Last Saturday night, the Hartford Symphony presented -- with gifted students from the Hartt School Music Theatre and Ballet program -- an evening dedicated to the music of just one man: Richard Rodgers.
Who gets this kind of treatment? Beethoven. Tchaikovsky. I've seen and attended all-Brahms programs, sometimes on successive nights.
But Richard Rodgers? BELIEVE IT. And even if we were to play someone else's music on the same program, it wouldn't matter, because
RICHARD RODGER IS THE MOST FREQUENTLY PERFORMED COMPOSER OF ANYONE WHO HAS EVER LIVED.
More than Bach. More than Mozart. More than Irving Berlin, Cole Porter or Jerome Kern. No one else comes close.
Think about it. Haydn wrote over 100 symphonies, and a good 15-20 of them are played regularly, around the world. Schubert wrote over 600 songs. How many of them do you know? Let's see . . . Doppelganger, The Earl King, Sylvia, Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel, Ave Maria, and there are many more.
Did you know Rodgers wrote over 900 songs? You might not be able to name them all, or even half of them, but if someone started singing them for you, you would find yourself saying over and over again, "oh yeah! I know that one (too)."
Because Richard Rodgers not only had the gift of melody, he was astoundingly prolific. He started composing at the age of 9. He made it to Broadway by the age of 18. (Gershwin didn't get there until he was in his 20s.) With Lorenz Hart he created 15 musicals between 1925 and 1930. With Pal Joey (1940) and later By Jupiter, Rodgers had turned in two decades of Broadway success, and had not yet reached the age of 40. If he were Rossini, he would have retired, his legacy secure. But no. Instead he moves on to a new association with lyricist Oscar Hammerstein, writing musicals for nearly two decades more.
Let me put it you another way: Richard Rodgers made it to Broadway when Babe Ruth was just getting going. And he was still writing hit tunes when Richard Nixon resigned and Reggie Jackson became known as Mr. October.
If Richard Rodgers had somehow been more flamboyant, more of a bon vivant, hounded by media, then he would rightly take his place as the American Mozart in work and play. Instead, he was family man, with two daughters and a wife he loved (and who loved him). Sure he had a reputation for charming the ladies, but have you ever seen a picture of Rodgers when he wasn't wearing a suit and tie? (I haven't.) The first thing that comes to mind is an accountant, or an actuary. On television, he appeared dour and colorless.
But what a titanic genius! As a friend pointed out to me, Richard Rodgers is the only person to have received an Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, Tony and 2 Pulitzer Prizes. After awhile, R & H, unhappy with what producers were doing with their shows, decided to start producing shows on their own, making them both fabulously wealthy (which also goes against the grain of what people associate with the laboring, starving artistic genius). Rodgers was so good, he got to a point where he could put on shows without stars, without bankable names. Since the music was so good, people were going to come anyway. Before Oklahoma, anything that got 500 performances was considered a Broadway hit. Laurie and Curly, Ado Annie and Will, Aunt Eller and Jud went on for 2,212 performances. After that colossal hit, one bigwig said to him, "Hang it up, now. You will never do anything better than Oklahoma." Oh yeah? How about Carousel?
So you can see my problem in planning last Saturday's show. The question was not, what to play, but rather, what can we leave out? For how many Broadway composers can you do a show like this, leave out so many hits, and still leave the audience happy? We didn't do anything from The King and I. We didn't do the Carousel Waltz. Not even 'My Funny Valentine,' or 'Out of My Dreams' (my favorite waltz, by the way). And no one cared.
Because this was perhaps the best pops show I have ever done with the Hartford Symphony. With Michael Morris's brilliant direction, Denise Leetch-Moore's majestic choreography, and Alan Rust's theatrical expertise, not to mention those fabulous young men and women from Hartt, we put on a show of shows. The buzz was palpable, from start to finish. The roars began early, and continued throughout.
It was my last pops show as Music Director of the Hartford Symphony, and it was a fabulous way to go out.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
getting ready for a World Premiere, and Tchaikovsky
This week will feature the Hartford Symphony's concertmaster, Leonid Sigal, in a new work by Stephen Michael Gryc, Harmonia Mundi, for violin and orchestra. It's a beautiful work, and I'm confident audiences will respond very positively to it.
Last week I was really nervous. It was before our first rehearsal on Tchaikovsky's Symphony no. 4, a work most of the players have done before, probably several times, and thus is one of those pieces (like Beethoven's Fifth Symphony) where a conductor must necessarily come with a unified conception and interpretation, if only to counter the many habits, customs and traditions that accompany a well known work from the standard repertory.
Advancing one's strong ideas about Beethoven is one thing. But Tchaikovsky is a different animal -- the orchestra and I last did his Fourth Symphony in 2002, which is the equivalent of never, as most of these players were not playing in the orchestra 9 years ago (and it was a summer concert, making it even less memorable). On top of that, I haven't done much Tchaikovsky with the orchestra since, and thus we haven't developed a way of doing his music over the course of my tenure.
Add to this an added nervousness because of my big experiment, having created a new edition of sorts. Using my own orchestral materials (most conductors bring their own score but leave the individual orchestra parts, bowings and markings, to the host orchestra), I changed several of the meters in the first movement. You might ask, why? The piece has survived as a great classic since 1878 without anyone doing this before, so why now? Can't it stand on its own, as is?
The answer is yes, of course it can. And it has, for over 130 years. And will continue to do so, thank you very much.
Except for my teacher, Otto-Werner Mueller, who first put the idea in my head, no one has ever done what I am about to describe. And in my previous outings, I did not have the time to go through with it. But I figured, as Doc Brown says in "Back to the Future:" what the hell? Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
If you're wondering what the heck I'm talking about, I'll explain.
The first movement is in 9/8 time, which is, for most composers who write in this meter, 123-456-789, and generally conducted in 3 beats to the bar, with a stress on beats 1, 4 and 7. 'Happy Birthday to You' and 'Star Spangled Banner' are also in 3 beats to the bar, but are in simple meter, or 12-34-56 (as opposed to the compound meter in 9/8).
Tchaikovsky divides those 9 small beats in many different ways: sometimes he will have one short beat followed by a 4 bigger beats, so that it comes out sounding like 1 23 45 67 89, and throughout much of the exposition he writes the music in 3 simple beats followed by 1 compound beat, or 12-34-56-789. (One of the most famous compound/simple meter combos is from Bernstein's West Side Story, "America," where it goes back and forth between
123 --- 456 and 12 -- 34 -- 56:
1---2---3
"I like to
4---5---6
live in A--
12---34---56
me--ri---ca"
In the climax of the first movement in Tchaikovsky's Fourth, just before the return, he takes two measures and stretches them into one giant measure, looking (sounding) like this:
12 -- 34 -- 56 -- 78 -- 91 -- 23 -- 45 --67 --89
or, to one's ears, a big giant:
1 --- 2 --- 3 --- 4 --- 5 --- 6 --- 7 --- 8 --- 9
In these two measures, Tchaikovsky expects orchestra players to negotiate all of the cross rhythms, even though they go 'against the grain.' And for most of the music, the players do just that. They're professionals, you expect that of them. But in this place, even for world class orchestras, it can be a crap shoot. In the few times I've conducted Tchaikovsky's 4th, it hasn't always worked to my satisfaction.
And so, for this place, and a few others with complex rhythms, I rewrote the meters (I didn't change a single note) in a manner which projects the actual rhythm of the music. Some would surely object to this, arguing that Tchaikovsky wants the built-in tension left alone, as is. And I can see the merits of that argument. But I was undaunted.
Of course, in the first rehearsal, the players took some time getting used to the changes. But after a few times playing through these spots, these passages came off without a hitch. And the music (i.e., the rhythms) sounded just how I've always heard it in my head, and how I believe the composer wanted it to sound: jagged, off kilter, slightly off balance, creating enormous tension just before the reprise.
Tchaikovsky was highly disturbed when he wrote his Fourth Symphony. He was newly married (even though he was homosexual), attempted suicide, throwing himself into the Moscow River, and was generally resigned to never ever being a happy person (the 'fate' motive at the onset of the symphony reflects this). So it makes sense that, given what he was going through at the time, that Tchaikovsky would put himself out there on the edge of a creative cliff, given the enormous pain he endured while writing this symphony. It's all there in the music.
Last week I was really nervous. It was before our first rehearsal on Tchaikovsky's Symphony no. 4, a work most of the players have done before, probably several times, and thus is one of those pieces (like Beethoven's Fifth Symphony) where a conductor must necessarily come with a unified conception and interpretation, if only to counter the many habits, customs and traditions that accompany a well known work from the standard repertory.
Advancing one's strong ideas about Beethoven is one thing. But Tchaikovsky is a different animal -- the orchestra and I last did his Fourth Symphony in 2002, which is the equivalent of never, as most of these players were not playing in the orchestra 9 years ago (and it was a summer concert, making it even less memorable). On top of that, I haven't done much Tchaikovsky with the orchestra since, and thus we haven't developed a way of doing his music over the course of my tenure.
Add to this an added nervousness because of my big experiment, having created a new edition of sorts. Using my own orchestral materials (most conductors bring their own score but leave the individual orchestra parts, bowings and markings, to the host orchestra), I changed several of the meters in the first movement. You might ask, why? The piece has survived as a great classic since 1878 without anyone doing this before, so why now? Can't it stand on its own, as is?
The answer is yes, of course it can. And it has, for over 130 years. And will continue to do so, thank you very much.
Except for my teacher, Otto-Werner Mueller, who first put the idea in my head, no one has ever done what I am about to describe. And in my previous outings, I did not have the time to go through with it. But I figured, as Doc Brown says in "Back to the Future:" what the hell? Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
If you're wondering what the heck I'm talking about, I'll explain.
The first movement is in 9/8 time, which is, for most composers who write in this meter, 123-456-789, and generally conducted in 3 beats to the bar, with a stress on beats 1, 4 and 7. 'Happy Birthday to You' and 'Star Spangled Banner' are also in 3 beats to the bar, but are in simple meter, or 12-34-56 (as opposed to the compound meter in 9/8).
Tchaikovsky divides those 9 small beats in many different ways: sometimes he will have one short beat followed by a 4 bigger beats, so that it comes out sounding like 1 23 45 67 89, and throughout much of the exposition he writes the music in 3 simple beats followed by 1 compound beat, or 12-34-56-789. (One of the most famous compound/simple meter combos is from Bernstein's West Side Story, "America," where it goes back and forth between
123 --- 456 and 12 -- 34 -- 56:
1---2---3
"I like to
4---5---6
live in A--
12---34---56
me--ri---ca"
In the climax of the first movement in Tchaikovsky's Fourth, just before the return, he takes two measures and stretches them into one giant measure, looking (sounding) like this:
12 -- 34 -- 56 -- 78 -- 91 -- 23 -- 45 --67 --89
or, to one's ears, a big giant:
1 --- 2 --- 3 --- 4 --- 5 --- 6 --- 7 --- 8 --- 9
In these two measures, Tchaikovsky expects orchestra players to negotiate all of the cross rhythms, even though they go 'against the grain.' And for most of the music, the players do just that. They're professionals, you expect that of them. But in this place, even for world class orchestras, it can be a crap shoot. In the few times I've conducted Tchaikovsky's 4th, it hasn't always worked to my satisfaction.
And so, for this place, and a few others with complex rhythms, I rewrote the meters (I didn't change a single note) in a manner which projects the actual rhythm of the music. Some would surely object to this, arguing that Tchaikovsky wants the built-in tension left alone, as is. And I can see the merits of that argument. But I was undaunted.
Of course, in the first rehearsal, the players took some time getting used to the changes. But after a few times playing through these spots, these passages came off without a hitch. And the music (i.e., the rhythms) sounded just how I've always heard it in my head, and how I believe the composer wanted it to sound: jagged, off kilter, slightly off balance, creating enormous tension just before the reprise.
Tchaikovsky was highly disturbed when he wrote his Fourth Symphony. He was newly married (even though he was homosexual), attempted suicide, throwing himself into the Moscow River, and was generally resigned to never ever being a happy person (the 'fate' motive at the onset of the symphony reflects this). So it makes sense that, given what he was going through at the time, that Tchaikovsky would put himself out there on the edge of a creative cliff, given the enormous pain he endured while writing this symphony. It's all there in the music.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
June 4 Finale -- be forewarned!
The first piece on my last concert as music director with the Hartford Symphony features a new Requiem by Stephen Montague, who is nothing if not one of the finest dramatists writing music today.
If you don't believe me, check this out. (Stephen is the guy with baton in white tie and tails.) --EC
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZeG9PRMCKrE
If you don't believe me, check this out. (Stephen is the guy with baton in white tie and tails.) --EC
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZeG9PRMCKrE
Friday, May 6, 2011
Happy Birthday, Willie
For some reason, I have always remembered May 6 as Willie Mays's birthday. Born in 1931, that marks today as his 80th. And whenever there are new revelations about Barry Bonds having said this or Mark McGuire having (not) said that, it makes me wonder what Willie thinks about all of the commotion that has tainted professional baseball.
Willie Mays started out with the New York Giants, but he didn't come into the full view of this Oakland kid until the team moved west to San Francisco. And for a few years, until the Athletics moved from Kansas City to Oakland to play in a stadium that I could see from my front yard, the San Francisco Giants, with Mays, Marichal, McCovey et al, were my team.
On my eighth birthday, I got a new skateboard and a trip to Candlestick Park with my Dad and brother, Robert. It was Picture Day, so we got to see the players up close. They were playing the Pittsburgh Pirates, with their own young legend-in-the-making, Willie Stargell. We sat in the bleachers behind centerfield, so as to have a perfect view of Mays playing defense. Stargell did not endear himself to me that day, hitting a long fly ball over Mays's head, not quite out of the stadium.
I still have a running video in my head of Mays scrambling frantically for the ball against the cyclone fence, no higher than what you would see in someone's backyard. Mays rifled the ball to second, limiting Stargell to a double. His throw was a dart; you cannot even begin to imagine what power emanated from Mays's arm unless you were to experience from close range.
Over thirty years later, I had the opportunity to share an elevator with Stargell, when he was a guest of the Pittsburgh Symphony, narrating Lincoln's words in Aaron Copland's Lincoln Portrait. I recalled that beautiful August day with him, when he got the better of Mays. Stargell was not well, on dialysis for his kidney ailment. He was an inch or two taller than I, and even though his body was not the tower of strength it once was, he still loomed large in that crowded elevator.
He asked me, "what year?"
"1963," I responded.
Stargell's rookie season. He was the young upstart, having come to San Francisco to proclaim his right to play on the same field (and share the same first name) with my beloved Willie. Stargell lifted his head, shut his eyes a little, trying to recall the events of that day, and then nodded his head in acknowledgement. I guess baseball legends and orchestra conductors have one thing in common -- a prodigious memory.
What I did not have the nerve to tell Mr. Stargell was that Mays could have caught his long fly ball that day. He just ran out of room. As anyone familiar with Mays's unbelievable catch of Vic Wertz's long fly ball in Game 1 of the 1954 World Series, Mays not only had a great arm and power at the plate, he was fast as they come. And since the playing field of Polo Grounds went on forever, making it nearly impossible to hit a home run to centerfield, Mays simply outran Wertz's deep fly to center, catching it over his left shoulder while still running full speed away from home plate. If you have not seen it, I invite you to do so now:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7dK6zPbkFnE
Happy Birthday, Willie. And thank you for making the childhood of this writer so much brighter with the wonder of your play. Long live the Say Hey Kid!
Willie Mays started out with the New York Giants, but he didn't come into the full view of this Oakland kid until the team moved west to San Francisco. And for a few years, until the Athletics moved from Kansas City to Oakland to play in a stadium that I could see from my front yard, the San Francisco Giants, with Mays, Marichal, McCovey et al, were my team.
On my eighth birthday, I got a new skateboard and a trip to Candlestick Park with my Dad and brother, Robert. It was Picture Day, so we got to see the players up close. They were playing the Pittsburgh Pirates, with their own young legend-in-the-making, Willie Stargell. We sat in the bleachers behind centerfield, so as to have a perfect view of Mays playing defense. Stargell did not endear himself to me that day, hitting a long fly ball over Mays's head, not quite out of the stadium.
I still have a running video in my head of Mays scrambling frantically for the ball against the cyclone fence, no higher than what you would see in someone's backyard. Mays rifled the ball to second, limiting Stargell to a double. His throw was a dart; you cannot even begin to imagine what power emanated from Mays's arm unless you were to experience from close range.
Over thirty years later, I had the opportunity to share an elevator with Stargell, when he was a guest of the Pittsburgh Symphony, narrating Lincoln's words in Aaron Copland's Lincoln Portrait. I recalled that beautiful August day with him, when he got the better of Mays. Stargell was not well, on dialysis for his kidney ailment. He was an inch or two taller than I, and even though his body was not the tower of strength it once was, he still loomed large in that crowded elevator.
He asked me, "what year?"
"1963," I responded.
Stargell's rookie season. He was the young upstart, having come to San Francisco to proclaim his right to play on the same field (and share the same first name) with my beloved Willie. Stargell lifted his head, shut his eyes a little, trying to recall the events of that day, and then nodded his head in acknowledgement. I guess baseball legends and orchestra conductors have one thing in common -- a prodigious memory.
What I did not have the nerve to tell Mr. Stargell was that Mays could have caught his long fly ball that day. He just ran out of room. As anyone familiar with Mays's unbelievable catch of Vic Wertz's long fly ball in Game 1 of the 1954 World Series, Mays not only had a great arm and power at the plate, he was fast as they come. And since the playing field of Polo Grounds went on forever, making it nearly impossible to hit a home run to centerfield, Mays simply outran Wertz's deep fly to center, catching it over his left shoulder while still running full speed away from home plate. If you have not seen it, I invite you to do so now:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7dK6zPbkFnE
Happy Birthday, Willie. And thank you for making the childhood of this writer so much brighter with the wonder of your play. Long live the Say Hey Kid!
Saturday, March 5, 2011
The Women of Villanova
Over this weekend I have been enthralled by women of the Big East, sixteen teams battling it out for the league championship. It started with a close game between University of South Florida and Pittsburgh, in which the latter prevailed by 3 points. Syracuse and West Virginia both won games they were expected to win, leaving only Providence and Villanova to battle it out.
Both teams came in with losing records. During warmups, the Friars appeared quicker than Villanova, even if smaller as a team, which could explain why the Friars had bested the Wildcats in their last four meetings. Even the Battle of the Bands did not bode well; the Wildcats had a meek sound which could not be heard so well over the din. Providence, in contrast, had a big sound, but on closer inspection I noticed an old ringer in the trumpet section. [During one number later in the game when he was missing, the band wasn't nearly as good.]
Sure enough, Villanova spotted Providence 13 points in the opening two minutes. A look at the scoreboard over the course of the first half showed the Wildcats down by 3 to 5 baskets most of the way. Coach Harry Perretta was yelling at the players constantly; on the court, on the bench. As he wildly gesticulated to anyone who cared to listen -- no coat, no tie, arms flailing, right hand contorted -- those of us in the stands could hear every word. He apeared to be a man not in control of his team. By contrast, Providence Coach Seymore was a model of restraint and elegance.
After halftime, the Wildcats continued their pattern of occasional brilliance, bringing them ever closer, followed by turnovers or missed layups. Also hard to watch were the three-point attempts taken from Dreamland, with little chance for success. Clearly much was expected of forward Megan Pearson, who seemed uncomfortable with the dribble. Emily Suhey was more accurate from around the key than beyond it. Center Heather Scanlon was not so effective against the quicker Friars.
But then the young guard Devon Kane took over the game. She frequently looked over to Coach Perretta for guidance, and he grew calmer, deferring to his able assistants. And with just over two minutes to play, the score was tied, and the place rocked. Over and over again, Kane found forward Laura Sweeney under the basket. By overtime, the momentum had clearly shifted, and Villanova took control and kept it. The Big East tournament had its first upset.
On the concourse after the game, I met a petite Villanova fan who looked like she'd just seen a ghost. She was Laura Sweeney's mother, and from the look on her face you'd never know that her daughter had scored a game high 21 points. (It wasn't until I met the father that I could tell where Miss Sweeney got her 6-2 inch slender frame.) They were resigned to staying in Hartford for another evening, as the Wildcats would face a much tougher Louisville team the following night.
Later that evening, as I walked my dogs in downtown Hartford, the streets and bars were abuzz with activity. I congratulated some Villanova players in front of the XL center. As I rounded the corner at Church and Trumbull, there was Coach Perretta: oblivious of the cold night air in his shirtsleeves, arms still flailing this way and that, holding court with anyone who would listen. I yelled my congratulations to him across the street. Without missing a beat, he waved back. He was still talking.
Both teams came in with losing records. During warmups, the Friars appeared quicker than Villanova, even if smaller as a team, which could explain why the Friars had bested the Wildcats in their last four meetings. Even the Battle of the Bands did not bode well; the Wildcats had a meek sound which could not be heard so well over the din. Providence, in contrast, had a big sound, but on closer inspection I noticed an old ringer in the trumpet section. [During one number later in the game when he was missing, the band wasn't nearly as good.]
Sure enough, Villanova spotted Providence 13 points in the opening two minutes. A look at the scoreboard over the course of the first half showed the Wildcats down by 3 to 5 baskets most of the way. Coach Harry Perretta was yelling at the players constantly; on the court, on the bench. As he wildly gesticulated to anyone who cared to listen -- no coat, no tie, arms flailing, right hand contorted -- those of us in the stands could hear every word. He apeared to be a man not in control of his team. By contrast, Providence Coach Seymore was a model of restraint and elegance.
After halftime, the Wildcats continued their pattern of occasional brilliance, bringing them ever closer, followed by turnovers or missed layups. Also hard to watch were the three-point attempts taken from Dreamland, with little chance for success. Clearly much was expected of forward Megan Pearson, who seemed uncomfortable with the dribble. Emily Suhey was more accurate from around the key than beyond it. Center Heather Scanlon was not so effective against the quicker Friars.
But then the young guard Devon Kane took over the game. She frequently looked over to Coach Perretta for guidance, and he grew calmer, deferring to his able assistants. And with just over two minutes to play, the score was tied, and the place rocked. Over and over again, Kane found forward Laura Sweeney under the basket. By overtime, the momentum had clearly shifted, and Villanova took control and kept it. The Big East tournament had its first upset.
On the concourse after the game, I met a petite Villanova fan who looked like she'd just seen a ghost. She was Laura Sweeney's mother, and from the look on her face you'd never know that her daughter had scored a game high 21 points. (It wasn't until I met the father that I could tell where Miss Sweeney got her 6-2 inch slender frame.) They were resigned to staying in Hartford for another evening, as the Wildcats would face a much tougher Louisville team the following night.
Later that evening, as I walked my dogs in downtown Hartford, the streets and bars were abuzz with activity. I congratulated some Villanova players in front of the XL center. As I rounded the corner at Church and Trumbull, there was Coach Perretta: oblivious of the cold night air in his shirtsleeves, arms still flailing this way and that, holding court with anyone who would listen. I yelled my congratulations to him across the street. Without missing a beat, he waved back. He was still talking.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Pre-concert adventure
Fresh off of Wednesday's storm, in which Hartford received (according to some reports) more snow in one day than it had in 120 years, there was another storm last Friday, which gives me pause even now, just to think of it.
Early morning January 7, I traveled to Long Island for the funeral of a dear friend's mother. I arrived at St. Agnes Church, Rockville Centre, in a swift two hours, evidently just missing rush hour. I was a nervous wreck because I had agreed to perform for the memorial service, on both piano and french horn. (I was particularly nervous about the horn playing, because I had not played publicly for 10 or 15 years.) Whenever I play the Bach Prelude in C, it usually goes off without a hitch, but my nerves got the better of me, and I made an early gaffe. The horn call (from Britten's Serenade) at the end went much better.
Exiting the church, the snow had started to come down - - not the stuff that sticks, but the swirly stuff. I did not stay for the burial, because I didn't want to chance cutting it close with my concert that evening back in Hartford. So I left around 12:20, confident that any traffic snags caused by the weather would not present too much of a problem.
How wrong I was.
Got off the island okay, over the Throgs Neck Bridge, and then into the state of Connecticut. Then, an hour later, a few miles short of Stamford, traffic came to a crawl, 3-5 mph. After 3 hours of this, I texted my son, Ian, to convey any information he could find. (If he'd been in the car with me, he could use his iPhone to come up with the 'green' routes via the internet, but I was to learn later that there were none; even the Merrit Parkway was closed.) Ian texted back that the problem was construction and traffic between exits 8 and 12. [Construction? On a Friday during rush hour? It proved to be bogus.] One woman who hosts a radio show in Westport came on the air announcing she would spend her entire two hour program talking about weather and traffic updates, helping people on the road, and keeping those at home safely off of it. (Not a good sign.) I called in to her show just as I saw an 18-wheeler facing the wrong way on the other side of the highway (which explained why opposite traffic had been so smooth sailing up to that point). After I hung up, I could hear my own talking, with the ten-second delay (to avoid the unwanted expletives of other guests, I suppose).
After five hours of driving, I began to get some wind (20 mph) approaching the junction from I-95 to I-91, near New Haven (normally 35 minutes from Hartford). Sigh of relief.
Whoops. Spoke too soon.
The junction was backed up for miles and miles, and then, once safely on I-91 north, the traffic continued at a crawl for miles and miles. This was the first moment when I began to realize I might miss my pre-concert talk at 7 p.m., one hour before the concert. I had already been in touch with Ken Trestman, the HSO Technical Director, for advice on routes. (He suggested Hwy 8 to 84 would be better, but I didn't agree.) Now I was asking him to make arrangements at the Bushnell Theatre to do the pre-concert talk via remote, over my cell phone (still thinking that I would, of course, make it to my concert in time). Ken was quite cavalier about my concerns, telling me "not to worry, just keep going, you'll make it here on time." I was not so sanguine.
As instructed, I called in at 7:03 to give my talk over the phone. Luckily, since I don't have blue tooth, my companion Elizabeth Vandeventer was at my side, holding the phone while I continued to -- yes -- drive in the horrible conditions. And, as luck (or not) would have it, the traffic began to break just as I began speaking, when some drivers began to show their true colors, swerving in and out of lanes with reckless abandon. Betsy was breathing so deeply and audibly that I had to momentarily break off from my talk to ask her to stop, because it was making me so nervous! (I thought she was worried about my driving -- I'm not the best driver, as my record shows -- but her reactions were to other drivers, darting in and out.)
I don't remember any of my driving during the next half hour. I tuned out all things visible, and went deep inside of myself, summoning the likes of Bela Bartok, Paul Sacher, Felix Mendelssohn, Ferdinand David, Sirena Huang, Joseph Haydn, the Prince of Esterhazy, Johann Peter Salomon, and the "Surprise" in Symphony no. 94. I was intent on speaking clearly and succinctly, and doing it in the proper time allotted to me. Once I reached the end of my talk, I thanked the audience, telling them I'd been driving for seven hours straight, and, by the looks of the traffic, would make it to the concert in time. Whew! (I would later learn that the players idling backstage would ask Ken where I was, because . . . he and Sound Man Al had been so deft handling the situation, most of the players thought I had been out on stage the whole time!)
When I arrived in Hartford around 7:45, I understood why Ken hadn't believed me. Not one snowflake had hit Hartford; it was clean as a whistle. All of the 'weather' had been in southern Connecticut. Of course, by the time the concert was over, it was coming down pretty hard. I had been in a race with the weather, and won.
Early morning January 7, I traveled to Long Island for the funeral of a dear friend's mother. I arrived at St. Agnes Church, Rockville Centre, in a swift two hours, evidently just missing rush hour. I was a nervous wreck because I had agreed to perform for the memorial service, on both piano and french horn. (I was particularly nervous about the horn playing, because I had not played publicly for 10 or 15 years.) Whenever I play the Bach Prelude in C, it usually goes off without a hitch, but my nerves got the better of me, and I made an early gaffe. The horn call (from Britten's Serenade) at the end went much better.
Exiting the church, the snow had started to come down - - not the stuff that sticks, but the swirly stuff. I did not stay for the burial, because I didn't want to chance cutting it close with my concert that evening back in Hartford. So I left around 12:20, confident that any traffic snags caused by the weather would not present too much of a problem.
How wrong I was.
Got off the island okay, over the Throgs Neck Bridge, and then into the state of Connecticut. Then, an hour later, a few miles short of Stamford, traffic came to a crawl, 3-5 mph. After 3 hours of this, I texted my son, Ian, to convey any information he could find. (If he'd been in the car with me, he could use his iPhone to come up with the 'green' routes via the internet, but I was to learn later that there were none; even the Merrit Parkway was closed.) Ian texted back that the problem was construction and traffic between exits 8 and 12. [Construction? On a Friday during rush hour? It proved to be bogus.] One woman who hosts a radio show in Westport came on the air announcing she would spend her entire two hour program talking about weather and traffic updates, helping people on the road, and keeping those at home safely off of it. (Not a good sign.) I called in to her show just as I saw an 18-wheeler facing the wrong way on the other side of the highway (which explained why opposite traffic had been so smooth sailing up to that point). After I hung up, I could hear my own talking, with the ten-second delay (to avoid the unwanted expletives of other guests, I suppose).
After five hours of driving, I began to get some wind (20 mph) approaching the junction from I-95 to I-91, near New Haven (normally 35 minutes from Hartford). Sigh of relief.
Whoops. Spoke too soon.
The junction was backed up for miles and miles, and then, once safely on I-91 north, the traffic continued at a crawl for miles and miles. This was the first moment when I began to realize I might miss my pre-concert talk at 7 p.m., one hour before the concert. I had already been in touch with Ken Trestman, the HSO Technical Director, for advice on routes. (He suggested Hwy 8 to 84 would be better, but I didn't agree.) Now I was asking him to make arrangements at the Bushnell Theatre to do the pre-concert talk via remote, over my cell phone (still thinking that I would, of course, make it to my concert in time). Ken was quite cavalier about my concerns, telling me "not to worry, just keep going, you'll make it here on time." I was not so sanguine.
As instructed, I called in at 7:03 to give my talk over the phone. Luckily, since I don't have blue tooth, my companion Elizabeth Vandeventer was at my side, holding the phone while I continued to -- yes -- drive in the horrible conditions. And, as luck (or not) would have it, the traffic began to break just as I began speaking, when some drivers began to show their true colors, swerving in and out of lanes with reckless abandon. Betsy was breathing so deeply and audibly that I had to momentarily break off from my talk to ask her to stop, because it was making me so nervous! (I thought she was worried about my driving -- I'm not the best driver, as my record shows -- but her reactions were to other drivers, darting in and out.)
I don't remember any of my driving during the next half hour. I tuned out all things visible, and went deep inside of myself, summoning the likes of Bela Bartok, Paul Sacher, Felix Mendelssohn, Ferdinand David, Sirena Huang, Joseph Haydn, the Prince of Esterhazy, Johann Peter Salomon, and the "Surprise" in Symphony no. 94. I was intent on speaking clearly and succinctly, and doing it in the proper time allotted to me. Once I reached the end of my talk, I thanked the audience, telling them I'd been driving for seven hours straight, and, by the looks of the traffic, would make it to the concert in time. Whew! (I would later learn that the players idling backstage would ask Ken where I was, because . . . he and Sound Man Al had been so deft handling the situation, most of the players thought I had been out on stage the whole time!)
When I arrived in Hartford around 7:45, I understood why Ken hadn't believed me. Not one snowflake had hit Hartford; it was clean as a whistle. All of the 'weather' had been in southern Connecticut. Of course, by the time the concert was over, it was coming down pretty hard. I had been in a race with the weather, and won.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Beethoven and Handel
My teacher Mr. Mueller often mentioned that Handel was Beethoven's favorite composer. He would say that the trio from Beethoven's Fifth Symphony was a Handelian fugato which inextricably leads into a glorious hymn (with trombones, which, up to this point had been mainly used in religious works).
Then, this past Saturday, I conducted Beethoven's 5th in the afternoon, and Handel's Messiah in the evening. While conducting Handel's oratorio, I was as much listener as leader, taking in all of the glories and wonders that would later find its way into the symphonies of Beethoven.
Thank you, Mr. Mueller. Now I get it!
Then, this past Saturday, I conducted Beethoven's 5th in the afternoon, and Handel's Messiah in the evening. While conducting Handel's oratorio, I was as much listener as leader, taking in all of the glories and wonders that would later find its way into the symphonies of Beethoven.
Thank you, Mr. Mueller. Now I get it!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
