Nimble Tread

Renaud Capuçon

I spent a pleasant enough hour at the Wigmore yesterday listening to Renaud Capuçon and pianist Frank Braley work their way through two Beethoven violin sonatas, C minor Op. 30 and F major Op. 24 aka 'Spring,' aka 'one-of-the-most-frequently-played-pieces-in-the-repertoire-but-with-good-reason-since-it's-so-damn-likeable.' The concert was broadcast live on Radio 3, and as is always the way with these things, can be listened to after the fact if you click here. 

I know I mentioned Capuçon's cinematic career a a while back, but I've never really touched on his musical personality, which seems to be fairly robust. I've enjoyed many performances he's given, both on his own and with his brother, Gauthier, but he's never completely bowled me over. His sound is warm and rich, and he's got a terrifically smooth and controlled bow arm, but his phrasing decisions have never really meshed with my own aesthetic with regard to line. I suppose he's just one of those people I admire but don't revere; like but don't love. It's funny how that works, in general certainly, but definitely with regard to classical music. One can consider a performer or composer to be exceptionally gifted, and capable of a singular brand of invention, only it's not one's preferred brand. Not a hell of a lot a person can do about that. We like what we like, and dismiss what we don't. And why not? After all, the classical canon is so vast and diverse that a person shouldn't waste his time on music he doesn't like. One must absolutely try new things, and as often as possible, only one shouldn't force oneself to listen to music that doesn't inspire, however exalted it might be, even if it's supposedly 'good for you.'

Good grief! I sound as though I belong at Speaker's Corner.

Mise-en-scène

I've been watching Simon Lelouch's short film, 7h57am-pm, and although it's pleasant to look at, I'm not particularly impressed.  The movie features Renaud Capuçon playing Gluck's Melodie from Orfeo ed Euridice in a number of venues along Ligne 6 on the Paris Metro, as well as on stage in the Theatre des Champs-Elysées, and while Lelouch manages to assemble a collection of reasonably nice images, the piece as a whole is disjointed in a first year film student kind of way.  It's pretty clear he's driving at a situational juxtaposition, but I don't think he really spent enough time figuring out an effective way to flesh out his idea.  There's also the issue of sync: there are many instances where what we hear is not even close to what we see Capuçon play, including a couple of bow changes magically performed mid-note.  But my intention isn't to give Lelouch a hard time.  The only reason I'm calling attention to his film at all -- even if I'm doing so a year-and-change after its release -- is to touch on the terrific potential that exists for a more candid style of classical arts filmmaking.  For all 7h57's foibles, the film does show how terrific the details of classical performance -- whether its music or ballet or whatever -- can look freed from the staid space and lighting of the 'house.'  I'm not suggesting that we begin making more music videos for Bach -- I think Vanessa Mae's done quite enough of those already -- but rather create a visual cannon that's more in keeping with contemporary aesthetics, technology and editing, then stand back and see what happens.  I think there's a real opportunity here for some talented filmmakers and photographers to create a series of images, both still and moving, that can serve as visual companions to the musical repertoire and, like the music itself, be robust enough to withstand repeated airing.  If we want to lure young people to classical art, we need to do a better job of speaking their language, and pictures are a good place to start.

Ummmm

I spent a little time today watching one of the more bizarre movies to come out of 1940s Hollywood, even by WWII standards: a hotch-potch of cameos and plot called Hollywood Canteen.  I was after a light number by Jack Benny and Josef Szigeti (they play Souvenir, sort of, and it's the best part of the film...obviously; it's also fairly similar to the schtick Benny used to do with Heifetz USO tours), but got a dose of Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, Peter Lorre, Roy Rogers and Trigger, Eddie Cantor, Sydney Greenstreet, Ida Lupino, Barbara Stanwyck, Jack Carson, and the dreamy Joan Leslie.  The film is about a venue called the Hollywood Canteen that was supposedly conceived, created, staffed and hosted by a slew of Hollywood stars and crew to entertain and repay allied soldiers during the war.  The movie's got all the airs of a star-studded vanity project, but the strange thing is the Canteen actually existed.  Wikipedia does a nice job of summarising the place's history, and so I'll pass along the reins to them:

The Hollywood Canteen operated at 1451 Cahuenga Boulevard in Hollywood, California between October 3, 1942 and November 22, 1945 (Thanksgiving Day) as a club offering food, dancing and entertainment for servicemen, usually on their way overseas. Even though the majority of visitors were U.S servicemen, the Canteen was open to servicemen of allied countries as well as women in all branches of service. The serviceman's ticket for admission was his uniform and everything at the Canteen was free of charge.

The driving forces behind its creation were Bette Davis and John Garfield, along with Jules Stein, President of Music Corporation of America, who headed up the finance committee. Bette Davis devoted an enormous amount of time and energy to the project and served as its president. The various guild and unions of the entertainment industry donated the labor and money for the building renovations. The Canteen was operated and staffed completely by volunteers from the entertainment industry. By the time the Canteen opened its doors, over 3000 stars, players, directors, producers, grips, dancers, musicians, singers, writers, technicians, wardrobe attendants, hair stylists, agents, stand-ins, publicists, secretaries, and allied craftsmen of radio and screen had registered as volunteers.

Glamorous stars volunteered to wait on tables, cook in the kitches and clean up. On September 15, 1943 the one millionth guest walked through the door of the Hollywood Canteen. The lucky soldier, Sgt. Carl Bell, received a kiss from Betty Grable.

A Hall of Honor at the Hollywood Canteen had a wall of photos which honored the film actors who served in the military.

 The Canteen had a list of volunteers that would put Mrs. Astor to shame.  The Barrymores, Fred Astaire, Cary Grant, Buster Keaton, Gene Kelly, Orson Welles, Mae West, Mary Pickford, Gregory Peck, Rita Hayworth, Frank Sinatra, Tallulah Bankhead, the Marx Brothers... and that's just the tip of the iceburg.  Click here if you'd like to see the full roster.  Can you imagine something like this existing in any other era than that of World War II?

pre-NYE

New Year's Eve is coming up, and if you're planning on being in Dublin on the night, you should head over to Vicar Street for the Turning Pirate's Mixed Tape NYE Party.  Here's a link to the poster.  The lineup inlcudes Cathy Davey, Richie Egan, Jerry Fish, and Lisa Hannigan, who I (along with virtually everyone who's ever seen her perform) absolutely adore.  Lisa's got a lovely voice, and even though it's a bit small, she's got such wonderful control and such an unusual blend of idiosyncracies in her sound that her limited projection doesn't really matter.  After all, she's not singing at the Met, plus she's usually amplified, which lets her be as whispery as she likes without any trouble.  I've never been much of a Damien Rice fan, which probably explains why I was so glad when Hannigan stopped singing backing vocals for him and went off on her own.  It seems to be working out for her, and I'm glad for it. 

For those of you who've never hear of Lisa, there's loads of stuff on iTunes and YouTube to clue you in, including this slightly-twee-but-hugely-charming video for her song, Lille:

Incidentally, my good friend, The Man in Seat 61, has posted an explanation of how to get from London to Dublin by train and ferry for only £30.50 each way, any day of the year.  Not only is the fare cheap, but the journey keeps you out of airports, and I doubt I need to go into the merits of that arrangement at this time of the year.  

The Funny Pages

I was pleased to see a full page obituary for Leslie Nielsen in today's Times, and seriously amused by the obit writer's decision to describe some of the gags from Nielsen's films.  Particularly rich was his explanation of two of Airplane!'s more revered scenes:

[Nielsen's] career took a dramatic change of direction in 1980 when he played Dr Rumack, the hopelessly logical, but rather dim doctor who takes control in an airborne crisis in Airplane!  "This woman has to be gotten to a hospital," he says.  "A hospital!  What is it?" says the stewardess.  "It's a big building with patients," Nielsen replies.

Although it looks likely that the plane is about to crash and everyone is going to die, his character's greatest concern seems to be the way in which everyone keeps calling him Shirley -- "Don't call me Shirley," when in fact he repeatedly mishears the word "surely."

 

This is great stuff.  It's like having Gordon Brown parse a Groucho Marx joke, and reminds me of that time Mrs Thatcher tossed off a few lines from Monty Python's Dead Parrot sketch during a speech she was making at the 1990 Conservative Party conference.  Yikes.  There's not better way of killing a joke than explaining it, and I guess the Times' obit guy figured he'd dispatch a couple of Nielsen's better-known zingers to the great beyond in order to keep the actor company.  Awfully considerate of him, really.

Risor Festival

Henning Kraggerud, Marc-André Hamelin, Leif Ove Andsnes, Torleif Thedéen and Lars Anders Tomter on the same stage, virtually all at once.  Gotta love the Wigmore, and gotta love the Risor Festival.  Last night's concert started strong, with Kraggerud and Hamelin (I almost couldn't believe it when I saw them hit the boards together) playing Grieg's F major violin sonata.  It's rare to see Hamelin in something of a supporting role, which is a bit of a shame for the sole reason that he is an exceptional accompanist.  The piano is featured rather prominently in the sonata, so there were lots of opportunities for Hamelin to showcase his beautiful phrasing and near-perfect balance.  In fact, I'd say balance is the mot juste to describe Hamelin and Kraggerud, both in terms of technique and expression.  The two men seem centred over every note, and as a consequence they could react to each other instantaneously and shape the music with incredible fluidity.  Let's hope they make last night's partnership a more regular occurrence.

Another treat came in the form of Brahms' G minor piano quartet, which I love for a slew of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that I'd choose the middle of the third movement as my theme song if ever I were struck by lightning and transformed into a superhero.  Hey, it can happen.  At any rate, I was especially pleased with last night's ensemble, as it put Kraggerud and Tomter side by side, on violin and viola respectively, which is a situation that always produces delightful results.  I remember the first time I heard them play together.  Mozart's B flat duo for violin and viola.  It was also at the Wigmore, and part of a Razumovsky Ensemble performance.  I was already a big fan of Kraggerud, but hadn't heard of Tomter, and listening to the way the two interacted was almost revelatory.  I made sure to be in the audience a few months later when they played the G major duo, one of my favourite pieces of all time, and that performance sealed the deal, so to speak.  So, I figured the two Norwegians would form a pretty solid core for last night's Brahms quartet, and I was right.  Of course, it does make life a bit easier when you have Leif Ove Andsnes on hand to tickle the ivory, and a certain fellow called Torleif Thedéen playing the cello.  Four musician's musicians, really, and something of a dream team as far as I'm concerned.  I might substitute Hamelin for Andsnes, or better yet, hand him a violin so the band could have a crack at Brahms' F minor piano quintet.  The scary thing is, I bet they'd pull it off.

Carolina Chocolate Drops

I love this band.  I heard a sort of bluegrass/jug band/God-knows-what-else version the Drops did of that song, Hit 'Em Up Style, a few months ago and was so taken by their improvements on Blu Cantrell's tune that I decided to hear what the band sounded like when they played more traditional songs.  I wasn't disappointed.  We're talking a seriously talented trio of individuals here, as can be seen in the following:

 

Fiddle, jug, and clawhammer banjo = awesome, at least when it's done right.  Add a kazoo into the mix, as in the next video, and you've got a bona fide sensation on your hands.  Impossible not to smile watching this version of Memphis Shakedown:

 

I was afraid Rhiannon was going to keel over towards the end, but that's half the fun, isn't it?  I wish these three would come to London, which will probably happen sooner or later, but in the meantime I'll content myself with spreading the word a bit.  The band will be in Michigan, Tennessee, and North Carolina over the next few weeks, so if you're lucky enough to live in any of those three states, I'd advise hastening to a ticket window or whatever and slapping down some currency.   You can thank me later.

Yum, Yum; Snap, Snap

Just thought I'd share one of my new favourite blogs with you all.  It's written by Penny De Los Santos, an enormously capable lifestyle and food photographer who, though I don't actually know her, strikes me as being very nearly the ideal travel companion.  Whatever the case might actually be, her pictures will make your tummy growl and your feet itch, which is no small courtesy. 

Early Jul Notice

A couple of my Norwegian cronies, Mari-Silje and Hakon Samuelsen, present a Christmas concert every year in a place called Hamar, which is a medium-sized town about an hour from Lillehammer.  The production started out as a fairly modest affair, but has grown in scale every year, and has now reached the point where it'll be broadcast to an international television audience, including PBS viewers in the States.  The concerts tend to be a 'classical music's greatest hits' type thing, but good luck finding a Christmas recital that isn't.  At any rate, you can read more on the website.  MC duties will be carried out by my old pal Princess Märtha Louise, upon whom I made one of my finer first impressions one frigid December morning, covered in sweat and sporting a wind-kissed nose after a long run around the lake.   Hardly the stuff of Henry James, whose novels rarely feature jogging scenes and are, in the opinion of this commentator, the worse for it. 

Au marché

 

Asparagus.  Sure, it's out of season here, and it makes your pee smell funny, but damn it if it isn't delicious grilled.  I've had markets on the mind lately, and am seriously considering paying a visit to Köln for that city's Christmas markets.  Any of my friends reading this are probably rolling their eyes, since I say the same thing every year, but I don't care.  They can, as the locals say in Köln, kiss my poopenfaarten.  That said, I'll probably end up staying in London, where there's no shortage of Christmas related commerce...and skating rinks.  Has anyone else noticed the superabundance of ice skating opportunities in the capital this year?  One can hardly find a London landmark unburdened by flailing Frenchmen on cheesecutters (those are what we call children's skates in Canada; pretty clever, right?), and it's getting a bit out of hand, particularly as England is hardly a country known for its winter sports.  There are outdoor rinks at the Natural History Museum, the London Eye, the Tower of London, Somerset House, Hampton Court, Canary Wharf, and Broadmoor, I mean Broadgate.  And those are just the ones I can think of off the top of my head.  There was a photo of a Yeoman Warder on skates in yesterday's paper, and he looked absolutely debonair as he glided  across the Tower of London's ice, his robes trailing in the breeze and his hands elegantly clasped behind his back as he surveyed the landscape.  Probably not the most effective guard against a daring daylight robbery of the Crown jewels, but nobody's tried that gag for ages, so I suppose he was quite right in not worrying.

Will any of you be lacing 'em up this winter?

The Velvet Fog

We've had a couple of foggy autumn days here in London, and the light on the Heath has been absolutely lurvely.  I witnessed this sort of pink-tinted vapour while I was out for a run yesterday -- sadly without a camera -- and by the time I made it back suitably armed, some of the magic had gone.  I did manage to make the above image in the waning light to give you a sense of what was going on atmospherewise. 

Trap Door

Many years ago today, way back in 1783, a highwayman called John Austin became the last person to be publicly strung up at the Tyburn gallows.  It’s hard to believe that the site of countless gruesome acts – including, by the way, Oliver Cromwell’s posthumous, yes posthumous, execution; they exhumed his body from Westminster Abbey and had it hanged, drawn and quartered – is now home to a more frivolous form of entertainment, shopping.  After all, the Tyburn tree used to stand at what’s now the junction of Edgware Road, Marble Arch and Oxford Street, and one would be hard-pressed to envision the frenzied scene of an execution day atop the current landscape.  I mention this in order to touch on the extent to which London is charged with the weight of history.  Virtually every quarter of the city has tales to tell, and even if you’re someone like me, who tends to prefer current stories to older ones, you’re unlikely to be immune from feeling a little mysterious tingle when you pass over ground steeped in the exertions of many past generations. 

Think about that the next time you pop into Selfridges, or walk through Middle Temple, or, better yet, the next time you go to a concert at the Barbican.  Imagine what the City of London looked like when Handel was in town, or Tallis, or Mozart, who, incidentally, lived on Frith Street for a while, in a corset maker’s house, and virtually across the street from what would later become Ronnie Scott’s, which I think Mozart would have enjoyed had he bothered to stick around for a spell, say 168 years or so.

Boo!

 
Halloween, when the graves yawn, ghouls tread the firmament, and children seek out candy with all the vigour of the Beaufort Hunt riding to hounds.  The holiday’s been popular for ages in the States, but has only recently taken hold in London, where it’s mostly manifest in scores of fancy dress parties, and who doesn’t like those?  I found myself at a few this weekend, including the chastely named Steamboat Bordello, which took place on a Thames ship that paddled its way gently down the stream from Tower Hill to the Barrier and back.  London’s enjoyed a burlesque renaissance of sorts over the past couple of years (some might say pseudo-burlesque), and a few of the scene’s performers were on board in order to spookify the evening.  They were joined by the Hot Club of Cowtown (who I first heard play in Middlebury, of all places, several years back), and the hugely popular MC/DJ duo, The Correspondents, who really rely more on energy than any kind of actual musical talent, but nevertheless put on a hell of a show, and when you’re floating down the river on a Sunday, surrounded by vampires, spectres, and blood smattered club kids, that’s all you really want.

It’s been brought to my attention that my blogging has been woefully nonexistent over the last little while, so I’ve resolved to be more conscientious in re. Nimble Tread.  My new year’s resolutions have never really come to much, but here’s hoping the November 2nd edition enjoys greater success.   

Have at 'em, chaps!

The 6th annual Chap Olympiad has come and gone, and I can tell you it was a humdinger.  Bedford Square was positively brimming with bounders and babes, all of whom appeared to be having a swell time.  If you haven't a clue what I'm talking about, and would like to steal a glimpse into the finest of worlds, pay a visit to this set I've created in my flickr account. 

Notes

Just a quick thumb in the direction of the Cambridge Early Music Concerts series and the Westminster Abbey Summer Organ Festival.  Two understated staples of the UK music scene.

Canada Day

It's the first of July, and you know what that means: Canada Day!  Hope everyone has a fun one.

Happy Birthday LTG

A view onto summer from one of my favourite spots in Cambridge.

Schloss Elmau

I've been thinking about paying a visit to Schloss Elmau in Bavaria for a couple of years now, and I'm sure I'll get around to it eventually.  For those of you who don't know, the Schloss is a resort between Garmisch and Mittenwald that offers a fairly high level of live music year round.  I've always fancied skiing to it in the winter, but thought I'd mention the place as a summer destination in case any of you are looking for something to do that doesn't involve Verbier or Verbier-like festivals.  Their full concert listing can be found here, and the offerings include performances from people like Isabelle Faust, Renaud Capucon, Nicholas Angelich, and Christian Tetzlaff's eponymous quartet.  Oh, and somewhat incongruously, Andreas Nohl will also be on hand to discuss his recent German translation of Tom Sawyer.   I think Mark Twain would have been fairly tickled by such a lecture, and it's too bad Nohl didn't undertake the work 130 years ago so that Twain could have actually attended the discussion and written about it in A Tramp Abroad.  Oh well.

Back in Time

I made my way over to the V&A yesterday for a workshop in Wet Plate Collodion photography conducted by the legendary (in certain circles) couple, France (Scully) and Mark Osterman.  It was a supremely interesting day, and I came away from it with a tin-type portrait of yours truly and the intention of taking up yet another time consuming pursuit.  It's amazing what a little ether, alcohol, silver nitrate, and cyanide will produce, and at some point I'll get around to starting the process and scanning some of the results.  In the meantime, why not pay a visit to the Osterman's website and, if you can, sign up for one of their workshops.  You'll learn a lot, no doubt about it.  If you'd like to pique your curiosity a bit, have a look at the documentary made about Sally Mann and her take on the world, titled What Remains: The Life and Work of Sally Mann.  Here's a preview:

Incidentally, there's a Sally Mann show titled From the Family and the Land on at the Photographer's Gallery that will run through to September 19th. 

Piotr the Hammer

I never realised Piotr Anderszewski was such a heavy-handed pianist, but then again, I've only ever heard him play on his own.  Placed side-by-side with Henning Kraggerud (one of my great favourites, as you all know by now), as he was at the Wigmore last night, he sounded a bit like a child having a temper tantrum, and I doubt that's the effect Janáček was going for when he sat down to write his violin sonata.  Henning's playing was, as it usually is, terrific, and full of all kinds of subtleties that were virtually drowned out by Anderszewski, and I found myself wishing they'd do us all a favour and put the piano to half stick.  No such luck, I'm afraid.  Incidentally, Kraggerud isn't exactly a retiring milksop where sound projection is concerned.  He produces some pretty significant volume, so it takes quite a lot to overpower him.  Anderszewski managed the trick, but I don't think he meant to, which is a sort of backwards way of saying he's not used to accompanying people.  He's a soloist by nature, and perhaps one accustomed to fronting orchestras in large concert halls where projection is of the essence.  I certainly never noticed any great defects in his playing when I've seen him perform concertos, or even when I've seen him on his own in smaller venues, and last night's concert's second piece, Szymanowski's Metopes for solo piano, was fairly pleasant to listen to, provided of course you like Szymanowki, which I half do.  There were a few moments in the first movement where I'd have sworn someone had tipped a box of dishes down a flight of stairs, but they were short-lived, and quickly supplanted by a nice sonic richness.  This was especially true of Anderszewski's playing in the second and third movements, where his big sound actually contributed to the music's character, and I began to suspect order had been restored to the proceedings.  It hadn't.  The last piece before the interval -- and the last one I stuck around for -- was Schumann's sumptuous Märchenbilder, which brought Kraggerud back on stage, viola in hand, to fight another round with Anderszewski.  He lost, and so did the rest of us.