Nimble Tread

Khachaturian. Gesundheit.

Here are Louis Armstrong and Danny Kaye doing their thing:

Rimsky?  Of course-a-koff.  Gotta Love it!

Technically Speaking...

It seems impossible these days to avoid getting bound up in something or other to do with violin competitions.  One would be hard-pressed to fling a brick anywhere in Western Europe and not have it ricochet off a competitor's BAM case and fall to the ground inert and a bit embarrassed.  In the last couple of weeks, I've been barraged with a series of first-round results, been confronted with victory announcements, been encumbered with adjudicator-related conspiracy theories, and have even been induced (with scarcely any resistance on my part) to attend the finals of the Britten Competition, where I was treated to three performances on the trot of said composer's violin concerto and then lulled to sleep by Elgar's effort at the form.  (I should mention that Elgar's music rather than the performer's gusto were to blame for my nap; I've never much cared for the composer's works and, much to the horror of certain residents of my adopted country, have found most of them (the compositions) to be exceedingly soporofic.) 
Needless to say, I'm not a fan of competitions, and consider them a blight on the musical landscape.  A necessary blight, perhaps, but a blight nonetheless.  I say necessary because it's awesomely difficult -- now perhaps more than ever -- to get a break in the classical music world, and having "winner of the 2007 Tchaikovsky Competition" pinned to one's back gives the odds-makers a bit of cud to chew.  My trouble with competitions is one of substance rather than standards.  Young violinists' technical prowess is at an all-time high, and even the last-place finisher in any competition can whip off Paganini's 24 with hardly a hitch.  What you seldom come across, however, is a personality underpinning the technique.  I've listened to at least fifty competitors this month alone, and of that number I'd like to hear only two or three of them again.   Bear in mind that I say this as a listener, not a judge.  While I usually find myself agreeing with judges' decisions re. competition play, none of the two or three violinists I favoured on a stylistic basis ended up winning their respective competitions.  They all placed in the top-four -- a couple in the top-two -- but none ended the evening by sipping Champagne from a silver-plated trophy. 

There are people in my acquaintance who take great pleasure in decrying what they see as the paltry status of emotion in contemporary musicianship.  They speak with hand-sweeping, nostril-twitching passion, and always cap their argument by saying that "[insert famous late-19th-, early-20th-century violinist's name here] would never win a competition today, but wouldn't you rather hear him play the Mendelssohn concerto?"  The pontification is a beautiful spectacle to behold, really, but it's completely bogus.  Of course Georges Enescu wouldn't win the Menuhin competition today -- and neither, for that matter, would Menuhin -- but how would Ray Chen (who did win this year's Menuhin competition -- congrats, Ray!) fare in front of a 1918 audience?   And of course I'd love to hear a member of the violin pantheon unpack the Mendelssohn VC, but wouldn't it also be something to hear Gil Shaham play the same.  Violin playing has grown more precise over the course of the last century, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's become less musical.  Competitions typically inspire technique-minded performances, which is why I don't like them, but it's worth remembering that precision and passion are not mutually exclusive terms.  After all, Roby Lakatos won the Bartok Conservatory first prize for violin in 1984, and he seems to have done alright.

(Addendum: If I haven't entirely put you off competitions, and you'd like to have a listen to this year's Menuhin gauntlet, you can do so by clicking here.)

Au Secours!

The CBC Radio Orchestra is about to enter into its 70th season, and to commemorate the milestone the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation is pulling the band's funding.  Needless to say, the news hasn't gone over well in Canada.  The populace has rallied 'round the storied orchestra, writing letters, creating Facebook groups, and circulating a petition, which right-minded people can sign by following this link.  Music critics have been obsessed with classical music's demise for decades, but more often than not their laments have hovered between the abstract and the hypothetical.  It's sad to come across a tangible casualty.

Where in the World

I'm sorry about the woefully sporadic blogging, and offer as an excuse my extreme youth.  I've gone to several great concerts over the past couple of weeks, but have also spent some time engaged in a less wothwhile pursuit, namely the Berlin Phil's online Cello Challenge, which, like the instrument itself, is virtually impossible to manage with a Mac track pad.  A more rewarding internet offering comes in the form of Radio 3's broadcast of Jonathan Biss' most recent Wigmore Hall concert, in which he played Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 27, op. 90, Schoenberg's 6 Klavierstücke, Op 19, and Schubert's Sonata No. 20, D.959.  It was a terrific performance, and you can find it here.

Vitameatavegamin

People are saying Airborne's a load of hooey, and that's put me on the brink of despair since the stuff's saved me from more than one cold.  I don't care if it doesn't work, so long as I don't know it doesn't work, if you catch my drift.  It's a fact that sometimes the "secret" in a secret formula is the user's brain and its fondness for psychosomatic trickery. 

So now that half my medicine chest's been called into question, I need to find a new brand of snake oil, and where better to start than black-and-white television.  Leave it to Lucy to have the answers to life's little conundrums.  There's a reason everyone loves her, you know.

Hark! the Robin!

Lines Written in Early Spring

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure: --
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

-Wm. Wordsworth

A Toast to Masonry Anchors

It's Shelf Day today, which may seem like no big deal to you, but when you've been waiting as long as I have for a particular octet of brackets, the day becomes one to rival Christmas.  If all goes well in the Do-it-Myself department, the sun will go down on a pair of five-foot-long, wall-mounted, American oak beauties.  If not, I suspect Shelf Day will very handily segue into Pub Night.
For those of you with less involved matters on the docket, Olivier Latry will be giving an organ masterclass at the St. Marylebone Parish Church today.  Sounds like an off-colour euphemism, if you ask me, but I'll bet it gets him lots of chicks.

Off Topic

This strays beyond Nimble Tread's territorial waters, but I got a kick out of Joan Acocella's recent New Yorker article, A Better Place, and thought I'd reiterate her last point, which concerns revisionist history.  The piece focused on the experience of Muslims in Iberia, particularly as seen through the lens of David Levering Lewis' book God's Crucible: Islam and the Making of Europe, 570 to 1215, which regales readers with myriad ways in which early Muslim society had the edge on contemporary Christian communities.  Lewis argues that Islam paved the way for advanced social systems in Europe by introducing, amongst other things, translated Greek philosophical treaties, elaborations in architectural practices, and a slew of botanical novelties, including dates, saffron, almonds, limes, and apricots.  It makes for interesting reading, but as with much of the modern historical cannon, it's at once apologetic and confrontational in tone, which is hardly going to escape Acocella, who, true to form, is sharp as a tack.  Her final paragraph reads as follows:

I can foresee a time when another matter important to us, the threat of ecological catastrophe, will prompt a historian to write a book in praise of the early Europeans whom Lewis finds so inferior to the Muslims.  The Franks lived in uncleared forests, while the Muslims built fine cities, with palaces and aqueducts?  All the better for the earth.  The Franks were fond of incest?  Endogamy keeps societies small, prevents the growth of rapacious nation-states.  The same goes for the Franks' largely barter economy.  Trade such as the Muslims practiced -- far-flung and transacted with money -- leads to consolidation.  That's how we got global corporations. 
Each new problem in our history engenders a revision of past history.  Many of today's historians acknowledge this, and argue that their books, if politicized, are simply more honest about this than the politicized books of the past.  This pessimism about the possibility of finding a stable truth may be realistic, but it seems to sanction, even encourage, special pleading -- of which God's Crucible, for all its virtues, is an example. 

This is good stuff, and as revisionism is hardly limited to social history, we'd do well to consider its faults and merits before applying it to our pet subjects -- early music for instance. 

If Acocella's take on Lewis's book wasn't enough to capture your particular fancy, her piece also served up a nice amuse-gueule of Frankish sobriquets, the highlights of which centre around Charles I, aka Charles the Great, aka Charlemagne.  Not only did he have a grandfather named Charles the Hammer (Martel), but was lucky enough to be raised by two loving, and amusingly named, parents Pippin the Short and, my favourite of all, Bertha of the Big Foot.  And let's not forget al-Walid the Inadequate, who reigned as an Umayyad caliph for a year, and lived life with distinct flair, a trait that seems to have proven problematic, for , as Wikipedia tells us, "his reputed drinking, singing and immorality aroused considerable opposition" amongst the masses and led to an assassination plot.  Sounds like an eight-century version of David Lee Roth.  What a shame we've given up on juicy semi-official monikers.  Oh the fun we'd have...

Make up Your Mind

It turns out David Garrett damaged his Guadagnini, not his Strad, in his fall, and I get the impression that his PR team has been working overtime this week.  As with his playing, I find myself completely losing interest with this story -- liberally sprinkled with fairy dust as it is -- and it won't be mentioned here again.  What will be mentioned, however, is the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment's Night Shift concert at the Queen Elizabeth Hall tomorrow night.  It'll be one of those rare opportunities to booze it up while listening to Mozart and Beethoven in an audience hard-wired to iPods rather than hearing aids.  The QEH people are really letting their hair down on this one, installing a DJ in the all-concrete foyer, starting the whole business at 10pm, and letting people come and go as they please during the concert.  I went to one of these Night Shift things last year, and while it wasn't not entirely my scene, I'll readily admit that it was surprisingly fun.  You can find out more about it here.

Fact Checkers?

Whaaaa?  The Indy article about Garrett didn't mention that he went ass-over-teakettle way back in December.  The undramatic people at the Beeb, however, adopted a more matter-of-fact idiom in their telling of the tale.  They even include an injury report -- and a diagram.  Makes for nice Valentine's Day reading.

Sweet Nothings

Tough Week for Violins

It seems as though Ryanair has taken a keen interest in alienating the few passengers still willing to suffer the indignity of flying with them.  The airline has not only refused wheelchairs to disabled people, reneged on travel prizes, and been voted the World's Most Disliked Airline by Trip Advisor readers, but they've now been trying to charge violinists for an extra seat to accommodate their fiddles.  Needless to say, this hasn't been going over well.  Violin cases tend to be larger than the maximum dimensions for carry-on baggage, but only by a bit, and there's typically no trouble getting them into the overhead compartments.  One violinist was nearly forced to pay 300 euros for a last-minute one-way ticket for his violin.  A bitter pill to swallow when his own ticket only cost a hundred.  It's a bad scene, but not nearly as bad as the one David Garrett faced at the Barbican last night, when he tripped, fell down a flight of stairs, and landed on his violin case, crushing the instrument inside, which just so happened to be the San Lorenzo Stradivarius.  The Independent has a piece on it today, and the scene it describes is like something out of a violin snuff film.   J&A Beare have come to the rescue with another Strad (and a team of goons to guard it), but I don't envy Mr. Garrett his situation.  One bad step, and now he's got himself some expensive toothpicks.  The violin can be repaired, though how well and how quickly remains to be seen. 
If you'd like to read about the San Lorenzo's previous owners, or those of other rare instruments, you can do so courtesy of Jose Sanchez Penzo and his singularly titled database, The Way Famous Instruments Went.  Incidentally, Garrett will be at the Barbican tonight, playing the Bruch concerto and taking the smallest steps he can manage.

Candles

A belated happy birthday to A.A. Milne, who penned one of the English language's most addictive poems over 70 years ago.  And I quote:

Disobedience

James James
Morrison Morrison
Weatherby George Dupree
Took great
Care of his Mother,
Though he was only three.
James James Said to his Mother,
"Mother," he said, said he;
"You must never go down
to the end of the town,
if you don't go down with me."

James James
Morrison's Mother
Put on a golden gown.
James James Morrison's Mother
Drove to the end of the town.
James James Morrison's Mother
Said to herself, said she:
"I can get right down
to the end of the town
and be back in time for tea."

King John
Put up a notice,
"LOST or STOLEN or STRAYED!
JAMES JAMES MORRISON'S MOTHER
SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN MISLAID.
LAST SEEN
WANDERING VAGUELY:
QUITE OF HER OWN ACCORD,
SHE TRIED TO GET DOWN
TO THE END OF THE TOWN -
FORTY SHILLINGS REWARD!"
      James James
Morrison Morrison
(Commonly known as Jim)
Told his
Other relations
Not to go blaming him.
James James
Said to his Mother,
"Mother," he said, said he:
"You must never go down to the end of the town
without consulting me."

James James
Morrison's mother
Hasn't been heard of since.
King John said he was sorry,
So did the Queen and Prince.
King John
(Somebody told me)
Said to a man he knew:
If people go down to the end of the town, well,
what can anyone do?"

(Now then, very softly)
J.J.
M.M.
W.G.Du P.
Took great
C/0 his M*****
Though he was only 3.
J.J. said to his M*****
"M*****," he said, said he:
"You-must-never-go-down-to-the-end-of-the-town-
if-you-don't-go-down-with-ME!"

Birthday Boys

Two great violinists would be celebrating birthdays this week if they hadn't shuffled off this mortal coil: Jascha Heifetz and Fritz Kreisler, the Master and the Mensch, who were born on February 4th and February 2nd respectively.  Thanks to Washington (February 22nd) and Lincoln (February 12th), Americans have Presidents' Week later this month, and it's along similar lines that I propose this week be known as Violinist's Week.  Let's steal some attention back from that pesky little groundhog.  I was originally thinking of calling it Fiddler's Week, but it occurred to me that some people might get the wrong idea and wear the wrong sort of costume to the party, if you get my drift.

Legerdemain

Nimble Tread favourites Rachel Podger and Gary Cooper were on hand at the Wigmore last night to show us what playing chamber music is all about.  They worked through a selection of Mozart sonatas that nearly spanned the composer's lifetime, and delivered the pieces in as chummy a manner as you're likely to see on the aerie of a professional stage.  Their playing was brilliant, but the pair also let their mischievous sides shine through, Cooper with his phrasing and accompaniment; Podger with her bowing and amateur pantomime.  There was even a bit of improvisation involved, most notably Podger's jolly semi-col legno staccato in KV 404's allegretto, which the duo played as an encore.  KV 30 served up some yucks too thanks to Cooper's introduction, in which he mentioned that the young Mozart, knee-high to a toadstool when he composed the piece, had just discovered hand crossing, and clearly relished employing the technique non-stop in this early composition.  The story made for decent enough listening, but the real fun was hearing everyone laugh each time Cooper reached to port with his right hand.  Rhetorically speaking, my friends, that's called metonymy, and Cooper, whether he knows it or not, is its master. 

Smoulder

I just experienced a first on the Tube.  I was on my way home from Natalie Dessay's Barbican recital, when I noticed that the carriage I was in was beginning to smell a bit smoky.  This happens from time to time when a chain smoker plops down nearby and emits a heady residual cigarette aroma, but this case was different.  The smell quickly got stronger, and it became apparent that somebody was sucking one down on the train.  The culprit turned out to be a homeless looking man, who could have come direct from Central Casting.  He had on the requisite toque, sported a wiry snow-coloured beard and fine set of blackened fingernails, and spoke with a well-developed slur that was incomprehensible to everyone save his neighbour, a sinewy man of similar description who nodded in approval of his friend's loftier statements.  What was truly remarkable about the scene was that although the car was nearly full, nobody said anything.  A few people shot the man an old-fashioned look, and a few more jumped ship when the train made its first stop, but all who remained aboard did so with tacit displeasure and in mild disbelief. 

I'm not sure if the lack of confrontation is attributable to English culture -- I can hardly imagine such an act going unchallenged on the New York Subway -- or if everyone independently decided that any objection, however gently or sensibly delivered, would likely fall on uncaring ears.  All I can say is that I was reminded of Chekhov's story The Ninny, particularly its last line, which is possessed of a different, but undoubtedly tangential theme to the one found tonight on the Tube, and is so short a tale that I'm going to throw copyright caution to the wind and reproduce it here:

The Ninny

Just a few days ago I invited Yulia Vasilyevna, the governess of my children, to come to my study. I wanted to settle my account with her.

“Sit down, Yulia Vasilyevna,” I said to her. “ Let’s get our accounts settled. I’m sure you need some money, but you keep standing on ceremony and never ask for it. Let me see. We agreed to give you thirty rubles a month, didn’t we?”

“Forty.”

“No, thirty. I made a note of it. I always pay the governess thirty. Now, let me see. You have been with us for two months?”

“Two months and five days.”

“Two months exactly. I made a note of it. So you have sixty rubles coming to you. Subtract nine Sundays. You know you don’t tutor Kolya on Sundays, you just go out for a walk. And then the three holidays...”

Yulia Vasilyevna blushed and picked at the trimmings of her dress, but said not a word.

“Three holidays. So we take off twelve rubles. Kolya was sick for four days – those days you didn’t look after him. You looked after Vanya, only Vanya. Then there were the three days you had toothache, when my wife gave you permission to stay away from the children after dinner. Twelve and seven makes nineteen. Subtract... That leaves... hm... forty-one rubles. Correct?”

Yulia Vasilyevna’s left eye reddened and filled with tears. Her chin trembled. She began to cough nervously, blew her nose, and said nothing.

“Then around New Year’s Day you broke a cup and a saucer. Subtract two rubles. The cup cost more than that – it was an heirloom, but we won’t bother about that. We’re the ones who pay. Another matter. Due to your carelessness Kolya climbed a tree and tore his coat. Subtract ten. Also, due to your carelessness, the chambermaid ran off with Vanya’s boots. You ought to have kept your eyes open. You get a good salary. So we dock off five more... On the tenth of January you took ten rubles from me.”

“I didn’t,” Yulia Vasilyevna whispered.

“But I made a note of it.”

“Well, yes – perhaps...”

“From forty-one we take twenty-seven. That leaves fourteen.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and her thin, pretty little nose was shining with perspiration. Poor little child!

“I only took money once,” she said in a trembling voice. “I took three rubles from your wife... never anything more.”

“Did you now? You see, I never made a note of it. Take three from fourteen. That leaves eleven. Here’s your money, my dear. Three, three, three... one and one. Take it, my dear.”

I gave her the eleven rubles. With trembling fingers she took them and slipped them into her pocket.

“Merci,” she whispered.

I jumped up, and began pacing up and down the room. I was in a furious temper.

“Why did you say ‘merci?” I asked.

“For the money.”

“Don’t you realize I’ve been cheating you? I steal your money, and all you can say is ‘merci’!”

“In my other places they gave me nothing.”

“They gave you nothing! Well, no wonder! I was playing a trick on you – a dirty trick... I’ll give you your eighty rubles, they are all here in an envelope made out for you. Is it possible for anyone to be such a nitwit? Why didn’t you protest? Why did you keep your mouth shut? It is possible that there is anyone in this world who is so spineless? Why are you such a ninny?”

She gave me a bitter little smile. On her face I read the words: “Yes, it is possible.”

I apologized for having played this cruel trick on her, and to her great surprise gave her the eighty rubles. And then she said “merci” again several times, always timidly, and went out. I gazed after her, thinking how very easy it is in this world to be strong.

 

Something to Read on the Train

Andy H-D at The Black Torrent Guard calls our attention to a juicy looking potboiler by Elizabeth A. Seitz entitled Dissertation Most Deadly.  iUniverse describes it as follows:

"I couldn't believe he was dead." So explodes an unexpected whirlwind tour of international proportions that propels music scholar Leigh Maxwell through a bizarre series of events in the course of investigating her dissertation. From a musty archive in Madrid, to treasure-troves of libraries in recently reunited Germany, to the warm and sultry breezes of the Caribbean, Maxwell, a doctoral student of Music History, uncovers 100-year-old secrets that reveal a web of theft, jealousy, deceit, treachery and surprising discovery.

One reviewer on Amazon, a certain Constant Reader, claims: "This is a wonderful novel that combines elements of both mysteries and thrillers. The main character is very compelling, and the world of musicology in which the book is set is fascinating."  Now I haven't done the necessary research on this, but I'm pretty sure CR's review marks the closest the word musicology has ever come to the terms mystery and thriller.  A little snooping of my own revealed that Dr. Seitz is no stranger to dissertations, having done her own on Manuel de Falla's years in Paris.  She's also taught at BU, Tufts, and the New England Conservatory of Music, and for all we know could be the musicology world's Indiana Jones: tweedy professor during the school year, whip-cracking adventurer come Spring Break.  Maybe she'll find the Oistrakh Strad.   

Heads Up

A belated happy new year to everyone out there in the blogosphere.  Now that folks are returning to town and settling back into their normal routines, it's probably a good time to mention that Rachel Podger will be playing at the Wigmore Hall on February 1st.  She'll be performing a smattering of Mozart sonatas with Gary Cooper, and given that the duo's been recording the complete cycle over the past couple of years, the pieces are bound to be securely under finger.  More info can be found here.

God Jul!

Norway is beautiful at Christmas time:

 

The Romantic Revolution

I had a high old time time at the Barbican tonight, listening to, and watching, Cecilia Bartoli peform with the Orchestra La Scintilla Zürich.  Aside from the fact that Bartoli has the most incredibly free and utterly pretty voice, she always looks to be enjoying herself, and it was the spirit of enthusiasm that marked this evening. 
Bartoli chose a programme of primarily 19th century opera arias to pay tribute to the famous and long-gone mezzo-soprano, Maria Malibran.  Malibran was known the world over for her beautiful voice, diminutive physique, and general feistiness, and, like Bartoli, had a vast cloud of ardent supporters who loved nothing so much as listening to her sing.  In Bartoli's case, the majority of her cloud breezed into the Barbican Hall tonight and were treated to a great show, the highlights of which were, for me anyways: Desdemona's woeful aria from Rossini's Otello, which Bartoli sang with lip-quivering pathos and not a trace of schmaltz; Balfe's Yon moon o'er the montains, from The Maid of Artois, which got me thinking of German drinking songs and the Oktoberfest sway; the encore set, which included a foray into flamenco, Malibran's own Rataplan, and a repeat of Non piu mesta; and Mendelssohn's Infelice, which saw Bartoli team up with the orchestra's conductor, violinist Ada Pesch, to weave a beautiful tune and create perhaps the finest unity between solo performer and ensemble I've encountered in all m'days.  It was really a terrific evening.
I'm off to Norway tomorrow, where I'll pay a visit to Oslo, and then take the train up north in order to pass some time with a group of cheerful rustics in Hamar.  I should be back in time to post before Christmas, but if not, I hope everyone makes a merry time of it, whatever it may be.