Iceland

On Monday January 26, 2015, Hartt's contemporary ensemble, Foot In The Door, flew to Reykjavik. After years of planning by composer Ken Steen and my conducting colleague, Glen Adsit, the group had been invited to perform at Myrkir Musikdagar -- the Dark Music Days Festival, which "provides Iceland's foremost platform for showcasing innovative and progressive contemporary music in Iceland." This was a prestigious call, notably because we were the only non-professional ensemble in attendance, and the only group performing two programs. All events were to be held at the new concert hall, Harpa, sitting on the edge of the water like a radiant ice sculpture.

The festival opened on Thursday with the Icelandic Symphony Orchestra presenting a program that included a new violin concerto, featuring Sigrun Edvaldsdottir, the orchestra's concertmaster, as soloist.  Her brilliant solo playing was often relegated to the role of David to the orchestra's Goliath -- never before had I heard a concerto in which the orchestra alternately interrupted, ignored and pummeled the soloist with such force and reckless abandon.  It left me shattered, and to this day, I am still thinking about how the composer had completely re-imagined the (usually supportive) role of an orchestra.

On Saturday night, it was our turn.  A couple of months had passed since our last concert, so a date at SubCulture New York (a new hip, underground venue on Bleeker street) the day before we left helped us to get fresh again. As we do on all Foot In The Door programs at home and abroad, Glen and I took turns on the podium. We began by exploring Icelandic influences, including works by two young emerging Icelandic composers, as well as a work for solo violin and chamber orchestra written by Hartt student Ben Park, featuring Hartt alumna, Groa Valdimorsdottir, for whom the piece was written. To close the program, Glen led a beautiful rendition of a new work Ken Steen wrote especially for the festival.

To celebrate, we drove to Groa's parents' home after the concert, where her mother had graciously prepared fish soup and dessert for all of us. As many of us prepared to leave, Groa's mother exclaimed, "why is everyone leaving so soon?" I suggested that Chris Ladd give an impromptu guitar recital, beginning with a duet for violin and guitar which he and Asa Gudjonsdottir (another Hartt alum) had played so beautifully at an Icelandic high school the day before.  (Asa did not have her violin, but Groa quickly solved that problem.) 9 o'clock soon became 11 o'clock, so we said our goodbyes.

Our second program, featuring young American composers -- Nico Muhly, Derek Bermel, Jonathan Newman and Andrew Norman -- was extremely well received. Immediately after our concert, there was still one more concert, and if there was an award for busiest festival performer/administrator, it would have gone to Asa, who played one concert with us, another with the Icelandic Symphony Orchestra, and her last with the Reykjavik Chamber Orchestra.

Later that evening, all of us shared our final dinner together, and at 11:30, it was time to find a bar that was playing the Super Bowl. Seth, Ben and Brian Johnston (trombone) were all in, and Kristen Powell (bassoon), Elyse Vest (saxophone) and Shannon Vandzura (a flutist with no knowledge of football) decided to join us.  Seth had already done some scouting earlier in the week, and he led us to a bar with television screens everywhere, even on the window facing the sidewalk.  Unfortunately, the place was packed with people ignoring the game, and there was no room inside for our large group. And even though Reykjavik was a tad warmer than what we'd left behind in Hartford, watching the action outside on the sidewalk was not an option. A quieter bar down the street had the game on, so we settled there just as the first quarter was underway.

Super Bowl commercials were not part of the local telecast. At each game break there was color commentary in Icelandic by three guys, one of whom looked like he just stepped off a farm (though he appeared to know more about the game than the other two suits). Kristen, Shannon and Elyse left early, and to our dismay, the Patriots and Seahawks were not a priority for the bartender, who told us she was closing at halftime. (It was a Sunday, after all.) What to do? We returned to the other crowded bar, but just as we arrived, they locked the doors. And it was still too cold to watch from the sidewalk. Time for Plan B.

Earlier in the week, many of us received an email from the U.S. Embassy in Reykjavik, inviting us to watch the game at their building on Laufasvegur, provided we respond by Thursday at noon.  I had done so, as had Ben, and with a little charm and cajoling, we thought we could get Seth and Brian in as well.  We went back to our residence, Aurora House, to collect our passports (required for entry), and then went in search of the embassy.  Fortunately, a driver was just dropping off other residents at Aurora House as we arrived, and when we asked him for directions, he kindly offered to take us there.

With Naoki Katakura (violinist), we were now five. At the front door to the embassy, they only had Ben's name on the list.  It was difficult explaining our predicament to the two Icelandic guards, and when another was summoned, he, too, was not very sympathetic.  He apologetically explained that, if we were not on the list, we could not watch the game. (While this was going on, Katy Perry's halftime show was filling the upstairs floor.) With Naoki's phone, I searched for the email I had sent to the embassy for proof; once found and read, one guard gave me an opening, saying ". . . . and you sent this email on behalf of the group?"  Of course, I had not, but a white lie was far better than throwing my students under the bus.  Moments later, we were passing through security and on our way upstairs. (For some reason unknown to all of us, Brian had brought his trombone, which was left in a closet for safekeeping, or for post-game improvisatory revelry.)

Once upstairs, we were greeted by a young embassy staffer named Marcie, who could not have been nicer. (Where was she when we were downstairs, fighting for our patriotic right to watch a game with 114 million other U.S. citizens?) There were about a half dozen tables with people watching a large screen television that fronted a cardboard cutout of President Obama and the American flag. The Air Force Network's commercials were even more pathetic than the Icelandic color commentary, but the game had been well worth our trouble, given the high drama at the finish. (Hang on . . . who won the game?)

We were back on the streets at 3 a.m., in bed by 4, and after a few hours sleep, just enough time for a quick dip at the Blue Lagoon, a geothermal spa in the middle of a lava field.  When we arrived in Boston later that afternoon, yet another snow storm greeted us.  But the warmth of blue waters, as well as that of my friends and young colleagues, had been the perfect coda to our week.

The PGA -- thrilling and exasperating

At the final round of golf's last major championship of the season, the PGA of America failed to act preemptively, resulting in a finish that was marred by confusion. Because of a decision not made earlier on - and another request that ought to have been denied - the ending resembled what one friend called "a four-ball scramble at a charity event."

Too bad, too, because for millions of golf fans around the world, it had been years since we had seen golf this riveting. When Rory McIlroy, Henrik Stenson, Ricky Fowler and Phil Mickelson were all tied for the lead, I was reminded of the exciting close to the 1986 U.S Open at Shinnecock, when seven players were at the top of the leaderboard before Ray Floyd separated himself from the pack. In 2009, Tom Watson, nearing the age of 60, almost won his 6th Open at Turnberry.

Since then, the majors have been less than compelling. Over the past six years, Woods has not won a major, prompting many to crow that when he's not contending, people don't watch. The final round of this year's PGA Championship showed what nonsense this is.  Even though Woods missed the cut on Friday, nobody missed him during an electrifying display of golf over the weekend.  CBS was happy too, and proved it by keeping the tournament on the air well past the time other viewers were expecting to see "60 Minutes" and "Big Brother." [In 1968, NBC infamously cut away from the closing minutes of a game between the Oakland Raiders and the New York Jets for the movie, "Heidi." Oakland went on to score two touchdowns to defeat New York while furious Jets fans watched a little girl wander the Swiss Alps. No major network has dared to make this mistake again.]

CBS hit a home run (even with the weak meanderings of Nick Faldo), but the PGA blew it. As Mickelson pointed out afterwards, the PGA of America should not be in the business of running major contests. Golf's last major tournament of the summer is the only one they administer all year, so they don't get a lot of practice at it. Did anyone from the PGA take notice at what the Royal and Ancient Golf Club did at Royal Liverpool?

In last month's Open Championship, the R & A changed twosomes to threesomes to speed up the pace of play, thus avoiding the projected bad weather. After a rainstorm delay early Sunday afternoon, threesomes at the PGA would have avoided the debacle on the final hole of regulation play.

It was 8:31 p.m.   Fowler and Mickelson stood on the 18th tee, tied for second place, playing in front of the last group, the leader Rory McIlroy and Bernd Wiesberger.  Because of slow play, McIlroy and Wiesberger arrived on the 18th tee while Fowler and Mickelson were still waiting to hit.   Unknown to television viewers (who could see everything quite clearly), it was getting so dark that the players could no longer see the flight of their ball.

McIlroy asked tournament officials if he and Wiesberger could play the last hole with Mickelson and Fowler as a foursome.  The request was denied, and for good reason.  (I'll address this later.)

To Mickelson's and Fowler's credit, they allowed McIlroy and Wiesberger to hit their drives immediately after Mickelson and Fowler hit theirs.  Fowler would say later, "Typically, if it's getting dark and they are going to blow the horn, you at least get the guys off the tee and it gives them the opportunity to play."

By this Fowler meant that it gives players the opportunity to finish.   If play had been suspended on account of darkness after McIlroy hit his tee shot, then he could elect to either (a) mark his ball and finish the hole on Monday, or (b) continue playing the hole in the dark.  If play were suspended before McIlroy teed off, he would have had to come back on Monday to play the last hole.   Nobody wanted that (unless there was a tie). So, after McIlroy and Wiesberger were allowed to hit their tee shots, everyone assumed they would wait to hit their second shots after Mickelson and Fowler had finished the hole.

This is where the most thrilling major championship in a decade suddenly became a circus.

Mickelson and Fowler were playing great, only two shots back, playing a par-5 finishing hole that could be eagled in the hopes of tying the lead.  And after extending the courtesy, they both knew that McIlroy's ball was not in the best position, having narrowly missed going into a water hazard.  A lot was on the line, and both players wanted to put extra pressure on McIlroy while he stood and watched.

This time it was Wiesberger (no longer a factor, hoping to catch the next available flight home to Vienna) who got into the act, asking officials if they could hit their second shots before Mickelson and Fowler were even done playing the hole. The officials relented, making their second gaffe of the day.  This was a rapid turnaround from the PGA's earlier ruling, which after first denying McIlroy's and Wiesberger's request to play as a foursome, was now allowing them to continue playing the hole right behind Mickelson and Fowler! CBS caught Mickelson on the 18th green with an expression that conveyed equal parts exasperation and incredulity.

Why couldn't the PGA let all four golfers play the last hole together? Anyone familiar with the heat of competition understands why leaders bring up the rear -- so that everyone else has a chance to catch up to (and put pressure on) them.  Mickelson and Fowler were hoping to make a low number on the last hole, putting pressure on McIlroy, who would have to respond in turn.

Sure, it was getting darker by the moment, but when McIlroy was allowed to play each of his shots immediately after those of Mickelson and Fowler, everything changed, and the roles were reversed: now McIlroy was putting pressure on Mickelson and Fowler. And that was wrong.


Bravo to McIlroy - this was a great win for him. He is fast approaching the pantheon of Nicklaus and Woods. And congratulations are due to Fowler and Mickelson, each of whom played brilliantly, only to come up just short by day's end. Mickelson's chip on #18 nearly went in for an eagle, which might have forced a tie with McIlroy if he had failed to birdie the hole.  As upset as Mickelson was with how the final hole played out, he graciously said that the outcome probably would not have changed either way.

The tournament was over, but the PGA still wasn't done: the third and final faux pas came when Kerry Haigh, Chief Championships officer with the PGA of America, could not even present the Wanamaker trophy to the champion without losing the lid of the cup, expertly caught by McIlroy.

Jimi Hendrix and Charles Ives

They may never have been mentioned in the same breath, but I'm thinking now these two men may be cut from the same cloth.

In Pittsburgh, at the Woodlands Music Camp for adults with disabilities, I have been teaching music appreciation.  Last week, after playing Aaron Copland's arrangement to "Shall we Gather by the River," I played Ives's version of the song for violin and piano (from his Fourth Sonata).  Predictably, some members of the class liked it, and a healthy majority did not.  One student mentioned how listening to Ives was like hearing someone go crazy on the electric guitar. Another threw out the name Jimi Hendrix, and we were off and running.

I subsequently showed the class a clip of Hendrix at Woodstock playing the Star Spangled Banner, in which the guitarist riffed, improvised, and otherwise deconstructed the anthem to the point of obscurity. Near the end, Hendrix began wailing on Taps, played at funerals for the U.S. military. I wondered if on that August day in 1969 there were young Vietnam veterans in the audience who might have been offended.  It's one thing to dismantle our national anthem, but unraveling and dissecting Taps is another matter entirely, maybe the musical equivalent of burning the American flag.  Had Hendrix gone too far?

Whether he did or not is a matter of opinion.  But I believe Ives would have defended his right to do so.  As with Hendrix, his music was not written to offend, though it certainly isn't to everyone's taste.  During my years leading the Hartford Symphony, I programmed the music of Ives on numerous occasions, which I thought to be particularly appropriate given that the composer grew up in Connecticut and spent a lot of time in the capitol city.

A few people liked his music, more still simply endured it, waiting patiently for the Beethoven symphony that would come later on the program.  In August 1969, one wonders if more people traveled to Woodstock to hear other groups --- like Blood Sweat & Tears, or Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young --- rather than Hendrix, who had been scheduled to play at the end of the festival.  By the time he took the stage, the audience had dwindled.

Hendrix probably didn't care. Ives would have understood.

Lorin Maazel, 1930-2014

I arrived in Pittsburgh in the summer of 1996, just after Lorin Maazel's final year as music director of the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra. The season went on without a sitting music director; his successor, Mariss Jansons, was due to start the following year.

Maazel had left his stamp on the ensemble, so every guest conductor faced a group that was well-honed and accustomed to an extremely precise technique and a very strong will.  Because many of the visiting maestri were not equipped to pick up those formidable reins, the orchestra could sometimes sound rather indifferent.

This was my first position with a world class orchestra, so I write this from the vantage point of hindsight.  Every rehearsal and concert in Heinz Hall regularly sent me into a kind of seventh heaven.  But only when the new boss arrived in February did the orchestra really snap to, playing with an alertness which I had not encountered thus far. The program itself felt like Jansons was auditioning the orchestra all over again: Roman Carnival by Berlioz, Stravinsky's Firebird Suite (1919), and Mahler's Symphony no. 1.  (Imagine riding on a roller coaster for an entire week, and you get the idea.)

The orchestra was largely divided into Maazel devotees and those who would not miss him, with a few who liked Jansons and Maazel in equal measure.  But in sound and aesthetic, a Maazel orchestra could not be more different from a Jansons orchestra (or for that matter one led by the great Claudio Abbado, who died earlier this year). Jansons asks players to breathe together and listen intently to one another, receiving cues not just from the podium, but also from within. Maazel, however, was always in command, always in control. His imprint on the orchestra was so strong that it took Jansons a good year to make the ensemble his own.

One member of the orchestra shared with me a rather perverse detail, which I found hard to believe: at every opportunity, Maazel cued the player at every single entrance.  Sometimes it was with a flick of the wrist, or with his face, and if he was busy with another section, a kind of backhand glance, as if to make sure the player knew he had not forgotten.  Of course, the player adored Maazel.

This was a big part of his prodigious skills as podium master -- his photographic memory.  Maazel sometimes appeared to be turning pages with his eyes as he conducted.  This is an essential difference between Maazel and most other conductors who lead without score: he saw every single note in his head as the music was playing, each individual page of score flipping before his mind's eye.  On tour for a performance of Beethoven's Fidelio at Carnegie Hall, one of the solo singers became ill, requiring a last minute replacement to fill in without the benefit of rehearsal.  This kind of thing was child's play for Maazel, who quietly mouthed the words to the substituting singer before each phrase during the entire performance.

This was just one of three traits which separated Maazel from the rest of his exalted fraternity.

His ears were legendary.  Maazel heard everything.  Having a good ear is a prerequisite to standing in front of players and telling them what to do.  But being able to hear individual players the way he did -- even string players sitting in the back who blend in with the rest of the section -- was a freakish gift very few conductors possess.  (Boulez has this, as did Lukas Foss.)  But because Maazel was also an accomplished violinist, he could hear and watch each player's hands, and thus be able to instantly know if that player was really playing his part accurately.  No wonder Maazel struck fear in the hearts of many.

Then there were those unbelievable hands.  Anything he wanted to do, he could do.  He was given to frequent whims, where he could detour at a moment's notice, and take the entire orchestra with him, without a hitch or hiccup.  This would account for the occasional uneven performance, but the command was always there.  For a rehearsal of his work, The Giving Tree, he stopped to say he would do one bar differently, and proceeded to conduct this one measure in fifteen separate beats.  With most any other conductor, there would be questions about how the bar would be divided, and in what pattern, etc. - - - never with Maazel.

He knew what to rehearse and what to leave alone.  Indeed, another player once recounted how, before a performance of Sibelius's Fifth Symphony (a very demanding and exacting work), Maazel rehearsed only three or four passages from the entire symphony, releasing the players well in advance of the closing time, deeming them ready for the concert that night.  And the performance? "It was the best Sibelius performance I've ever been a part of," the player responded.

He was a guest in Pittsburgh once during my residency, for his 75th birthday. In addition to the aforementioned work, the program included Dvorak's Symphony no. 9, and Ravel's Mother Goose Suite.  After the first play through of the Ravel, he stopped to joke that, if he ". . . were a young conductor, I would talk far too long about what I'd like you to do differently." The players laughed knowingly, but everyone understood that Maazel knew exactly what spots could be left alone, even those that were not played to his satisfaction.

I will never forget how, during a passage of the Ravel, he seemed to forget he was on the podium, looking downward, momentarily losing himself in the music . . . .  and the magic was palpable.  During my half dozen years in Pittsburgh, it may have been the most ravishing playing I ever heard from the orchestra.

Lou Gehrig's farewell speech

Today is July 4th -- a day of celebration throughout America. It also happens to be the 75th anniversary of Lou Gehrig's farewell address at Yankee Stadium.  He died two years later of Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, now known simply as Lou Gehrig's disease. Few will remember his home run total (493) in this post-steroid era, but his 23 career grand slams and 500+ RBIs during a three year period are indicative of one thing:  the guy was clutch.

An article in today's Hartford Courant refers to Gehrig's speech as "one of the best-remembered of the 20th century," and "one of the most quoted of the 21st."   But this is only so because of the opening lines . . .

Fans, for the past two weeks you have been reading about the bad break I got. Yet today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.

 . . . and the closing:

I may have had a tough break, but I have an awful lot to live for.

It was a short speech, around 300 words, and the middle portion  -- including a reference to his mother-in-law -- consists of language more suited for a chat with friends in your living room.  Among the few names Gehrig mentions are Jacob Ruppert (who bought the Yankees in 1915) and Miller Huggins (Yankees manager 1918-29), important figures in Yankees history whose names have not stood the test of time.  Even the groundskeeper gets his due.  My guess is that Gehrig wrote the first and last lines, and his wife helped him with the rest.

His 2,130 consecutive game streak (broken over fifty years later by Cal Ripken, Jr.) was a big part of who he was, showing up to play every day.  Besides his brilliance on the field, his everyman quality was a big part of his popularity, never asking for the attention demanded by his teammate, Babe Ruth (who was openly critical of Gehrig's streak).

Before the Lou Gehrig story was made into a film, memorably played by Gary Cooper in "Pride of the Yankees" (1942), Eleanor Gehrig sent Samuel Goldwyn the text of the speech, in which she claimed " . . . Lou and I worked on the night before it was delivered, and naturally, my memory would not fail me in this instance."

If you want to listen to a recording of Gehrig's speech today, you will hear just the best parts of it. Gehrig adored his wife, and so he would naturally take her advice before such an awesome occasion.  His hesitancy to take the microphone given to him by the Yankee skipper, Joe McCarthy, speaks volumes. But Gehrig knew this:  when addressing thousands of his fans, he remembered to begin well and end well.

Music in May

A few weeks ago, I had the great pleasure of working with 56 young musicians selected to play in the Music in May Festival Orchestra, hosted by Pacific University, in Forest Grove, Oregon.  It was 'old home week' for me, my first time at Pacific in over twenty years, when McCready Hall, in the Taylor-Meade Performing Arts Center -- first opened to great fanfare.  (And what a gem it is.) But Pacific University is also the site where my teaching and conducting career began, fresh out of Yale, nearly thirty years ago.  (For those of you who  are thinking how old I am, let me warn you that I've played basketball already four times this week, including one game where I beat my son's team!)

But I digress.

Concert day was a real thrill, in the Stoller Gymasium, the only campus venue large enough to hold over 400 musicians and all of the family and friends who came to hear them perform.  But my strongest memory will be of my rehearsals with a group of classy, eager and outstanding young citizens, all there in the service of music and good fun.

Kristin, Luke, Mack and Tyler held up the string section, and the four of them together were easily one of the finest high school bass sections I have ever worked with.   On cello there was Micah, Karla, Clair, Athena, Keegan and Nate -- les six took great delight in knowing that, of all the instruments playing the melody at the beginning of Dvorak's Eighth Symphony (including clarinets, horns and bassoons), only the violoncelli were given the direction: espressivo.   There were just four violas:  Jessenia, Charley, Summer and Lyndsey, but they held their own very well, and not once did the other string sections drown them out!   On violin there were twelve:  Jonathan, Kathleen, Hanna, Jessica, Kendra, Taylor, Alec, Teagan, Joseph and Daniel (plus Victor and Anastasia, Pacific students who were gracious enough to help us out), and they acquitted themselves admirably, particularly since no one else in the orchestra had music to play that was more difficult than what Dvorak gave them.  Tough stuff.  (Way to go, guys!)  Miss Ihas, a violist on the faculty at Pacific, helped me with the strings throughout the festival; she introduced Mascagni's Intermezzo (from Cavelleria Rusticana) to the string section, and they played it beautifully in the concert.

Let's continue with the woodwinds -- at the high end, there was Ali, who played piccolo, but also flute with her colleagues Jessika, Charlotte and Kendra.  Jessica told me later this was her first time in orchestra, but you wouldn't have known it. (Of course, this was likely true for most of the woodwinds!)  Megan and Kyle played oboe; there was a running contest to see if Kyle would ever make a mistake in rehearsal, and he finally did, but only once.  (And another thing: Kyle also played the English Horn solo beautifully in the Dvorak.) There were six clarinetists, Joshua, Joy, Ian, Luna, Tara and Nikki, all with big personalities, but none bigger than Nikki, who has dreams of being a conductor someday.  (Good luck if you do, Nikki!) Lucas was by himself on bassoon -- good thing we had him!

The horns were solid all weekend: Timothy Mac, Phoebus, Erin and Timothy H.  They were splendid, and were not thrown off when I gave them more music to play than they'd asked for (mostly 2nd bassoon stuff, to join in with Lucas when needed).  On trumpet were Chandler, Isaac and Aly (who conducted the orchestra the day before the concert with great feeling and sensitivity).  These three played with a noble tone uncommon for high school trumpeters -- not once did I have to admonish them for playing too loud, or too stridently. Great job, guys.

At the first rehearsal, I was a little surprised to see two tubas when we only needed one, but Samantha and Matthew (who also conducted on Friday) could not have been more well matched. On trombone we had Devon, Dawson, Jonathan and Steven (who showed up for the first rehearsal in a kilt -- a friend has been bugging me for years to get a kilt and conduct in it, so I was just a little jealous.)   Devon also played in the band, but he also joined us in the orchestra so that we had have some needed extra heft for some of the big climaxes. Jonathan, Dawson and Devon sounded great in the opening of the Dvorak, and Steven was equally fine playing the 2nd bassoon part on bass trombone -- such a nice sound they made together!  And imagine my surprise when Steven presented Schumann's Dichterliebe to me during a break in the action; when I went to the piano to begin playing the first song, "Im wundershoenen Monat Mai," Steven broke out in a beautiful tenor voice -- wow!


Which brings us to the percussion, Aaron, Brandon, Kaitlin and Libby -- poor guys only had one piece to play (Hoe-Down, from Copland's Rodeo), so one of the other percussion mentors took them aside and had them work on a piece to play on their own, which opened the concert.  But I will long remember how they reared up for their big YEEEEE --- HAWWWWW in the Copland!  (And Libby was awesome on woodblock!)  Then there was Levi, who played timpani and piano and . . . harp!  Well not harp exactly, but the harp part, for the Intermezzo.  Levi wins the versatility award (Steven might be tied for first, because in addition to his tenor voice and bass trombone playing, he also did some nifty conducting.)  Levi played an original piano composition for me, revealing a very inventive and accomplished young musician.

What a wonderful group of young people -- I expect great things from them in the future!

Esa-Pekka Salonen, new media icon

In October, I was in Los Angeles to hear Esa-Pekka Salonen conduct his Violin Concerto, written for Leila Josefewicz and the Los Angeles Philharmonic and premiered by both in 2009. Imagine my pleasant surprise when a new Apple ad featuring Salonen hit the airwaves.

My favorite writer on music, Alex Ross, writes about it here.  Enjoy!