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!
Friday, May 6, 2011
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!
Handel's Messiah
At recent performances of Messiah, the audiences readily stood during the Hallelujah chorus. During my pre-concert talk, I suggested that the tradition may have started when King George II stood thinking that he was hearing his country's national anthem (Rule Brittania). They do start similarly, in identical rhythm. (Maestro Rick Coffey respectfully disagrees with me on this notion.)
At any rate, if today we stand not for The Crown, but rather for Handel and the wonder of his titanic genius, then I'm all for it. Let the tradition live on for another 250 years.
At any rate, if today we stand not for The Crown, but rather for Handel and the wonder of his titanic genius, then I'm all for it. Let the tradition live on for another 250 years.
Friday, September 10, 2010
When to Applaud, by Emmanuel Ax
On September 25, Mr. Ax will play Beethoven's Piano Concerto no. 4 in G major with the Hartford Symphony Orchestra. If you plan to attend, read below, and think twice about not applauding at the end of the first movement!
----------ec
All of us love applause, and so we should – it means that the listener LIKES us! So we should welcome applause whenever it comes. And yet, we seem to have set up some very arcane rules as to when it is actually OK to applaud. I have been trying to find out exactly when certain listeners and performers decided that applause between movements would not be “allowed”, or at least would be frowned upon, but nobody seems to have been willing to admit that they were the culprit. Certainly when a composer like Beethoven wrote the symphonies and piano concertos that we hear today in the concert hall, he himself expected that if a movement ended with a flourish, such as the first movement of the 5th piano concerto, the audience would leap to its collective feet and let the composer (and pianist) know that they had triumphed. Mozart often wrote to his family that certain variations or sections of pieces were so successful that they had to be encored immediately, even without waiting for the entire piece to end.
I really hope we can go back to the feeling that applause should be an emotional response to the music, rather than a regulated social duty.
--I am always a little taken aback when I hear the first movement of a concerto which is supposed to be full of excitement, passion, and virtuoso display (like the Brahms or Beethoven Concertos), and then hear a rustling of clothing, punctuated by a few coughs; the sheer force of the music calls for a wild audience reaction.--
On the other hand, sometimes I wish that applause would come just a bit later, when a piece like the Brahms 3rd Symphony comes to an end – it is so beautifully hushed that I feel like holding my breath in the silence of the end. I think that if there were no “rules” about when to applaud, we in the audience would have the right response almost always. Most composers trust their listeners to respond at the right time, and if we feel like expressing approval, we should be allowed to, ANYTIME! Just one favor – even if you don’t like a concert of mine, please PLEASE applaud at the end anyway.
----------ec
All of us love applause, and so we should – it means that the listener LIKES us! So we should welcome applause whenever it comes. And yet, we seem to have set up some very arcane rules as to when it is actually OK to applaud. I have been trying to find out exactly when certain listeners and performers decided that applause between movements would not be “allowed”, or at least would be frowned upon, but nobody seems to have been willing to admit that they were the culprit. Certainly when a composer like Beethoven wrote the symphonies and piano concertos that we hear today in the concert hall, he himself expected that if a movement ended with a flourish, such as the first movement of the 5th piano concerto, the audience would leap to its collective feet and let the composer (and pianist) know that they had triumphed. Mozart often wrote to his family that certain variations or sections of pieces were so successful that they had to be encored immediately, even without waiting for the entire piece to end.
I really hope we can go back to the feeling that applause should be an emotional response to the music, rather than a regulated social duty.
--I am always a little taken aback when I hear the first movement of a concerto which is supposed to be full of excitement, passion, and virtuoso display (like the Brahms or Beethoven Concertos), and then hear a rustling of clothing, punctuated by a few coughs; the sheer force of the music calls for a wild audience reaction.--
On the other hand, sometimes I wish that applause would come just a bit later, when a piece like the Brahms 3rd Symphony comes to an end – it is so beautifully hushed that I feel like holding my breath in the silence of the end. I think that if there were no “rules” about when to applaud, we in the audience would have the right response almost always. Most composers trust their listeners to respond at the right time, and if we feel like expressing approval, we should be allowed to, ANYTIME! Just one favor – even if you don’t like a concert of mine, please PLEASE applaud at the end anyway.
Emmanuel Ax
There was a time when the Hartford Symphony regularly played host to some of the greatest figures in symphonic music.
Lotte Lehmann sang a Wagner program in 1939.
During Fritz Mahler's time, guests included the iconic pianist, Arthur Rubinstein, and the Chilean actress, Felicia Montealegre (Mrs. Leonard Bernstein).
Without a doubt, Arthur Winograd's reign as music director was the richest for guest artists: violinists Yehudi Menuhin and David Oistrakh; cellists Jacqueline du Pre and Yo Yo Ma; sopranos Elizabeth Schwarzkopf and Birgit Nilsson; pianist Van Cliburn, and flutist Jean Pierre Rampal. Benny Goodman played on the pops series, and Arthur Fiedler conducted a pops program, and two notable composers were guest conductors: Aaron Copland and Aram Khachaturian.
Michael Lankester was no slouch, either, having invited violinists Nigel Kennedy and Joshua Bell, contralto Marilyn Horne, composer Michael Tippett (who conducted one of his works), and the pianist/conductor/comedian Victor Borge.
Mr. Ma returned.
Early in his tenure, Maestro Lankester invited Emmanuel Ax to perform a Mozart concerto. Four years later, in 1990, Mr. Ax returned with his wife, Yoko Nozaki, to perform a Bartok work and another piece, Mozart's Concerto for two pianos and orchestra in Eb major, which the duo will return to play on September 25. (Those of us in Hartford can feel fortunate, as the duo is advertised as 'not available' for the 2010-11 season.)
For their return trip, the two of them may note several changes in the past twenty years -- a new piano (purchased several years ago by the Bushnell), a new concert hall (the Belding, which debuted in 2001), and a different music director. . . though I expect Manny and Yoko will recognize many familiar faces still in the orchestra.
My first performancing experience with Yo Yo Ma came after a long association with him that began in Southern California and continued in Pittsburgh. The same is true of Mr. Ax, who came to Tampa to perform Strauss's Burleske when I was Resident Conductor of the Florida Orchestra in the early 1990s. What struck me immediately about this artist was his radiant joy, and his temperament. Even in the flashiest of passages, there is always a soul to Ax's pianism.
He was a guest in Pittsburgh a number of times during my years there, and a favorite memory is sitting with him while the orchestra rehearsed a symphony by Haydn. (For those of you who are not performers, it is extremely rare to find a solo pianist sitting in the audience while the orchestra rehearses other works on the program. "My gosh," he said, bouncing in his chair, "this is such great music. . . Why don't more orchestras perform Haydn?") Oh, and how often does one hear a pianist talk about harmonic adventurism in Bizet's Carmen ? (Don't believe me? go to his blog: http://emanuelax.wordpress.com).
Horatio Gutierrez gave a beautiful rendering of Beethoven's 4th piano concerto in Hartford several years ago, but I will never forget Ax's performance of this work in Pittsburgh. From the very first chord, played so poetically, it became immediately apparent we were all in for a unique experience with this masterwork, the most intimate of Beethoven's five concertos for the piano.
And to give you an example of Ax's daring, he did something with the New York Philharmonic that few pianists would agree to do. While the orchestra played Ive's Unanswered Question, Ax sat at the piano, waiting . . . just as the final strains of Ives died away, he began the Beethoven. It was a heavenly segue. A friend of mine reported on the event as "pure poetry." In effect, Beethoven became the answer to Ives's question.
Emmanuel Ax, a poet among pianists.
Lotte Lehmann sang a Wagner program in 1939.
During Fritz Mahler's time, guests included the iconic pianist, Arthur Rubinstein, and the Chilean actress, Felicia Montealegre (Mrs. Leonard Bernstein).
Without a doubt, Arthur Winograd's reign as music director was the richest for guest artists: violinists Yehudi Menuhin and David Oistrakh; cellists Jacqueline du Pre and Yo Yo Ma; sopranos Elizabeth Schwarzkopf and Birgit Nilsson; pianist Van Cliburn, and flutist Jean Pierre Rampal. Benny Goodman played on the pops series, and Arthur Fiedler conducted a pops program, and two notable composers were guest conductors: Aaron Copland and Aram Khachaturian.
Michael Lankester was no slouch, either, having invited violinists Nigel Kennedy and Joshua Bell, contralto Marilyn Horne, composer Michael Tippett (who conducted one of his works), and the pianist/conductor/comedian Victor Borge.
Mr. Ma returned.
Early in his tenure, Maestro Lankester invited Emmanuel Ax to perform a Mozart concerto. Four years later, in 1990, Mr. Ax returned with his wife, Yoko Nozaki, to perform a Bartok work and another piece, Mozart's Concerto for two pianos and orchestra in Eb major, which the duo will return to play on September 25. (Those of us in Hartford can feel fortunate, as the duo is advertised as 'not available' for the 2010-11 season.)
For their return trip, the two of them may note several changes in the past twenty years -- a new piano (purchased several years ago by the Bushnell), a new concert hall (the Belding, which debuted in 2001), and a different music director. . . though I expect Manny and Yoko will recognize many familiar faces still in the orchestra.
My first performancing experience with Yo Yo Ma came after a long association with him that began in Southern California and continued in Pittsburgh. The same is true of Mr. Ax, who came to Tampa to perform Strauss's Burleske when I was Resident Conductor of the Florida Orchestra in the early 1990s. What struck me immediately about this artist was his radiant joy, and his temperament. Even in the flashiest of passages, there is always a soul to Ax's pianism.
He was a guest in Pittsburgh a number of times during my years there, and a favorite memory is sitting with him while the orchestra rehearsed a symphony by Haydn. (For those of you who are not performers, it is extremely rare to find a solo pianist sitting in the audience while the orchestra rehearses other works on the program. "My gosh," he said, bouncing in his chair, "this is such great music. . . Why don't more orchestras perform Haydn?") Oh, and how often does one hear a pianist talk about harmonic adventurism in Bizet's Carmen ? (Don't believe me? go to his blog: http://emanuelax.wordpress.com).
Horatio Gutierrez gave a beautiful rendering of Beethoven's 4th piano concerto in Hartford several years ago, but I will never forget Ax's performance of this work in Pittsburgh. From the very first chord, played so poetically, it became immediately apparent we were all in for a unique experience with this masterwork, the most intimate of Beethoven's five concertos for the piano.
And to give you an example of Ax's daring, he did something with the New York Philharmonic that few pianists would agree to do. While the orchestra played Ive's Unanswered Question, Ax sat at the piano, waiting . . . just as the final strains of Ives died away, he began the Beethoven. It was a heavenly segue. A friend of mine reported on the event as "pure poetry." In effect, Beethoven became the answer to Ives's question.
Emmanuel Ax, a poet among pianists.
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