Only effing Norman Lebrecht could describe Elliott carter's Cello Concerto as "phlegmatic." In his review of Alisa Weilerstein's recording, he plays the old saw that the performer is solely responsible for breathing life into a lifeless work — as if anyone could. Idiot. Charles Rosen liked to tell the story about the time he played "Night Fantasies" in Toronto. A critic who reviewed the performance hated the piece, Rosen said, and said any emotion in the piece was the result of the way Rosen played it. Rosen's comment on the episode is that one cannot put emotion into a work if it isn't there.
Why do we bother?
This morning I listened to Marvin Rosen's last broadcast of "Classical Discoveries Goes Avant-Garde," which only made me realize how much I'm going to miss it. Interestingly, he played nothing that I would call atonal, which is what I think of when I think of avant-garde. There was nothing from the Carter-Boulez-Babbitt school of composition, if it can be called a school — which is fine, I guess. As I've said, I don't need Marvin to get my fix of that sort of stuff, and he did widen my outlook a bit, even in his final moments on the air. Best pieces, from my point of view, were by Crumb, Cage, Takemitsu, and Terterian, who turned out to be the discovery of the day. I had not heard of him before. Marvin also programmed a 38-second waltz for guitar that Frank Zappa wrote when he was about sixteen. It was a student piece, with none of the brash creativity he became famous for.
And I have decided I can live without John Zorn. Clever, but what's the point?
Showing posts with label Marvin Rosen. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Marvin Rosen. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Monday, December 31, 2012
Marvin Rosen's 21st century marathon
I appeared on Marvin's Rosen's 21st century music marathon on Classical Discoveries Saturday morning. The mp3s of the entire 24 hour-show may be heard here. I show up in the 10:00 - 11:00 hour at about 42:00 minutes, right after a beautiful piece for contrabass flute and recorded whale song by Alex Shapiro. I talk too fast, and too high, and I repeat myself and say "kind of" too often, but at least I make all of the points I intended to make when I walked into the studio.
It was a beautiful winter day in Princeton, with snow falling and outlining the branches of the trees. After leaving WPRB I spent some time at the Princeton Record Exchange and the Labyrinth Bookstore (resisting the temptation to spend money at each). Then I returned to the station, where I met up with Marvin, his wife, Beate, and his other guests, the composers Christanne Lane and Daniel Dorff, and Daniel's significant other, Cindy Broz a flutist. We were all in the booth when Marvin signed off with a public service announcement about the dangers of sleep deprivation. At this point, he has been awake for about 34 hours.
He was more hungry than sleepy, however, and he wanted pasta. At his invitation, the six of us met up again at the Olive Garden on Route 1. I had the minestrone and the linguini marinara, and the portion was so large that I didn't have to eat again until noon the next day. Beate and Cindy carried the converstation while Marvin slowly collapsed into himself like an inflatable lawn ornament. For reasond known only to her, Beate insisted on intermittently taking photos of his deterioration. Perhaps she intends to embarrass him with them later.
In any case, I thank Marvin for having me on his show once again, and for agreeing to play Alisa Weilerstein's recording of the Cello Concerto.
Oh, and Happy New Year.
It was a beautiful winter day in Princeton, with snow falling and outlining the branches of the trees. After leaving WPRB I spent some time at the Princeton Record Exchange and the Labyrinth Bookstore (resisting the temptation to spend money at each). Then I returned to the station, where I met up with Marvin, his wife, Beate, and his other guests, the composers Christanne Lane and Daniel Dorff, and Daniel's significant other, Cindy Broz a flutist. We were all in the booth when Marvin signed off with a public service announcement about the dangers of sleep deprivation. At this point, he has been awake for about 34 hours.
He was more hungry than sleepy, however, and he wanted pasta. At his invitation, the six of us met up again at the Olive Garden on Route 1. I had the minestrone and the linguini marinara, and the portion was so large that I didn't have to eat again until noon the next day. Beate and Cindy carried the converstation while Marvin slowly collapsed into himself like an inflatable lawn ornament. For reasond known only to her, Beate insisted on intermittently taking photos of his deterioration. Perhaps she intends to embarrass him with them later.
In any case, I thank Marvin for having me on his show once again, and for agreeing to play Alisa Weilerstein's recording of the Cello Concerto.
Oh, and Happy New Year.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Once more into the breach
Hi, there:
It looks as though I'll be appearing again on Marvin Rosen's radio show on Saturday, Dec. 29. Marvin will be doing a 24-hour marathon on 21st-century music Dec. 28 and 29, and he's invited me on to introduce Alisa Weilerstein's wonderful new recording of Elliott Carter's Cello Concerto - written in 2001, so it qualifies as 21st-century. He is planning to play the piece about 10:30 a.m. I'll only be on for a few minutes. I'm told that during these marathons - scheduled to take advantage of the Christmas break, when all the student DJs are on vacation - Marvin invites previous guests of the show to drop by the studio to keep him company, and to keep him awake. His devotion to the cause of new music is boundless.
For those of you in the Princeton broadcast area, WPRB is at 103.3 on the FM dial. The rest of you may tune in at wprb.com. Marvin also archives his shows temporarily at classicaldiscoveries.org.
Or better yet, just buy the damned CD.
For those of you in the Princeton broadcast area, WPRB is at 103.3 on the FM dial. The rest of you may tune in at wprb.com. Marvin also archives his shows temporarily at classicaldiscoveries.org.
Or better yet, just buy the damned CD.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Ives's Fouth Symphony and Carter's Concerto for Orcehstra
As I said in my previous post, the time I spent of the air with Marvin Rosen July 25 went by very quickly — so quickly, indeed, that I did not have the opportunity to play all of the music I wanted. One of the pieces I cut before I even got to the studio was the second movement, the so-called "comedy," of Charles Ives's Symphony No. 4, which I wanted to contrast with Elliott Carter's Concerto for Orchestra. I have long thought that the latter would not have been feasible without the example of the former, even though Carter never mentions it in his list of inspirations for the piece.
To my ear, both pieces have a similar expressive arc, and they end in much the same way: all hell breaks loose and then things get very quiet, quickly in the case of the Ives, more gradually in the case of Carter. Although Ives completed his Fourth Symphony by the mid-1920s, more or less, and Eugene Goosens conducted the first two movements as early as 1927, a performance of the full work had to wait until 1965, when Stokowski led the premiere at Carnegie Hall. The famous first recording, still considered definitive, followed in a few months.
This was just a couple of years before Carter began to plan his Concerto for Orchestra. He certainly was familiar with the Ives, having attempted to edit the manuscript at one point, and with the Stokowski LP, and I insist that it was lurking somewhere in the back of his mind as he fulfilled his commission from the New York Philharmonic. To me, it is almost as though he set out to re-write Ives's symphony while eliminating what he always thought to be its flaws — first, the use of musical quotations, and, second, the muddied orchestrations in which some instruments are impossible to hear. One thing about Carter's music: as complex and multi-layered as it is, everything is audible. I floated my theory past one Carter expert who responded with what felt like an e-mailed shrug, but I stand by it. Not that it matters. The Concerto for Orchestra stands very much on its own.
To my ear, both pieces have a similar expressive arc, and they end in much the same way: all hell breaks loose and then things get very quiet, quickly in the case of the Ives, more gradually in the case of Carter. Although Ives completed his Fourth Symphony by the mid-1920s, more or less, and Eugene Goosens conducted the first two movements as early as 1927, a performance of the full work had to wait until 1965, when Stokowski led the premiere at Carnegie Hall. The famous first recording, still considered definitive, followed in a few months.
This was just a couple of years before Carter began to plan his Concerto for Orchestra. He certainly was familiar with the Ives, having attempted to edit the manuscript at one point, and with the Stokowski LP, and I insist that it was lurking somewhere in the back of his mind as he fulfilled his commission from the New York Philharmonic. To me, it is almost as though he set out to re-write Ives's symphony while eliminating what he always thought to be its flaws — first, the use of musical quotations, and, second, the muddied orchestrations in which some instruments are impossible to hear. One thing about Carter's music: as complex and multi-layered as it is, everything is audible. I floated my theory past one Carter expert who responded with what felt like an e-mailed shrug, but I stand by it. Not that it matters. The Concerto for Orchestra stands very much on its own.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Self-promotion department
There's still time to listen to my appearance on Marvin Rosen's program Classical Discoveries Goes Avant-Garde. The mp3 files will remain on Marvin's website until August 12.
Response to our all-Carter program has been limited, but uniformly positive. Some of my friends didn't care for the music, but they thought I did pretty well, which was a relief. I felt I stammered and repeated myself, and I had these visions of listeners sitting in their cars thinking, "Who is this goofball?"
Marvin said it had been a "great show," and, more inportant, so did his wife, Beata, who, I am told, is his most outspoken critic, one who would never say anything just to be nice. I want to her, too, for driving me from the Rosen house to the studio and back. Without her, I mostly likely would have been at least a half hour late to the show. I left my house in plenty of time, but, driving up Route 1, I missed my turn off and ended up a couple of townships away. Finally, when the trip odometer hit 40 miles — after Google Maps had assured me the journey from my home to the Rosens' was only 33 — I decided the time had come to turn around.
I walked into the studio with about eight minutes to spare. I was feeling frazzled and very foolish, but Marvin assured me we had plenty of time, and he was right. He loaded the first CD, and there was nothing left to do but sit and chat and load up on bottled water.
The WPRB studio is a seedy, poorly ventilated, trapezoidal room in the basement of Princeton's Bloomberg Hall. The window in front of the board looks out onto an empty elevator well and, beyond, a meandering white corridor. (During On Conversing With Paradise, I went out to use the men's room and followed the corridor to its dead end before going back. I'd missed the turn, as I had on Route 1. A pattern was developing.)
The board was compact, with a pair of turntables on one side and a stack of CD players on the other. There were two foam-shrouded microphones, mounted on swivel booms. I sat at the one on the right as we faced out the studio window. Marvin told me to speak up and keep my lips close to the mike. I actually didn't hear much of the music I had brought. Marvin and I spent much of the time going over what we would talk about during our next segment. He had a list of questions prepared, and he told me in advance what he was going to ask so there would be no unpleasant surprises. Near the end of the show, he said he wanted to ask what Carter was working on these days, and when I told him I didn't know, he said he would skip it. This was not gotcha journalism. He wanted me to be at ease.
The time on-air went by quickly — so quickly, indeed, that we didn't have time for all of the music I had wanted to play. I had hoped to finish up with Carter's Sonata for Flute, Oboe, Cello and Harpsichord, but by the time the Concerto for Orchestra was finished, we had only about eight or so minutes left. Fortunately, I had brought a couple of alternates. Marvin asked me a few parting questions, and we played the "Bariolage," a six-minute piece for solo harp, which took us right up to the end of the show.
The DJ with the time slot after Marvin's cut it even closer that I had. He arrived a minute or so late, while the station ID was still playing. For a while, Marvin thought he was going to have to stay on the air.
Marvin, Beata and I had a post-mortem lunch at a family-owned Mexican restaurant in Princeton. Then Marvin went to work at Westminster Choir College, and Beata gave me a tour of their house and garden. I thought I was a compulsive collector, but Marvin owns more than 15,000 CDs. They are everywhere, except for two small rooms — the kitchen and an upstairs office — where Beata forbids them. In the living, they are actually a theme of the interior decor, covering an entire wall. The place smelled pleasantly of fresh-cut wood, a symptom of the endless rows of IKEA shelves.
I haven't listened to the broadcas, by the way. If I want to hear it again, I can just replay the CDs on my home stereo and avoid all the commentary.
Response to our all-Carter program has been limited, but uniformly positive. Some of my friends didn't care for the music, but they thought I did pretty well, which was a relief. I felt I stammered and repeated myself, and I had these visions of listeners sitting in their cars thinking, "Who is this goofball?"
Marvin said it had been a "great show," and, more inportant, so did his wife, Beata, who, I am told, is his most outspoken critic, one who would never say anything just to be nice. I want to her, too, for driving me from the Rosen house to the studio and back. Without her, I mostly likely would have been at least a half hour late to the show. I left my house in plenty of time, but, driving up Route 1, I missed my turn off and ended up a couple of townships away. Finally, when the trip odometer hit 40 miles — after Google Maps had assured me the journey from my home to the Rosens' was only 33 — I decided the time had come to turn around.
I walked into the studio with about eight minutes to spare. I was feeling frazzled and very foolish, but Marvin assured me we had plenty of time, and he was right. He loaded the first CD, and there was nothing left to do but sit and chat and load up on bottled water.
The WPRB studio is a seedy, poorly ventilated, trapezoidal room in the basement of Princeton's Bloomberg Hall. The window in front of the board looks out onto an empty elevator well and, beyond, a meandering white corridor. (During On Conversing With Paradise, I went out to use the men's room and followed the corridor to its dead end before going back. I'd missed the turn, as I had on Route 1. A pattern was developing.)
The board was compact, with a pair of turntables on one side and a stack of CD players on the other. There were two foam-shrouded microphones, mounted on swivel booms. I sat at the one on the right as we faced out the studio window. Marvin told me to speak up and keep my lips close to the mike. I actually didn't hear much of the music I had brought. Marvin and I spent much of the time going over what we would talk about during our next segment. He had a list of questions prepared, and he told me in advance what he was going to ask so there would be no unpleasant surprises. Near the end of the show, he said he wanted to ask what Carter was working on these days, and when I told him I didn't know, he said he would skip it. This was not gotcha journalism. He wanted me to be at ease.
The time on-air went by quickly — so quickly, indeed, that we didn't have time for all of the music I had wanted to play. I had hoped to finish up with Carter's Sonata for Flute, Oboe, Cello and Harpsichord, but by the time the Concerto for Orchestra was finished, we had only about eight or so minutes left. Fortunately, I had brought a couple of alternates. Marvin asked me a few parting questions, and we played the "Bariolage," a six-minute piece for solo harp, which took us right up to the end of the show.
The DJ with the time slot after Marvin's cut it even closer that I had. He arrived a minute or so late, while the station ID was still playing. For a while, Marvin thought he was going to have to stay on the air.
Marvin, Beata and I had a post-mortem lunch at a family-owned Mexican restaurant in Princeton. Then Marvin went to work at Westminster Choir College, and Beata gave me a tour of their house and garden. I thought I was a compulsive collector, but Marvin owns more than 15,000 CDs. They are everywhere, except for two small rooms — the kitchen and an upstairs office — where Beata forbids them. In the living, they are actually a theme of the interior decor, covering an entire wall. The place smelled pleasantly of fresh-cut wood, a symptom of the endless rows of IKEA shelves.
I haven't listened to the broadcas, by the way. If I want to hear it again, I can just replay the CDs on my home stereo and avoid all the commentary.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Jury Duty
I was summoned to the Philadelphia court of common pleas yesterday to do my bit for the American system of justice. I've decided I actually like jury duty: It's a day off from work and a chance to read for a couple of hours and have lunch in town. What makes it especially pleasant is that I never get empaneled. I've made it to the voir dire stage three times, and I've been dismissed each time as soon as they learn that a) I work for a newspaper and b) my father was a Pennsylvania State Trooper. I've also grown fond of the court workers, esp. the women in Room 101 who line us up and assign us our juror numbers. They're friendly, funny and outgoing, they know how to work a crowd, and they try to make experience as pleasant as possible. My compliments, always.
The book I chose to take with me was waiting is the A.T. Hatto Penguin edition of The Nibelungenlied, the reading of which was inspired by the Met's performance of Götterdämmerung Saturday. I saw HD broadcast at the movies in the comapny of Renee, ted, Ed and Bruce, and I do intend to blog about it as soon as I get caught up at work.
I also want to write about my meeting with Mervin Rosen and Jennifer Castellano on Feb. 7, but that, too, will have to wait a little while.
The book I chose to take with me was waiting is the A.T. Hatto Penguin edition of The Nibelungenlied, the reading of which was inspired by the Met's performance of Götterdämmerung Saturday. I saw HD broadcast at the movies in the comapny of Renee, ted, Ed and Bruce, and I do intend to blog about it as soon as I get caught up at work.
I also want to write about my meeting with Mervin Rosen and Jennifer Castellano on Feb. 7, but that, too, will have to wait a little while.
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