The Standing Room

The Hand of Providence sends TSR off to Boston

And you thought the Immaculate Conception was miraculous! After a day of already heightened anxiety levels, upon seeing yet another envelope with that painfully familiar DPT logo in my mailbox I nearly cried out, "Eli, eli, lema sabachthani?" So imagine my disbelief when I read the following words, which I could never have imagined a roomful of monkeys typing, even in eternity:

After reviewing all of the evidence, including the citation and your protest letter, I find the citation invalid under the circumstances. I accept your testimony and the letter of your passenger that you were not in the vicinity of GG Park at the time the parking control officer supposedly checked your vehicle for purposes of regulating overtime parking there. Accordingly, I am dismissing this citation inasmuch as it appears as though the PCO incorrectly wrote it, and without the time check, we have no basis to determine whether any violation occurred. You can expect a refund in the mail in 1 to 2 weeks. No further action is required.

Friends, this could only have come from the hand of God! Verily I say unto you, I know not of a single soul who has received such a blessed communication. Between this and that hurricane map, I'm starting to consider the possibility of a higher power...

To celebrate this victory over Satan's minions, I'm enjoying a $10 Caesar salad out of a plastic container as I await my redeye flight to Boston. I'm drawn there by M. R-'s hospitality and some events designed to evoke collegiate nostalgia.  I'm hoping there will be time for a Bach cantata at Emmanuel Church as well. Posts will come when they can; I make no promises.

Department of Pillaging and Thievery

How can one city department have such an absurdly high concentration of employees who are spawns of Satan?

2 city coin collectors busted for spare change
by Matier & Ross

The "violation" tag has flipped up on a pair of parking meter collectors suspected of bilking the city of San Francisco out of up to as much as $5,000 a week.

The two work for Serco, the company under contract to collect coins from the city's parking meters, and were caught Monday with $500 worth of spare change, investigators said.

"You should have seen the bag -- it must have weighed 75 pounds,'' said one worker who witnessed the pair being hauled in by the police.

Maggie Lynch of the Department of Parking and Traffic said the two workers, whom she identified as John Chann and Roth Ham, had been charged with felony grand theft, embezzlement and conspiracy.

"The investigation started a while back when it was noticed that there were discrepancies between what was being collected on a daily basis," Lynch said. "One crew would come back with one amount, and this crew would come back with a lot less.''

After going back over collection records, a pattern seemed to emerge with losses of between $1,000 and $5,000 a week.

The cops were brought in with cameras rolling and apparently caught the pair in the act.

Muni Director Michael Burns, whose agency oversees Parking and Traffic, said the city would pursue criminal and civil cases against the two employees. Neither one could be reached for comment Tuesday night.

This wouldn't be the first time silver-snatching workers had made off with some serious coin. In March, investigators hauled nearly a half a ton of coins out of a Muni fare box technician's home in Lafayette.

Dysentery, part 3: New music edition

A shitty morning (biting my lip hard enough to draw blood and pouring an entire cup of coffee on my lap, resulting in wet underwear at work) offered a good excuse for an Amoeba run. Today's stash turned out to be awfully new-musicky:

Amy X Neuburg, Residue. Amy rocked the house all the way down at the Other Minds Festival last year. She shared the program with percussionist Evelyn Glennie (who gave an extraordinarily focused and intense performance) and the Onyx String Quartet doing some Ge Gan-ru (unmemorable piece; memorable playing, but not in a good way). But even so I dithered on whether to get her album because I was worried that her amazing, virtuosic one-woman show, which features live triggers of loops and samples, many of which are being recorded as she's performing, wouldn't translate in my living room. I listened to it tonight over dinner, and indeed some of the impact of the live show is missing. But "My God" alone is worth the price of the CD (especially when it's on sale used at Amoeba). Does she practice Islam? You'll have to listen to find out. Please go see Amy if she comes your way! She makes me think about singing in totally different ways, and puts on a good show too.

Eric Whitacre, Complete A Cappella Works 1991-2001. Haven't opened the shrinkwrap on this one yet because I must admit I don't know anything about it. Whitacre's name came up in a conversation with Maestro G- about Toby Twining a month or so ago, and I've been curious ever since.

Ethel. Yes, it took me this long to get a copy; cheapness forces me to the back of the pack yet again. This was the first album I put on this evening. Some very fine string quartet playing -- no wonder the buzz has been so strong and incessant. I'll pay more attention tomorrow (when I'm not cooking), but on first listen John King's Sweet Hardwood and Evan Ziporyn's Be-in stood out. I'm so bummed I'll be missing this New Sounds Live concert at Merkin by a week. I really like Phil Kline's Zippo Songs too.

Arnold Dreyblatt, The Adding Machine. Piece by piece the whole Cantaloupe catalog is being gathered. I'm going solely on recommendations here; I know nothing about this album.

Meredith Monk, Atlas. I listened to Facing North again; I hadn't heard it since an American Mavericks concert at the Symphony back in 1999. It was as delightful today as it was live. So many marvelous and evocative sounds! And that Arctic Bar movement had me laughing like a fool, standing in front of my desk with headphones on, waiting for my pants to dry. There's hardly ever any Meredith CDs available used at Amoeba, but Atlas was there today so I picked it up.

Del Sol String Quartet, Short Cuts. I think I heard about these folks from two different sources on the same day last year. I went to a recital they did at USF with M. H- and Mme H- (back when Mme H- was still Mlle H-) and they played a George Antheil quartet that was surprisingly fun --  quirky and stylistically all over the place. I heard just the other day that they're planning to release a whole album of Antheil quartets. The album I picked up today is just three tracks, but for $1.99 clearance I figure it's worth it; I wanted to hear the Keeril Makan track anyway.

eighth blackbird, beginnings. I'm kind of weirdly fanatic about these guys. Like, when I noticed that Matthew Duvall was playing in the Cabrillo Music Festival orchestra, I got a little excited, as though it were a star sighting or something. They played a fantastic show here for San Francisco Performances a season or two ago, one of the high points of the year as far as I'm concerned. Interesting music, engaging presentation, superlative playing. SF Performances has brought them back this season, for a concert in the hall at the new JCC. In fact, I'm going to put Round Nut Tool and Thirteen Ways in my bag right now for tomorrow's listening.

Are you there, God? It's me, M. C-

Thanks to M. W- for forwarding this; click on the image to enlarge the text. We'd be interested to know how accurate this data is...

An Ode to Chazzanim, or, What Singing's About

The High Holy Days marathon has ended; a belated good yontif to all.  I hope your fast was easy, and your burthen light.

I'm always exhausted at the end of 15 hours of Kol Nidre/Yom Kippur services, but it's almost embarrassing to admit it when I compare the small job I have to do with the incredible task that our cantor takes on. Not only does she have to sing almost constantly through these services (much more than any Christian cantor I've ever heard, btw) while fasting, but ultimately her charge is to lead her congregation in their spiritual journey through prayer and to channel, you know, a few thousand years of Jewish music and tradition. There's nothing quite like listening to a good Jewish cantor to remind you that singing should never be just about hearing yourself sing.

A couple years ago I heard Cantor Roslyn Barak from Temple Emanu-el sing and speak a bit.  She quoted Abraham Heschel's essay titled "The Vocation of the Cantor" (from The Insecurity of Freedom), in which he explores what the cantor's role should be in the life of his or her congregation, and how music achieves that goal.  Much of what she said I found relevant even to non-liturgical singing, and she was kind enough to send me a copy of the essay afterwards. Some snippets from Heschel's piece are below for you to chew on. Kippot off to all you Chazzanim out there: you have my respect.

One must realize the difficulties of the Cantor.  The call to prayer often falls against an iron wall.  The congregation is not always open and ready to worship.  The Cantor has to pierce the armor of indifference.  He has to fight for a response.  He has to conquer them in order to speak for them.  Often he must first be one who awakens those who slumber.

To sing means to sense and affirm that the spirit is real and that its glory is present. In singing we perceive what is otherwise beyond perceiving. Song, and particularly liturgical song, is not only an act of expression but also a way of bringing down the spirit from heaven to earth.

Words die of routine.  The Cantor's task is to bring them to life.  A Cantor is a person who knows the secret of the resurrection of the words.

Song is the most intimate expression of man.  In no other way does man reveal himself so completely as in the way he sings.  For the voice of a person, particularly when in song, is the soul in its full nakedness.  When we sing, we utter and confess all our thoughts.

Amein.

La Juive?: Moblogging from the choir loft, Part 2

Reading for the 2nd Kol Nidre service of the evening: Callas's thoughts on Violetta and Fiordiligi

Mr Bean and Il Traviato

La Traviata was the first show I could get to this season at the SF Opera, and given the cast (Ruth Ann Swenson, Rolando Villazon, Dmitri Hvorostovsky) and the reviews, my expectations were fairly high.

There were indeed some truly fine things. Acts I and III (unlike the SF Opera, I'll call the two middle "acts" scenes 1 & 2 of Act II) were pretty strong overall. Swenson sang particularly well in her scene with Alfredo and her soliloquy in Act I, and the Addio in Act III was for the most part really lovely. But as the night wore on, she started scooping incessantly (really, like on every single ascending leap) and her vibrato slowed way down, which completely distracted me from all the beautiful things she was doing. 

People went fucking nuts over Villazon as Alfredo, but I can only say that his sound doesn't do it for me. Some may call it "robust" and "burnished," but to me it just seems like there's a whole lot of unnecessary pushing going on and like he's artificially darkening the sound.  And I know this is petty, but surely I can't be the only one who thinks that Rolando Villazón looks and moves just like Rowan Atkinson as Mr Bean.

Then there was Hvorostovsky. I had heard through the grapevine that he was sounding strong and healthy these days, and was really looking forward to hearing him. I cannot believe how consistently he stopped the show -- by sucking the life out of everything on stage whenever he appeared. Ahime! He was as boring as a sponge, and completely ruined Act II, scene 1 for me. And the sound wasn't even there: the top was all closed off, his tone wasn't good, he was in his own weirdo tempo universe, and he consistently went out of tune. Truly, a disappointment.

It was a traditional, attractive, lavish/ opulent/ [check-thesaurus-here] production with gigantic hoopy skirts that all the ladies in the audience cooed at.  Direction was mostly park-n-bark, with touches of wall-hugging here and there. (Thankfully there was no floor-rolling, a personal pet peeve.) However, the entire cast stood immobile come scogli for what seemed like the last 10 minutes of Act II, scene 2. Era strano.

But then, what the hell do I know?  People were out of their heads at the end of the show.  (Some, like the bozo who screamed BRAVISSIMI!!!! at the top of his lungs after every number, big and small alike, were clearly insane already.) Ovations, screaming, repeated curtain calls, the whole bit.

It may be that I was just distracted that night by an idea inspired by Billy Budd: What if La Traviata were also done by an all-male cast?  Now that'd be something I'd be interested in seeing in repertory. So I hereby present TSR's contemporary reconceptualization of:

IL TRAVIATO

Act I: Vincent, a high-priced escort and gay porn star, hosts an A-list party at his decked-out SoMa loft. Youthful and earnest Freddie arrives. Biggie D, Vincent's director and "protector" is put out by Freddie's toast. Vincent hints that he's sick. As the beat kicks up in the other room, Freddie admits to Vincent that he's, like, seen all of his movies. Vincent offers him some E and a lollipop, and tells him to return when it's worn off. Freddie is delighted and goes off to party. Vincent muses on what it'd be like to give up tricking for cash and fall in love with innocent Freddie, and decides to celebrate life and its pleasures by remaining Sempre libero.

Act II, scene 1: Vincent and Freddie have moved up to Guerneville to try out the country life. Freddie surreptitiously discovers that Vincent's been hawking underwear and jockstraps and stuff from his porn days on eBay to cover their bills, and embarrassed Freddie heads back to the city to pay off some of the debt. George, Freddie's father, arrives to ask Vincent to give Freddie up: Freddie's sister is getting married to a politician who can't afford to have a porn star in the family. There is much gnashing of teeth, but Vincent finally agrees. Vincent hints again that he's sick. George heads out to the vineyard to wait, while Vincent writes an email to Freddie. Freddie comes back to read that Vincent has gone back to his sugar daddy, and is humiliated. George tries to comfort him, but Freddie sees an Evite to a party on Vincent's computer and decides to go to exact revenge.

Act II, scene 2: The scene opens with a drag show hosted by Miss Coco Peru. Some go-go dancers come out dressed as matadors and then do the fully monty. Vincent arrives with Biggie D; Freddie and D exchange bitchinesses. The party gets going in the other room, and Vincent and Freddie stay behind to argue. Freddie calls all of the partiers back and throws a wad of money at Vincent, announcing that he's paid back everything he owes him. Everyone thinks Freddie's a dolt, and he runs off.

Act III: Vincent's cancer has metastasized and the chemo hasn't helped.  Resting at home, he hears partying outside: It's the Folsom Street Fair! He re-reads the email from George that says he's told Freddie everything and they're coming back to Vincent. Freddie returns, full of remose; they sing about how they'd love to move out of San Francisco to someplace cheaper, and then Vincent expires. True love conquers nothing. And it's all George's fault.

Who will step up to the plate now that Jonathan Larsen is gone? Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake meets Y tu mama tambien meets Naked Boys Singing! meets The Fluffer -- I'm telling you, this has some real potential.

Ain't It a Pretty Voice?

After listening to Renee Fleming's Ombra mai fu today, this post from Parterre Box made me laugh out loud. Thank you, Parterre Box! (And sorry, Carlisle Floyd.)

Ain't It a Pretty Voice?

The tone's so dark and velvet-like
And I sound like such a star.
I'm like a great big CD
Remixing Freni and Lily Pons.

Now that I'm a star, Little Matt,
The harder you book, the more my fee.
I'm singing too heavy by far,
So I go flat in the upper-middle
And cover my top notes
In imitation of Schwarzkopf
All mixed with Streisand.

Ain't it a pretty voice?
Just think, those fans can all peep down
And scream way above where I can.
They can scream like the Fleming Flappers
In Paris and Salzburg and Bayreuth.
I bet they all read Out out there --
Those fans, those Fleming Flappers --
Where the guys talk nice
And the guys dress nice
Like you see in the all-male catalogs.

I aim to sing Traviata some day
And learn the notes myself
To sing all the high options
And take the E-flat
And to take all of them bows myself.

I wonder if I'd get lonesome for the Mozart though,
For the sound of critics praising "Dove sono"
For soft little high notes and scoopin' things
And Cecilia kickin' Bryn in the balls.

But I could always come back
If I got homesick for the Mozart.
I'll sing Mozart one day, and Verdi the next
Then I'll sing pop, and then I'll cross back
When I've seen how to win them Grammies!

Ain't it a pretty voice?
I sing so heavy and dark tonight
You'd think I was Fedora Barbieri...
I cover my top
I cover my top
In imitation of Schwarzkopf and Streisand.

Disaster strikes TSR!

Both of my hard drives failed last night and I now seem to have a dead computer. And since I'm supposed to go to two operas, two concerts, a rehearsal, and Kol Nidre/Yom Kippur services this week, who knows when I'll be able to deal with the damn thing. So please bear with me; this week's posts may be a bit on the lean side.

Meanwhile, did everyone else already know that Lorraine Hunt Lieberson released an album of Handel arias on a British label called Avie? And if so, why the fuck didn't anyone tell me? Anyway, apparently Avie's philosophy is that artists should own their own masters, and the label manufactures, markets and distributes the product. I started listening to the album on Sunday but got distracted by the computer fiasco.

I've packed that and Renee Fleming's new Handel record in my bag for some side-by-side listening tomorrow.  Harry Bicket directs the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment on both albums. I'll try my best to put aside my preconceptions, but honestly I can't see how there'll really be any comparison.

And to top it all off, I had to mail the bastards at the DPT a check today to pay one of my several unjust parking citations. They rejected my initial protest, so now we move into the administrative hearing request phase.  But even though the citation is still being challenged, I'm obligated to fork over cash at this point while I wait for a hearing.  Those cretins make me so fucking mad.  In fact, I think I have to step away from the computer now (I kicked OMC off his computer so I could blog) and get a drink.

Hey la, hey la: Akhnaten's back

Back in April 1996, as we headed to the Met to hear an afternoon dress rehearsal of Philip Glass's The Voyage, Mlle Y— told me how she and a friend had attended the Halloween performance of the show's first run at the Met in 1992. Given the holiday, her friend decided it would be appropriate to wear an Einstein wig and a pair of Jams. The opera patrons around them apparently did not agree. But Mlle Y— and her friend cared not a whit, as they had gotten utterly baked ahead of time and consequently enjoyed the show immensely.

Unfortunately I hadn't thought to chemically lower my amusement threshold before that afternoon's Voyage, and so at the end of the second act I found myself being awakened by applause. I do remember something about Columbus heading off on a boat with big swaths of colored fabric flapping to simulate the sea.  And after revisiting the synopsis today, I also vaguely recall spacesuits.

So I am still a little shocked at how successfully the fledgling Oakland Opera, with just a dozen or so singers and a mini pit orchestra, took Glass's Akhnaten—an opera set in Egypt in the 14th century BC, with a libretto written almost entirely in dead languages and presented without supertitles—stuffed their production into a little black-box theater that seats 100 people, and made the whole thing work. I was engrossed in the story. I cared about the characters. There was dramatic tension and momentum. The production was intelligently and creatively conceived, and without annoying pretentious quirks.  And best of all, the production illuminated the music and revealed the effectiveness of Philip's writing: I came out of the show understanding so much more about what he was doing in this piece than I would have had I only listened to a recording.

I'm not saying that there weren't some problems: if intonation and rhythmic integrity are a guide, the instrumentalists were clearly getting a little tired of arpeggios in the second act.  Some of the singers' entrances were a bit ragged, to be sure. And as my companion Mme H— pointed out, Nefertiti with her black wig and severe eye makeup was reminiscent of Christina Aguilera (and that Dance of the One Veil she did in the love scene was Dirrrrrty!). But none of the issues I had ultimately detracted from the effect of the production as a whole. The singing was uniformly solid, and some of it was particularly good; all of the music with Akhnaten (Paul Flight, a countertenor) and the various women was both beautiful and beautifully sung.

This is an extension of the show's run, which was originally presented back in May. If you're into reading what music critics have to say, here's Joshua Kosman's rave in the Chronicle. Snaps to Deirdre McClure, who conducted the monster while also shouldering the stressful responsibility of mouthing all the maddeningly irregular vocal entrances to cue the singers. (I cannot imagine trying to memorize this thing.) And super-snaps to Ellen Sebastian Chang, the director, for finding a way to bring this show to life.

But super-duper-snaps with a wedge of lime go to the Oakland Metro, which is like the awesomest opera venue ever! At intermission, a bamboo screen that was part of the stage's backdrop rises to reveal... the bar! And after walking across the set to get your G&T, you head out to the lobby area, which the theater shares with Secrets, an adult "super store." Mostly the patrons of the two establishments keep their distance from each other. But every once in a while you see someone emerge from Secrets holding a glass of chardonnay. Note to SF Opera: want to enlarge the size of your audience? Try selling dildos in the lobby!

If you just can't bring yourself to sit through a Philip Glass opera, at least amuse yourself with P.D.Q. Bach's Prelude to Einstein on the Fritz. As the liner notes explain:

The plot is not as complicated as that of most operas: Einstein feels a sneeze coming on, and takes his handkerchief from his pocket. In Act II, he realizes that he is not going to sneeze after all, and he puts his handkerchief back in his pocket in Act III.

It's worth it just to hear the bass sing "Koy-hotsy-totsi".

~~~~~~

One of the reasons I love Jack London Square is that I have never had trouble finding a parking space there. But what Mme H- and I didn't anticipate was the outrageous back-up getting on to the Bay Bridge at midnight! It took more than half an hour just to get to the toll plaza. At midnight! Eventually I was able to cut across four lanes to traffic to get to the Fastrak lane. I mean, wtf?