The Greatest Review You've Ever Read?

We here at the Detritus have come to learn that great music is great because it's aesthetically and technically stunning, makes money, makes people happy, is liked by more than 216 people, can run 40 yards in 4.2 seconds, and is written by someone famous and dead.

However, these common criteria leave out, arguably, the most important factor...what's in here. [I'm pointing to my gut]

Concert review: Blomstedt, PSO create a Brahms experience
Andrew Druckenbrod, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, April 09, 2011

We spend an inordinate amount of time trying to define greatness,…

So true. And from what I can tell, it's pretty much an exact science nowadays...

Like when Mel Kiper said of JaMarcus Russell, "Three years from now you could be looking at a guy that's certainly one of the elite top five quarterbacks in this league. Look out because the skill level that he has is certainly John Elway-like."

figure greatest JaMarcus: The epitome of spending an inordinate amount of time defining greatness.

JaMarcus Russell is one of the greatest quarterbacks ever, right?

…and classical music is particularly obsessed with it.

Well, when you only listen to the same 10 or 15 composers who all died over 100 years ago, might as well rank them between sessions of masturbating over which conductor's phrasing of Mahler 4 was ejaculatory enough.

Was that harsh? It felt harsh. Anywho...

But so often it is a debate made away from the music in question…

What do you mean “away”?

… -- in a coffee shop or a classroom, in an article or a book.

And you prefer that debate be made inside the music? Words are my tool of choice when I wish to communicate specific thoughts and ideas. Do you want me to make an argument that Beethoven's music is great with music? I’m not sure I follow.

But what role does experience play?

I’m going to guess that most of the people debating this have experienced classical music before. No?

So Mr. Smarty-pants, how do you define greatness in music?

As of late I have come to define greatness in music as any composition or song that, when listening to it, seems the best work I have ever heard.

Like I said, defining greatness is pretty much down to science these days.

When I am listening to a Beethoven Symphony, I can't imagine another that's "better."

I’m not sure you’re actually familiar with the concept of a definition.

But now that I think about it, our imaginations should be the first criterion for any good definition of the greatness of music.

Same with Chopin's nocturnes and Wagner's operas, Schubert's lieder or Radiohead's albums.

Radiohead does make the best Radiohead albums…although Muse releases pretty good Radiohead albums, too.

No wait...neither of them releases very good Radiohead albums.

But, hey, wait a minute.

What if I can’t imagine a better piece, but I feel like there must be one. Is it necessarily so that imagination is greater than feelings?

I don’t know, because I imagine that you have no idea what you’re talking about, but my gut feeling is that you’re absolutely right.

figure greatest method of transportation: I can't imagine a more seaworthy vessel.

Never mind…

[snip]

Moving along, Brahms' First Symphony was on the program (clearly the greatest symphony ever), as was his First Piano Concerto...

I am happy to report that pianist Garrick Ohlsson is human.

This was in doubt?

He missed a note in his brilliant performance of the First Piano Concerto,...

I really hoped you pointed this out to him after the concert. However, in his defense...

figure concerto: Garrick Ohlsson won't let a little thing like the greatest piano concerto ever get in the way of sweet, sweet vengeance.

…and it actually made me appreciate his amazing virtuosity all the more.

That's exactly how I feel about JaMarcus Russell.

You just had to be there.

Exactly. How else could you experience imagining this was the greatest music ever?

figure greatest present: I can't imagine a more innocent looking gift. How thoughtful.

Symphony Saves Civilization from Complete Collapse!

In 1972, a crack commando unit was sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn't commit. These men and women promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Minneapolis underground. Today, still wanted by the government they survive as musicians of fortune. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find them....maybe you can hire The Minnesota Orchestra.

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Times are tough. Socialists are taking over the country, and people, against all logic, continue to insist that Tom Bergeron is funny. I think we've all thought that culture was burning to the ground, and civilization was teetering on the brink of complete collapse at some point during our daily routines. For me, it's during The View, and every time the Duggars have another kid.

But sure enough, at the end of each day I still sit down and watch high quality entertainment, like Dancing with the Stars and The Real Housewives of New Jersey, that reassures me that society and culture are doing just fine. For now...

But, if you're like me, you never give a second thought to the brave men and women who risk their lives 3 nights a week, and often a Sunday matinee as well, to keep culture safe. Here is their story.

Skrowaczewski is enduring, vital and free of artificiality
Larry Fuchsberg, Star Tribune, October 21, 2010

Free of artificiality? Hey, just like Snapple. Is Skrowaczewski made from the best stuff on earth, too?

Stanislaw Skrowaczewski, who this week makes his annual appearance with the Minnesota Orchestra, can seem to belong to another age.

He is indeed a Spalding Gray in a Rick Dees world.

Although, I imagine you probably mean 'era'. Whatever.

(Don't ask him what's on his iPod.)

Whoa. Who said anything about asking him what's on his iPod? I'm not some sort of animal.

But now that you bring it up, why shouldn't we ask? You know it sounds very suspicious to just bring that up out of the blue like that. What's he hiding on that iPod anyway? Is that he really loves Lady Gaga and Miley Cyrus, or that he doesn't?!

Or gasp, does he not even own an iPod! How could that be? Doesn't he know that once something becomes popular, you must partake or civilization will collapse. And conversely, that our culture burns to the ground even faster through the advent of technology which replaces traditional values!

If I'm reading you right, and I'm certain I am, you're suggesting that we're all going to die, right?

But I've gotten ahead of myself.

The Minnesota-based composer/conductor, who celebrated his 87th birthday this month, has led the orchestra in each of the past 51 seasons, overtaking Willem Mengelberg and Amsterdam's Concertgebouw Orchestra, the previous record holders.

Consecutive seasons streak? And the experts said that Mendgelberg's record would never be broken.

Although, count me among the people who think Skrowaczewski's record should have an asterisk, given the extra 8 concerts added to schedule in 1979.

But the years haven't dimmed his musicianship or his message.

It's not the years, it's the mileage.

He is an artist of utter seriousness, with little time for fluff;...

figure fluff: Who doesn't have time for fluff...especially with peanut butter for the classic Fluffernutter sandwich?

So, this Skrowaczewski sounds like a pretty busy guy. No fluff, but what about entertainment or relaxation?

...if you're seeking entertainment or relaxation, look elsewhere.

What an incredibly odd thing to say. He's guest conducting the Minneapolis Symphony not saving civilization from the brink of collapse. Geez.

For Skrowaczewski, if I'm hearing him right, our civilization is on the brink, our culture is burning and musicians are called to bear witness (and, if possible, to douse the flames).

Oh.

Just going to throw this out there, but...you're not hearing him right.

However, it's a good thing the music appreciation course I took in college had me read How to Survive the Collapse of Civilization.

figure guide: It's so important to be able to find low-cost solutions, because money will be even more valuable after civilization collapses.

His music-making has taken on something of the life-and-death urgency one hears in the wartime recordings of conductor Wilhelm Furtwängler, or in Stalin-era recordings of music by Shostakovich.

Life-and-death urgency, huh? Really? I guess most things at 87 have a life-and-death urgency to them.

And with civilization hanging precariously in the balance, urgency seems like the way to go.

I am hesitant to interrupt further lest the communists were to invade. So which works did Skrowaczewski call upon to save humanity? I assume Beethoven...but I'm thinking, maybe some Brahms too. Schumann, of course, would be right out.

Skrowaczewski's current program, thoroughly characteristic of the man, frames his 1995 "Passacaglia immaginaria," in a new revision,...

Interesting call. Saving culture with a performance of one of his own works.

It's ballsy to be sure, but I'd like to see where he's going with this.

...with major works by Beethoven ("Leonore" Overture No. 2) and Brahms (Symphony No. 1).

No two better composers to fight the specters of evil.

It may not be an accident that all three pieces were reworked after their premieres.

But it could be, right?

I wouldn't want to mistakenly attribute this programming thread to the concert, and possibly allow civilization to smolder to the ground. That would be most non-triumphant.

"Passacaglia immaginaria," in Skrowaczewski's words, rises to a "terrifying climax," which is followed by feelings of "desperation" and "desolation."

So, this is more a piece for after the fall of civilization?

figure Minnesota Orchestra: The Minnesota Orchestra: musicians; scientists. Searching for a way to tap into the hidden music that all humans have. Then an accidental overdose of gamma radiation alters their body chemistry. And now when the Minnesota Orchestra (as conducted by Stanislaw Skrowaczewski) plays Brahms or Beethoven, a startling metamorphosis occurs. The orchestra is driven by rage to save civilization and douse the flames burning our culture, and are pursued by an investigative reporter, Larry Fuchsberg.

His description is apt.

Glad to hear it. Apt descriptions are often appropriate.

Like his benignly titled but deeply tragic "Music for Winds," premiered in February, the piece offers no false comfort.

I don't know, with civilization about to collapse, I could probably go for some false comfort (and maybe a fluffernutter sandwich as well -- surviving collapsing societies does work up an appetite).

Drawing on a vast palette of instrumental colors, the composer conjures sounds that range from eerie to spasmodic.

That actually doesn't sound too big a range. I would have gone with "...from apparitional to zesty" for that nice A to Z effect.

The tone is often anguished; the ending -- celesta floating over quiet strings -- is inconclusive, yet somehow wrenching.

I don't know what that means, but it sounds apparitional.

But with an inconclusive ending, perhaps civilization still has a chance.

Numeral notwithstanding, "Leonore No. 2" was the first (and longest) of the four overtures Beethoven wrote for the opera ultimately known as "Fidelio." Skrowaczewski's conducting, a mix of angularity and grace, balanced the music's classic and romantic elements;...

Just guessing here, but angular=classical and grace=romantic?

...the climactic surge was breathtaking.

Breathtaking, huh?

figure breathtaking: Maybe he just said it because the conductor was in the room.

But what about civilization?!

In Thursday's account, the Brahms was a drama of ideas,...

This account was a "drama of ideas"? Oh, how I wish I knew what that meant...but I must say it does sound impressive.

I guess if Skrowaczewski is going to save civilization from burning to the ground, it's going to take a few ideas here and there. Even if they were Brahms' ideas...or maybe they were Skrowaczewski's, that's not entirely clear.

So which ideas were necessary to save culture?

...with tempos slightly more deliberate than the norm...

Yes, I like it. Deliberate tempos...the villains of culture will surely find no answer to that. A good start to be sure!

...and unusual weight given to the middle movements.

Brilliant. Unusual weight to the inner movements. I'm not sure how one redistributes weights in an already completed symphony, but with civilization on the line, it does sound like the right call.

The closing pages of the Andante, with their veiled reference to Wagner's "Tristan," have never been more moving;...

Wagner?! Which side of this battle for civilization on you on? Everyone knows that Brahms' First Symphony is an homage to Beethoven and, by the laws of music criticism, can be nothing more.

Plus, as is often the argument, Brahms' orchestral music was reactionary to the likes of the Wagner with his emphatic use of the four-movement symphonic structure and rigid sonata forms.

...the wonderful "calando" section of the finale (in which, as one writer puts it, the music seems to experience "a blissful death") made me shiver.

And...?! What happened to civilization?!

figure collapse: It turns out that all civilization is just an effort to impress the opposite sex.

-----------------------------------

Wait, did we ever discover why Skrowaczewski thinks culture is burning to the ground? And just how Brahms is going to douse the flames?

No matter. Stupid Gustav! When will you learn that music criticism speaks in poetic non-arguments. So, for no other reason than because this music review said so, I must say thank you Skrowaczewski for saving civilization. Good form, old chap. Good form indeed!

Next time I enjoy an episode of the delightfully funny Two and a Half Men, with that rascally scamp Charlie Sheen, I'll say a little prayer in your honor.

figure sheen: Really, what more could you ask from culture? Keep up the good work!

Friday Quckie: Brahms' music was indeed intellectual

I do realize that most critics are not theorists or musicologists, and from time to time their reviews may call for such considerations. They may be forgiven if their comments aren't always one hundred percent accurate. However, we here at the Detritus just have to say..."wait, what?"

Review: West Michigan Symphony gets season off to fiery start
Laura Alexandria, The Muskegon Chronicle, September 25, 2010

The final selection, Johannes Brahms' (1833-1897) Symphony No. 4 in Eminor [sic], was described by Speck as "intellectual" and "lavish," and indeed that is what it was.

I just love this confirmation by the critic of the conductor's pre-performance talk:

Yeah, he described this Brahms Symphony -- pssh -- as "intellectual", but I had to hear it first to be sure. Who ever heard of this Brahms character anyway? I'm not one of those rubber stamp critics you know...up here in Western Michigan, we demand results!

Actually, I'm sure it's a completely innocent statement. But a little editing would have revealed how that last remark is really completely unnecessary.

Moving on. Tell us more about the music of this Brahms fellow.

Although not melodic, Brahms' music is a balance between technique and expression,...

Yes, yes. Balance of technique and expression, not melodic and...wait. ...

What?!

Brahms' music is not melodic?! Are you sure?

I mean, I've heard of a lot of Brahms' music before, and I've also heard quite a few melodies.

I guess I don't know what you mean. Are you suggesting that Brahms' music doesn't contain groupings of pitches arranged in a linear progression? Is the Fourth Symphony nothing more than homophony?

Oh, perhaps you're using the term "melodic" in the most idiotic sense of the word, to mean 'a hummable tune'. Please say that isn't so.

But if it is so, is there anyone out there who can't hum the opening theme to Brahms' Fourth Symphony? To any of the movements really.

Even 70's prog-rock band, Yes, thinks the Fourth Symphony has a melody.

But I interrupted you, perhaps the rest of your sentence will clarify this unsubstantiated claim.

...and the symphony delivered on the classical form, the dynamic range, and some lovely woodwind passages in the second movement.

Whew! The four movement structure of the piece was in doubt until the West Michigan Symphony came along. Thanks, guys!

Titanium Tetrachloride

As if things weren’t already tempestuous in Oakland, Cheryl North, too, had to get in on the action:

The Oakland East Bay Symphony's upcoming concert, dubbed by its organizers "A Global Celebration," almost can serve as a metaphor for our national identity, as exemplified in the motto E pluribus unum.

“In the motto,” “by the motto.” Let’s call this whole mess, well, off. Shall we?

How can the concert almost serve as a metaphor? It’s either symbolic of national identity or not. Can something be almost symbolic? BART officer one: “Wait. We shouldn’t shoot unarmed people.”

BART officer two: “Don’t worry. It’s only almost a metaphor for unnecessary force.”

What really makes my skin crawl is, perhaps, that Cheryl knew her attempt at a metaphor was flawed, decided to leave it in anyway, but made sure to hedge a little bit.

I mean, here’s the concert lineup: Copland’s Appalachian Spring, a newly commissioned Cello Concerto by Nolan Gasser, and the totally non-global Third Symphony by Brahms. Is that not the picture of standard orchestral fair?

To their credit, Gasser’s work utilizes three unusual instruments:











Fig. 1. Erhu









Fig. 2. Sarangi













Fig. 3. Oud

But relegated to subsidiary roles (remember, it’s a cello concerto), these instruments and their players are the only ties to the title, “A Global Celebration.” This is like to wearing all black on St. Patrick’s Day with the exception of one little green tag on your underwear, which is invisible to those who’ll punch you for not being more celebratory.

But really, is this uninventive program what the Oakland East Bay Symphony is earnestly trying to pass off as “A Global Celebration?”

Does anyone else feel duped?













Fig. 4. Global Celebration in Oakland
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Mini Take Home Quiz, #1: All-Brahms

Name:__________________________
Date:___________________________

Take Home Quiz, #1: All-Brahms (50 pts. possible)

Part I. Multiple choice (5 pts. each)

Given the following quotes, correctly identify the person(s), thing(s) being described. (Circle one)

1. In the opening "Tragic" Overture, ______ led a well-paced performance of exuberant intensity, drawing a richly textured sound from the strings, especially the dusky violas.

a) Virginia Allen
b) JoAnn Falletta
c) Marin Alsop
d) Who knows? That could describe anyone.

2. [In the Violin Concerto] ______ managed the feat of communicating equally well with the audience and the orchestra.

a) Leila Josefowicz
b) Nikolaj Znaider
c) Scholmo Mintz
d) Again, who knows?

3. ______ once observed that the work is "a concerto for violin against orchestra -- and the violin wins."

a) Bronislaw Huberman
b) Leopold Auer
c) Joseph Joachim
d) Instead of saying “someone,” which the author did, it sure would’ve been nice to waste one extra word to cite the source.

4. Yet [the violinist’s] ______ became an integral part of his muscular interpretation.

a) sweating
b) cackling
c) grunting
d) any gerund will do


Part II. True or False (5 pts. each)

Indicate whether or not the following statements are True or False. (circle one)

5. Los Angeles has many nicknames. “Southland” is one of them.

True/ False

6. The opening sections of Brahms’ Violin Concerto summon the genial ghost of Fritz Kriesler.

True /False

7. An overly searching account of Brahms’ First Symphony, with its constantly shifting landscapes of darkness and light, can easily turn fussy and overblown.

True /False

8. If one conducts the “Tragic” Overture and the First Symphony from memory, then it is wise to utilize a score for the Violin Concerto.

True/False


Part III. Fill In the Blank (5 pts. each)

9. And though [the conductor’s] concentrated attention on [the] soloist occasionally made [his/her] reading sound a bit too ______, the orchestra's momentum never flagged.

10. An overly ______ account of [the First Symphony] [...]can easily turn fussy and overblown.


Extra Credit:

Name the person in the photograph.











Answers: (1) C: Marin Alsop; (2) B: Nikolaj Znaider; (3) A: Bronislaw Huberman (only after a bit of research); (4) D: any gerund will do (the author actually used, “striving”); (5) True—according to the Los Angeles Almanac, “it is commonly used by Los Angeles radio and television media to refer to their broadcast market...”; (6) True—according only to the author; (7) False, because that’s just stupid; (8) Trick question—the answer is: “how can one make that judgment from the audience?”; (9) Careful—we all know that too much concentrated attention tends to screw with momentum; (10) Searching—I gave you the answer in #7; and it’s still stupid (if you got this question wrong, you fail); (Extra Credit) a young Bronislaw Huberman.
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Mad Libations

Here’s the latest Detritus Review Mad Lib™, brought to you by the NY Times’ Anthony Tommasini, who may have been a little adjective drunk.

Directions: (First of all, humor me and read the excerpt below with the missing adjectives...I know, right? Though I have to admit, if you substitute "blank" for the missing adjectives, a nice rhythmic non-pattern emerges. I digress.) Arrange the extracted adjectives into their appropriate positions. Good luck!

Angelic
Brisk
Demonic
Earthy
Ghostly
Reckless
Ruminative
Rustic
Slow
Sustained

In the ______ movement he brought such ______ richness to the ______ melodic lines that the music seemed at once ______ and ______. And the finale, taken at a ______ but never ______ tempo, was ______ and ______, though always threatening to turn ______.

Whew! That was fun, wasn’t it? How’d you do? ALL RIGHT!
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Goldilocks

Just in case you forgot the nursery story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, the moral is, “Don’t fuck with other people’s belongings or they’ll kill you.” In a more modern version, Grandpa Joe and Charlie sully Willy Wonka’s sterile Fizzy Lifting Drink room, causing, presumably, a halt in production and research. Thus, Charlie forfeits any forthcoming prizes and looks like an asshole in the process.

Well, similarly, critical language is far from perfect (i.e., hot/cold porridge), so don’t mess with the cinnamon (spices) right away, or the Detritus Review will kill you, or lambaste you, or make you take a bath, or refuse to have Oompa-Loompas sing you a parting song—I forget which.

Well, it was a very hot night — the hottest this summer — so maybe that's why I felt like...

a) a melting popsicle.
b) a plump portabella on the grill.
c) a temperature-sensitive Goldilocks tasting her three bowls of porridge.

Weeeee!

The first try, Vitezslav Novák's Trio for Violin, Cello and Piano in D minor, was too hot.

Is hot inherently bad? I know some very astute Riftia pachyptila who would argue the opposite.

Novák piles on the Eastern European folk-angst, much in the manner of his compatriots Dvorák (who was far better at it)...

That’s hard thing to substantiate: Novák’s folk-angst is lesser than Dvorák’s. Though, I’m still not sure that constitutes a “hot” piece.

...and Smetana, whose Trio in G minor was performed to a standing ovation the Wednesday night prior.

Now, the Smetana, on the other hand, definitely sounds “hot.” Right? Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t “hot,” when used to describe a piece or performance, usually a positive thing?

What a weird construction, so far. Not receiving a standing ovation and having less folk-angst means “hot.”

In fact, Novák's Trio sounds like a lesser version of Smetana's — a resemblance that was further underscored by two of the players being the same, violinist Scott Yoo and pianist Andrew Armstrong.

See? Talking about music is already a difficult thing. Why mess it up with a lame simile?

“The players being the same?” That could just about mean anything. Or nothing. Nothing sounds cold to me. It also sounds like a lack of vocabulary. But whatever.

The second try, Beethoven's Quintet in C Major, was too cold — at least for the first half.

This ought to be good.

Violinists Erin Keefe and Joseph Lin, violists Che-Yen Chen and Richard O'Neill, and cellist Amit Peled seemed to be keeping the music at arm's length during the first and second movements, being careful but never really coalescing in spirit. Fortunately, Beethoven's intellectualizing falls away in the rollicking third movement, and the players began to have more fun.

I have heard, roundabout, that intellectualism is cold. So, in some strange intuitive world, one where reason has been long abandoned in favor of feelings that have no descriptors, the “cold” simile is apt.

What I find untenable, is that Beethoven’s Quintet was described as “too cold,” when the thrid movement was, according to the normal usage of “hot,” hot. Combine the three movements and you get what? That’s right! Tepid!

Tepid is not cold, nor hot.

...after [the opening of the finale], all the players seemed to come alive, joyfully weaving in and out of each other in kaleidoscopic patterns.

Here’s three pictures of kaleidoscopic patterns. I’ll leave it to you to imagine them weaving in and out of each other joyfully.















































That must mean, OMG, that the last piece was juuuust riiiiight. Right?

The piece that was just right — Brahms' Trio for Violin, Cello and Piano in B Major — is such a ravishingly gorgeous work that it seems impossible to play badly.

Reflexive translation: Goldilocks borrows someone else’s porridge without asking.
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The Boy Who Cried Wolf

Aside from the rather threadbare simile between the concert and Goldilocks, Sumi Hahn wrote a nice review. Only, the language Sumi used was lazily appropriated from almost every review ever. It was over-inflated to the point where it lost its effectiveness.

Case in point:

Brahms' Trio for Violin, Cello and Piano in B Major [...] is such a ravishingly gorgeous work that it seems impossible to play badly.

Any lawyers out there? It’s my guess that this statement would not hold up in a court of law. It’s pure exaggeration. Hyperbole. It says nothing about the piece. It just inflates it like a balloon.

From the languid opening caress of the piano and cello...

Barf.

...the hushed cathedral majesty of the Adagio...

Barf.

...and the anxiously attractive finale, this piece swells with the very best kind of Romantic fervor.

Instead of wasting time with the Goldilocks simile, it might have been in Sumi’s best interest to explain what the best kind of romanticism might look like, then prove it without the gaudy descriptors. That would be interesting, to me. And informative. Also, if done well, it could have been just as colorful.

The point being, poetry got in the way of the tasks at hand: reviewing, appraising and describing. Not that there isn’t room for style; it can be done. Just check out the handful of critics we don’t review here.

[...] the music bloomed rapturously on that hot night.

The review ballooned rapturously, too. Is this a concert or an orgasm?

That memory might be enough to keep me going until next summer's festival.

Obviously, I’m not going to take this literally. But, since Sumi isn’t talking about the number of calories in fast food, I don’t believe it. Not in the least. Look. If you, someone who loves music, can go an entire year without listening to another piece, going to another concert or simply humming a tune other than what you heard at this particular festival’s concert and still be musically satisfied, then damn, it must have been that good. Unfortunately, no, you can’t. And no, it wasn’t.

So I’ll just call it gross exaggeration.

I mean, I can understand the “whole being greater than the sum of its parts” sort of Gestalt, but I’ve never understood the “whole being three-hundred and sixty-five times greater than one of its parts, which happened to be the only part that I really liked, because I went through an entire Goldilocks simile to arrive at this conclusion” type of unnecessarily grandiose overstatement. Barf.

Look. Based on the review, this is what I could expect if I were to go to a repeat performance of this concert:

1) A concert “studded with star turns.”
2) Lots of “luster.”
3) “A ravishingly gorgeous work that [...] seems impossible to play badly.
4) A “languid opening caress of the piano and cello.”
5) Some “hushed cathedral majesty.”
6) An “anxiously attractive finale.”
7) “The very best kind of Romantic fervor.”
8) “Music [blooming] rapturously.
9) And a memory that “might be enough to keep me going until next summer's festival.”

Really. If these concerts are all so goddamned, unbelievably good—better than multiple orgasms while feasting on chocolate-dipped fried chicken with an I.V. of fifteen year-old Laphroaig—then why haven’t more people caught on by now? Because they’re only concerts, for crying out loud! And if they’re only concerts, then why must the language always, always suggest so much luxuriant and rich other-worldly experiences?

Won’t it always be a disappointment for the reader who then goes to see and hear these pieces/concerts/performers?

Here’s some food for thought:

A shepherd-boy, who watched a flock of sheep near a village, brought out the villagers three or four times by crying out, "Wolf! Wolf!" and when his neighbors came to help him, laughed at them for their pains.

The Wolf, however, did truly come at last. The Shepherd-boy, now really alarmed, shouted in an agony of terror: "Pray, do come and help me; the Wolf is killing the sheep"; but no one paid any heed to his cries, nor rendered any assistance. The Wolf, having no cause of fear, at his leisure lacerated or destroyed the whole flock.

There is no believing a liar, even when he speaks the truth.

Call me skeptical, but I have a sneaking suspicion that the whole “elitist” or “anti-elitist” problem (or call it whatever you want—our culture’s negative perception of classical music) stems from this kind of disproportionate language that’s been floating around for ages. In a time that arguably has been breaking-down hierarchies of all kinds, our description of classical music is dependent upon these very cries of “Wolf!” because that’s all we know. But still, they’re only concerts and it’s only music, after all.
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Disambiguation

I really only have issues with two sentences, but in fairness to Charles Ward of the Houston Chronicle (who does an otherwise fine job) I’ll let his context breathe. To wit:

Beethoven heads to the country at Dollar concert

The Houston Chronicle Dollar Concert is a long-standing tradition that, hopefully, introduces new listeners to the Houston Symphony.

That is outstanding, and an admirable goal! Huzzah!

Fittingly, the best playing this year came in the program's major orchestral work: Ludwig van Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony.

I don’t know why that’s fitting, but...sure. Fine.

Sunday's concert was sold-out but Jones Hall wasn't packed (no-shows being another long-standing Houston tradition). The audience was a pleasing mix of young students, families (with a couple, mandatory squalling kids), and at least one man lured there under some sort of pretences.

Sold-out? Sold out? Not sure about the hyphen usage, I could be wrong. Also: “a couple, mandatory squalling kids”? That seems...like strange comma usage. Surely one of our grammar-loving readers will set me straight.

He grumpily left during the concerto — Edouard Lalo's, for cello, with the winner of the orchestra's 2008 concerto competition — and was sitting a table waiting to yell, "Can we go now?" as his companion left the auditorium at intermission.

That is one odd-ass sentence disambiguating the concerto between m-dashes in the middle of describing the unhappy patron. But let’s chalk it up to style, eh? Great.

Grant Llewellyn, music director of the North Carolina Symphony and the 193-year-old Handel and Haydn Society of Boston, was the conductor. He and the orchestra clicked very well on Beethoven's Symphony No. 6.

Not “Handel-and-Haydn Society”? Heh. Just playin’.

Beethoven, the revered giant of 19th-century composers,

Really? That Beethoven? Not Camper Van Beethoven?



Really?! Oh. If ever a composer did not need disambiguation...

may have legitimized so-called "program music" for them. At the time of its premiere, the Pastoral Symphony was highly unusual for its overt reference to events external to the music.

What? For whom? Let’s take another look:

Beethoven, the revered giant of 19th-century composers, may have legitimized so-called "program music" for them. At the time of its premiere, the Pastoral Symphony was highly unusual for its overt reference to events external to the music.

For whom did Beethoven legitimize so-called “program music”? 19th century composers? The Handel and Haydn Society? The pissed-off patron who left during the concerto—Lalo’s, for cello, with the winner of the concerto competition? I am baffled.

The outer movements addressed feelings — cheerful ones after arriving in the country and grateful ones after a thunderstorm — while the other three were pictorial. The most famous was the brief thunderstorm, in which Llewellyn and the musicians managed to provide a pretty fearsome clap of thunder. The performance was utterly charming and seldom overstressed (mostly in the biggest moments when players forgot to lighten up a bit). The gurgling brooks, the peasant dancing, and the elevated sense of gratefulness in the last movement were beautifully laid out. A staple of the orchestra repertoire was once more fresh.

Nicely put, sir. What else?

The soloist in the Lalo concerto was Laszlo Mezo-Arruda, first-place winner of the 2008 Ima Hogg National Young Artist Competition.

I really had to look up “Ima Hogg” to avoid making cheap jokes at her expense. Turns out she was a famous Texas musician!


According to her Wikipedia entry (and I never would have guessed this) while her father was governor of Texas they lived in the Governor’s Mansion! Who knew?

His best playing came in the slow sections of the middle movement (of three). He brought a quiet elegance to lyrical melodies that become very beguiling. Elsewhere, the playing was too much by-the-note and plagued with intermittently loose intonation.

Brought...become? Became? But nicely phrased.

Llewellyn and the orchestra began the evening with Johannes Brahms' Academic Festival Overture. From the start, Llewellyn urged the musicians to play with urgency and intensity. The opening moments thus had a hushed sense of intrigue that gave way to the overture's main point: celebrating Brahms' receiving an honorary doctor degree with a potpourri of high-spirited student songs, at least one perhaps urging a swig or two at the local pub.

That is an hilarious conjecture!

Brahms is known for his intellectually and emotionally elevated exploration of traditional forms of classical music but Sunday's spirited performance of the overture left a burning question unanswered: Was Brahms a party animal at heart?

But...you turned your hilarious conjecture into the...parting shot in your review? After all of that wonderful descriptive language, you're leaving us with "Was Brahms a party animal..?"?

Why?

Unrequited Italics

Italics mine.

Some people will tell you that music, especially orchestral music, is an objective thing: It doesn't exist beyond the notes, which simply are to be played as the composer instructed.

Everything else [according to “some people”] - the emotions, the supposed story line of a given piece - is your own projection onto the music.

Well, yes. Unless the writing is on the wall, it’s your interpretation, your projection. It’s difficult to work your way around it. Structural signposts or other cultural tropes may contain associations, but, then again, linking those associations is, in my opinion, hard to do, let alone justifying a correct interpretation of concrete meanings, intents, purposes, narratives. Therefore, without help, you’re doomed to project yourself onto the music.

Besides, that’s silly. It’s also about context. “Music” is a pretty broad topic. I’d like to know who said that so I can show “some people” how that statement doesn’t really say anything, especially in a vacuum. I mean it can be true and, on the other hand, it can be false depending on the context in which it is said. So, I’ll leave it to Richard Scheinin to provide us with some context.

Well, if you actually believed that while going into Davies Symphony Hall on Thursday, you probably would have abandoned the theory by the time you left. Because soloist Yefim Bronfman's soul-stirring account of Brahms' Piano Concerto No. 1 in D minor was one in which he stepped into the shoes of the composer, young Brahms, grappling with his impossible love for a woman, and played that role for about 50 monumental minutes, an actor on the stage, with the San Francisco Symphony, led by Michael Tilson Thomas, as his consoling Greek chorus. [*]

At least that's how I heard it. [Italics still mine]

I just hope that the whole beginning was an attempt at humor. Otherwise, I’d have to stop laughing and strap on my Empiricus Hard-helmet™.

If we’re going to contradict ourselves by acknowledging that the performance was, at best, your interpretation (“that’s how I heard it”), you might as well give up and call it a day, go outside, sit down in the hot sun, and think, nay meditate, about your transgression of logic. Be sure to wear some sun screen and drink plenty of fluids. If, however, you can manage to better articulate your argument and show us why your interpretation was justified (by “justified” I mean: not your projection onto the music), please, go ahead. Bets, anyone?

In those years, Brahms drew close to Robert Schumann, the composer, and his wife Clara Schumann, the pianist and composer, adopting them as mentors and surrogate parents, but also wildly falling for Clara, 15 years his senior, fighting his passions for her (as she did for him), even while grieving for Robert, who descended through madness and institutionalization to his death.

That's the story line, [...]

(securely fastens the strap on the Empiricus Hard-helmet™)

Oh boy. That is not the “story line” of Brahms’ piano concerto. There’s no way. What proof is there? Am I crazy?

Just to show that I’m not entirely off my rocker, I will acknowledge a few things. There is some truth to the story. Brahms probably loved Clara; though no one knows whether or not the relationship was ever physically consummated. Also, the slow, middle movement of the concerto may even be a musical portrait of Clara (where I found this tidbit of information is now lost; and Wikipedia is no help nor is it exactly reliable).

So there may be an element of truth to Richard’s impressions. However, to quote a famous thinker:

I think it clearly indicates the composer's deep seed estrangement from [his] 1st cousin (once removed) on [his] mother's (older) sister's side, most-likely over a dispute during a game of pinochle in which [Brahms] originally claimed a trick with [his] Trump Marriage, but then decided to replay [his] cards as part of a double run. Calamity ensued. Anybody who knows anything about music would know that...it's made perfectly clear in the manner in which the crotales double the clarinet obligato (which can only occur after the presentation of invertible counterpoint in the upper strings, otherwise it would suggest the game of Chutes and Ladders) and resolve using a Landini cadence in augmentation while foreshadowing a crab canon. And the high B in the piccolo...how could you hear anything but [Brahms’] cousin telling [him] that her mother makes terrible oatmeal raisin cookies and the whole family has been lying to protect her feelings. I think it's pretty easy to make that out. -Gustav

Unless there is proof, i.e., if Brahms had, in Mahlerian fashion, scribbled clues in the margins of the score (or the title), written program notes, letters, email or text-messaged the story to us, informing us that the concerto’s “story line” was, in fact, definitely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, concrete—unless there is that kind of proof, the sounds that reach your ear, from the performers’ instruments, played by performers with brains, led by black dots on a page and a conductor to help keep everyone together, written by a composer who was, “experimenting and feeling [his] way,” then those sounds must be, must be interpreted by the listener.

Do you now see how it’s your fanciful story projecting itself onto the music? Yes? Good.

Also, this is why we often butt heads with critics. When they say things that are only vaguely true, or simply false, we can’t help but think of the poor layman reading this stuff, what effect it might have on their musical perceptions, their tastes, their knowledge. And, as a composer, I worry a lot about having to explain my work to the audience in these terms, terms that may not apply or dumb down the conversation. “Uh...the narrative of my piece is...uh, butterflies.” I mean, the audience is intelligent, but the information they receive is often...well, backwards, at best.

And this is why we exist, to repeat myself for the billion-googleth time, to help close the gaps in our dialog.

Speaking of dialog, here’s a delicious writing assignment: Yummy Fun!

And the Brahms Piano Concerto in D minor, Op. 15, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

*Winner of the coveted “Most prepositional phrases in a sentence fragment” prize.
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I... You... Wait, What? History???

1. Kurt Weill studied with Busoni, who studied with Wilhelm Keinzl, who studied with Franz Lizst, who studied with Anton Reicha, who studied with Antonio Salieri, who studied with Geovanni Battista Pescetti, who studied with Antonio Lotti, who studied with Giovanni Legrenzi... in 1660-ish.

2. Weill’s Violin Concerto is, decidedly, a modernist work, yet with an inclination towards neoclassicism and romanticism. It is not and cannot be a blank slate. Can any music ever be?

3. It is true that Weill’s idealism, as exemplified in his comic-operas Die Bürgschaft (1931) and Der Silbersee (1932), made the Nazis mad, forcing him to “relocate,” as it were. Thus, being a political progressive (and a Jew) was not particularly beneficial to his personhood.

Now, since we have facts, why say this about Brahms?

But the connection to Weill? By contrast, Brahms was a composer steeped in history:

Just like Weill, who borrowed from Busoni, who borrowed from Keinzl, who borrowed from Lizst, who... wait.. contrast?

The "Requiem" purposefully borrows Bach's fugues and Beethoven's escalating climaxes...

Why not purposefully imitate Ludwig? Right? He goes down with the most ardor. Ladies.

...in its effort to render its vision of divine comfort universal and timeless.

“My name is Johannes. I like to fugue* and climax. That makes my piece timeless. But you’ll never find that in a history book, because I never said that.”

The group's generous performance ennobled the sentiment, but Weill's brash tabula rasa was a reminder that Brahms's idealism, however well-intentioned, was part of a societal worldview that ultimately led to the trenches of the Great War.

But... but... I... you... wait, what??? He’s a lover not a fighter.

These are the actual causes of World War I: the HMS Dreadnought, Karl Marx, revanchism, irredentism and the Franco-Prussian War, not fugue-ing nor climaxing, nor musical history-having.

Also, Weill's music is not a blank slate (tabula rasa).

For Weill, looking forward was automatically a better view than looking back.

Except that he had to defect from Germany, because he looked forward.

Implied, perhaps: the Nazi’s liked Brahms? Did you know that Schoenberg liked Brahms?

Matthew, I think it would be of great advantage to read one of Arnold's articles, especially the one titled Brahms the Progressive, written in 1947. You can find it in Style and Idea. It’s really good, and progressive, which is awesome, but only in some cases, unlike Weill’s, who had to flee Germany, because he borrowed from Busoni (a socialist), who borrowed from Keinzl, who borrowed from Lizst, who borrowed from Reicha, who borrowed from Salieri, who borrowed from Pescetti, who borrowed from Lotti, who borrowed from Legrenzi.

* In some languages fugue is a four-letter word.
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Give Em a Shot Across the Bow

When you say shit like this,

So much nontonal music contradicts itself by grafting a new language onto old sentence structure, creating Brahms with wrong notes.

...you had better be prepared to back it up, because I’ll come after you like stink on a cadaver.

So, my little scholar, back it up!

Not so Webern, whose musical grammar is as innovative as its vocabulary. The Variations here took on the shape of spoken conversation: question and answer, proposition and response, and the silences in between.

No. Bad. (rolls up the newspaper, swats) No.

Don’t think that I’ll let you evade responsibility, even if you praise Webern. Defend your stupid statement!

You might call him the Janacek of outer space.

As humorous as this may be, you don’t get a free pass. Give me examples, proof, anything that might convince me, the reader, that nontonal music contradicts anything; that Brahms is inherently complex; that the metaphor of music as language is apt; that wrong notes are bad!

Critics, you can’t just say shit and not be held responsible. If this was on the front page, Bernard Holland would be fired! As a reader, I have no sympathy for word counts or deadlines. No excuses, this is plain awful.
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O, "let There be Brahms."

There’s a truck-load of truck. So let’s to it!

This comes to us from the San Jose Mercury. Richard Scheinin, I guess you could say, liked the performance of Brahms’ Piano Concerto, by pianist Stephen Hough. Not only did he like it, he really, really, super really liked it, a lot. So much so that Melissa Jones’ hair must have caught fire mid-poetic waxing.

But, before we find out how much he liked the performance, let’s just take a moment to check out the title.

Pianist Hough masters Brahms concerto

Got it? Good. Moving on.

Stephen Hough is a one-of-a-kind musician,

O all ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever.

so spectacularly good that you leave one of his performances thinking, “I wish I could hear this man play the piano every day.”

O ye Angels of the Lord, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever.

... Hough’s performance of Brahms’ Piano Concerto No. 1 in D minor qualified as a most lucid poetic commentary on one of the most poetic pieces of music ever composed.

I like the piece, too. Click here. But it can’t be as poetic as this: Click here.

O ye Heavens, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever.

Often, his tone was translucent, suffused with mystery.

O ye Waters that be above the Firmament, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever.

Always, he played with absolute clarity and control, focusing energy in and through each note.

O all ye Powers of the Lord, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever.

At times, he played with a predatory power, carrying the entire Russian National Orchestra on his back.

O ye Sun and Moon, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever.

It was a transfixing performance by a pianist who towers over many of the better-known soloists on the circuit.

O ye Stars of Heaven, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever.

Utterly in command and at ease, Hough even wore a pair of shiny red slippers, in Technicolor contrast to the all-black attire of every other musician on stage.

O ye Showers and Dew, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever.

He defined the performance.

O ye Winds of God, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever.

Yet the [orchestra’s] imperfections somehow grew less noticeable, definitely less important, as the perfection of Hough’s performance asserted itself.

O ye Fire and Heat, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever.

His opening passages had that translucence about them, as if arriving from a dream.

O ye Winter and Summer, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever.

A deep mood began to well up as Hough’s otherworldly musings ebbed, flowed and intensified to a red heat...

O ye Dews and Frosts, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever.

By the midpoint, he was drawing the orchestra into Brahms’ world.

O ye Frost and Cold, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever.

The Adagio that follows is among the most beautiful movements ever composed by anyone.

What was the thing about worshiping a false idol?

O ye Ice and Snow, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever.

Brahms may have intended it as a portrait of Clara Schumann, pianist and wife of the composer Robert. Hearing it, you can imagine the love Brahms felt for her, and that love seemed to move through Hough’s fingers.

Gross.

O ye Nights and Days, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever.

Towards the movement’s end, his ascending tremble-flutter was the sound of angel wings.

O ye Light and Darkness, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever.

Each of the pianist’s phrases was a line of poetry, whether snowflake-delicate or hammered home at a gallop and without a false note to boot.

O ye Lightnings and Clouds, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever.

What a performance!

O let the Earth bless the Lord : yea, let it praise him, and magnify him for ever.

And ever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and ever.

How about Schubert’s “Unfinished” Symphony? It was finished by another guy, Safronov, right? How’d that go?

The new finale wears out formulaic cadences and bulked-up fragments, snatched from other Schubert works. Safronov’s intentions are admirable, maybe audacious, but while he has studied and knows Schubert’s moves, he can’t re-create [sic] the master’s magic. Who could?

Ooh! (immediately raises hand)

I think I know!

But I don't know what a "tremble-flutter" is.
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