Renaissance music. Fusting old twangy stuff that threatened to veer over the guardrail of the bridge of my....overextended metaphor. Anyway, I didn't like it.

Then, the year our twins were born I listened on New Years eve, while R was in the hospital to this fantastic recording by Rolf Lislevand. Now, before finishing reading this, you should go buy that CD. I'll wait. There, now you can listen to it while you read. Well, Rolff recognized a kind of jazzy improvisational spirit in this music, variations on themes, arpeggiation, diminution, exploration and solo virtuosity. The recording reflects this. It sounds like something I could rock out to if I lived in the 17th century. Moreover, it sounds like something Leonardo Bruni could rock out to. That's too flippant. It's emotional. It's human. It has the kind of life to it that I expect from music, which must in so often serve as the expression of emotions, desires and wants that are too essential for words.

So, back to Piers, the lord of all recorder virtuosos. They leapt onto the stage in masks and cloaks as R already mentioned, Piers at the forefront, elbows pumping, dancing around one another and leaping forward. I have to say, I think Piers might have stolen his stance at one point Jethro Tull but the point was the spirit.

I had the joy of watching the first half of the show with G next to me, leaning around the pillar to get a better look at these dancing players. They were wild. The music was wild. G was entranced. R has already mentioned the fact that G came to the concert as a Vivaldi lover, so I won't belabor that except to say it made it much better for me, who has only recently awakened to a love of this music.

It was a show in every sense of the word. These folks danced, they came out into the garden, the harpsichordist (the dashing and largely self taught David Wright) grasping a fiddle and wandering around the fountain at one point, barking mysteriously on the violin, playing a dog roaming the fields in THE FOUR SEASONS, but still taking time to confess to us as he walked by "I don't even play violin, sorry."

Anyway it was a great and lively reminder of how human this music is. G's response to it only reinforced this. We were able to go and meet the musicians, which was fun G as well, the youngest person in the room by at least two decades. But I have to echo R's point that these were not clowns. They were playing it right, and I think that's important. They do appear sort of wild and clownish from their website, but it's not silly. It's right. The music is everything they play it with (even the occasional pop music strain in the middle of a solo, or musical joke).

Frankly, I'd expect nothing less from the reigning recorder virtuoso in the world today.

Taming the Savages, or Why it Had to be Jane Who Taught Tarzan How to Speak

On to Vivaldi....

Following Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue, we all gathered at the National Gallery of Art to listen to a free concert of Red Priest performing Vivaldi and other selections of pre- and early Baroque music. Along with us this time where my Mom (it was her birthday) and Spoon (our 4 year old).


None of us knew what we were getting in to. I thought we would go and enjoy some time sitting amongst marble columns and a lot of gray hairs listening to the lovely and uncomplicated strains of The Four Seasons. Boy was I wrong. Despite what you may see on the link for Red Priest, they were not dressed as pirates (though they were in black and red, and did enter wearing Carnival masks and capes) and were infectiously engaged with serious music. However, like a lot of total music nerds, all the flamboyance turns out to be a chimera, hiding the fact that otherwise you might think they were too stuffy and academic about originality and context to enjoy hearing them play. I'll leave it to the others to recapture more of the evening for you, as I want to focus on a couple of specifics.


I have 15 month old twins. And a four year old. I spend all day with them as my husband so aptly put it the other day, very much like the crew following horses in parades. I was reminded though, sitting in the midst of the dimly lit potted green palms and smooth marble columns, with others surrounding me who were not micturating in their own pants, that the whole aim of my business with the children is precisely not just scraping up filth and responding to constant need. It is in fact to lead these savages to not only engage in order and loveliness, but to seek it out. To rule their intensely real emotions, whims, and needs by self-control--being convinced of what it true, beautiful, and good. And because of this to revel even more fully in the wild tumults of creation, creativity, and passion.


Red Priest's front man Piers Adams explained, after the introductory Vivaldi piece, that the rest of the first half of the concert would be devoted to other musicians who were instrumental in developing the Baroque style, in chronological order leading to Vivaldi. The musicians proceeded to educate us through playing through the music how the Baroque style developed, and why Vivaldi was so extraordinary. The concert jarringly reminded me of the one that we had just enjoyed culminating in Gershwin. ...the uneasy first diversions from form, the seeming rough transitions into flights of fancy and spontaneity. Adams described the Baroque style as being "extravagant, rough edged, wild, raucous" music without "rigid form or structure, prone to eccentricities or flights of fancy and often requiring unprecedented virtuosity to perform". The way that Red Priest played the music made complete sense of what Adams had been describing. Furthermore, when it came to listening to Vivaldi's four seasons it was as though our ears had been opened up, that we were not listening to the stayed recognizable flattened down Vivaldi, but the true maturation of getting Baroque right. Unlike Gershwin's fiercely combative combination of forms, Vivaldi had listened to Bassano, Cima, Castello, Cazzati, Gabrielli, and Corelli and had the vision to bring it into a whole round form of its own. I can only describe it in terms of food. It was like a red wine butter emulsion sauce. The delicate tang of the wine riding atop of the depth and richness of the butter, completely transforming both beyond themselves into something altogether more and different. 


The delight though, for me, was something beyond just hearing afresh the overplayed, under-attended music of Vivaldi. The Baroque seems to easily signify the heights of civilization that I am striving for in raising our children. In all it's force and beauty--the struggle of bombast and storm against the exquisite limitations of an instrument played by a man. Encapsulated by the sheer delight of the musicians with each other (community), their shared endeavor (politics), they produced music that delighted their audience (articulate communication)--producing both wild flights of imagination, the exultation in the sheer capacities of man, and the pathos of the storm, the struggle with nature, drunkenness, and the hunt. 


The tensions between fancy and storm were not merely competing experientially, but rather made coherent a whole experience of life, and this only made possible by the devoted study of music and practiced skill of the players. 


What could be a better view of our lively engagement with the world as God has given it to us to pursue?


Jack was recounting to Spoon this week how Tarzan had taught himself to read, but could not speak the words that he could read. Jane taught him to speak. Parents have a lot to accomplish, and thankfully God has given us each other to encourage and lean on--but I think it is particularly the gift of God to women to be the early caregivers. God has specially called us to do this work, but more over--has specially equipped us to do it. If we lose sight of the delights and struggles of leading our children, and instead tire and merely follow them in their unformed and uninformed whims it is a drudgery and constant conflict. That's where I have been for four weeks. Jack graciously has given me two days to refresh myself (with sleep and quiet)--a much needed break. But I pray that God's gift of a loving husband and a civilizing concert--will bring forward in my thoughts the real, fantastic, scintillating work to be done. 


I was able to be encouraged that evening when Spoon stood enraptured by the music for two and a half hours. I sat there with my mom and thought of the gratification she must (hopefully!) feel sitting with me and my daughter--gratitude forcing some perspective on my own work. Spoon has been listening to Susan Hammond's Classical Kids Vivaldi's Ring of Mystery for the past two years. And as we listened to the music she would whisper, "Now they are going to the Isle of the Dead," "This is when she breaks the violin," and so on, referencing the story she had heard. As we told her the story of the seasons as we progressed through them--she was able to start identifying key themes, such as the storm, the birds, etc. But the best part of all was that I was able to glimpse (in the midst of a very trying four weeks), the pursuit of these things that we would be able to enjoy together with our children as we grow, discover, and create as civilized creatures. 

So, Lord, grant me fortitude to carry on the work that you have set out for me, and energy to communicate delight to those that I love. 

Rhapsody

Part of my desire for wanting to spend more time thinking, listening to, and reading about music this month is because I think that music is a weak spot in my education. I took an independent study course in college on Romantic music to try and address this, and learned how to follow a score, listen to a symphony, and explore the relationships between musicians and other artists of their age. However, I have not since then kept up the exercise very well of sitting down and listening to a piece of music exclusively and trying hard to understand it without any other distractions or diversions. 

So far this month, although it has been disjointed, I have really enjoyed getting the chance to do this more, and I hope to do it at least once a month. We'll see how that goes! 

So Rhapsody. 

I didn't know what rhapsody actually meant, and after Mahler's Lied/symphony, I thought it may be important to know why Gershwin called it a Rhapsody.

Here is Merriam-Webster's definition:

1  a portion of an epic poem adapted for recitation

2

archaic : a miscellaneous collection

3

(1) : a highly emotional utterance (2) : a highly emotional literary work (3) : effusively rapturous or extravagant discourse

4

: a musical composition of irregular form having an improvisatory character

I have to admit while everyone else was totally enthusing after the final notes of the Rhapsody had faded, I was sitting in some confusion. I think hearing the full concert in which the Rhapsody was played  was extremely helpful. Listening to the "crudest" forms of jazz, and their development out of the dance halls to a more sophisticated engagement with a looser form--rather than just songs helped to prepare me for the striking Rhapsody. 

However the Rhapsody sounded to me just as Jack mentioned--like a battle. It sounded really disjointed to me--here a symphonic sweep, truncated, with a twang of a banjo competing. And while altogether fascinating to really be experiencing what the musicians and culture was at that very moment in history--whether jazz would become mainstream, or at the very least, how it would affect the mainstream... I found myself agreeing with the reviewer--and wondering what Gershwin would have come up with had he developed his style more. 

It really seemed to me like Gershwin was saying to the audience, "Here we are: at the cross-roads. What's next?!"

I found it to be altogether stimulating, and fascinating academically, but I really doubt that I would find myself leaning over to put the Rhapsody in Blue on to just jam to. To me, the above definition seems entirely appropriate for what we heard--a miscellaneous, effusively rapturous and extravagant discourse of irregular form, having an improvisatory character. 

P.S. I would love to hear Margaret's discussion of what she saw as the relationship between Whistler's painting and the Rhapsody now that we have heard it. wink wink.

A Concert of Jazz

This post is weirdly overdue. As such, I am forced to backfill some pretty incredible items from the month of February. I'll do it in separate posts, wrapping up our dedicated month of listening, because each of our pieces of music deserves their own little space.

First, today, now, Gershin. We met at Margaret's home, and got so engrossed in a fine French wine from, according to our translating somalian (that's the term, yes?) , a vinyard called "between two horses". I don't if that's true. I suspect it isn't. But the simple fact is I don't know French well enough to say otherwise and our new friend was very sincere and convincing. But there we were, enjoying wine and conversation and a marvelous meal of roast chicken, pasta with amazing, possibly unpasteurized butter so engrossed in one another and the liveliness of good company and food that we almost missed listening to Rhapsody in Blue altogether. But we didn't. Thankfully.

I managed to track down two important things for the evening. First, I found the New York Times review of Rhapsody in Blue, published the morning after the concert. We read this astonishing review, which looks very little like a review today prior to listening. The concert, Paul Whiteman's "Experiment in Modern Music" was billed as a kind of educational affair, a speculation on the future of Jazz and its role in serious concert halls. At the time Jazz was dance hall music, low music, but it was also beginning to influence both American and European composers. Eric Satie had already begun to explore synchopation, very inspired by jazz, and he wasn't alone. So Paul Whiteman, a music promoter, set up this concert as an exploration of what jazz was capable of and a statement of his belief in the future of jazz. Here's what Paul Whiteman later said:

"I sincerely beleive in Jazz. I think it expresses the spirit of America and I feel sure it has a future - more of a future than a past and present. I want to help that future pan out"

So, "An Experiment in Modern Music" was set up in the concert hall attached to the Aeolian Piano factory. Interestingly enough, just a few blocks away, Duke Ellington was playing the Kentucky Club (a mob joint) and Fletcher Henderson's orchestra was keeping folks dancing at the nearby Roseland (interestingly, just 8 months away from hiring a young Louis Armstrong as his cornet player). That was the landscape. Jazz was on the brink of something, wondering about it's future, and that future was linked somehow to the American character. Olin Downes, the Times reviewer, gets all of this, and gets in February 13th, the morning after the concert. His article is worth reading, and you can find it here:



I think Downes' prescience is interesting, as is Downes flamboyant writing, which seems to take on the character of the concert nicely, at times sounding bouncy and improvisational as the music. But I also reckoned it was interesting to re-assess where jazz has or hasn't gone since 1924. I'm sure a jazz historian could correct me on this, and I hope one will, or perhaps I'll just have to read more about it, but I have the distinct impression that jazz has instead bifurcated itself into very cerebral, philosophic jazz (Thelonious...I'm looking at you) and very watered down directions. There's just not a great deal of series concert jazz that seems to display an evolution from Gershwin's youthful Rhapsody. There is some, and it's noteworthy (Wynton...).

Anyway, I'm rapidly wading in out of my depth to speculate on that, so I'll bring up the second item of the evening.

Maurice Peress re-created the entire 1924 Aeolian concert, and did so very faithfully. He even managed to get (in 1987...so do the astonishing math) some of the original musicians from the 1924 recording. This recording (the 1987 one) was, I think the first recording of Rhapsody in its entirety. The reason for this is an interesting, mechanical one. Paul Whiteman's recording had Gershwin at the piano, but it was recorded to fit on two sides of a 12-inch, 78-rpm record. To do this, cuts had to be made and Gershwin chose to omit almost the entire middle section. The Peress concert, according to Peress, was the first recording to restore it.

Anyway, the recording is interesting, and wildly different than other recordings of Rhapsody in Blue. The principle thing is the banjo. It's really very prominent. Usually recordings downplay this, they smooth everything out, and the piece has become a kind of archetype of smooth sophistication, the wilder themes evened out to a kind of machine efficiency. But Peress' recording is a battle. The bouncing, jittery, banjo driven synchopations of the jazz compete unsteadily with the smooth sophistication of the orchestra. The piece was orchestrated by Ferde Grofe, and it bears the mark of his sense of counterpoint, but I think the essence of the piece, which I'd never quite heard before this night, is one of stark contrasts.

It's easier to see, having listened to that recording, why Downes would be so aware of what was happening on stage. The music makes it fascinatingly plain that there are two worlds in conclict within Rhapsody, the world of sophistication and the world of jazz. So it's still fascinating to consider how this would ultimately play out, and to see the question posed by Gershwin in 1924, as Rhapsody in Blue, quientessentially American in its quest to rise above its class, takes on the world of classical discipline.

Gershwin's Show Tunes

While Gershwin, had he lived past 40, might have become a "serious" composer--he only wrote 4 major orchestral pieces, and one opera--his legacy in music was already sealed, though he didn't know it, with his show tunes. The delightful melodies--at times quick and engaging, at other times soft and mellow and sad--match with his brother's excellent lyrics, became the backbone of jazz, and the first major figure in what are now known as American Standards. You'd be surprised, even if you aren't a jazz lover, how many of his show tunes you know.









Also: the embedding is disabled by request, but don't miss this live version of 'A Foggy Day in London Town' with Nat King Cole on piano and Mel Torme doing vocals.