When I was studying with Leonard Stein, who was Schoenberg’s student/assistant …

(by the way he had this old house up in the Hollywood Hills to which I would drive every week and he was pretty old and feisty and “had this neighbor, who was quite attractive I must say — I think she’s an actress or model or something her name is Linda … Evangelista I think? Have you heard of her? Anyway I want to show you this letter Boulez wrote me about Le marteau … “)

…. when he really didn’t dig a piece he would call it “rhapsodic.”  He said it with a sneer.  And I’m thinking about him this week because it’s all Chopin, Wagner, and Liszt at the KW Symphony.

I personally have no problem with rhapsodic music, because I don’t think structure is everything.  I do know a lot about structure, in fact that’s the way I was taught to understand music, but these days I’m thinking about how the music “gets you there.”  Structure is all well and good, but music happens in real time, and though the audience might perceive the structure of a piece in some way, they’re much more concerned with the moment to moment. The fun of performing a piece like Wagner’s Prelude and Liebestod or Liszt’s Les Préludes is getting there.  And by “there” of course I mean a musical CLIMAX.  We all know where this piece is going to end up, but the options one has as a performer to get there are infinite! Hmm, that last sentence reminds me of something else (SEX). That’s what’s fun about rhapsodic music — there are fewer structural roadblocks for the performer to do his or her thing.  The only problem with rhapsodic music is that without a clear musical form, the listener has to have at least some idea of what’s coming next — so Wagner and Liszt use lots of sequences and you have to deal with those.  But I don’t mind, I’ve always had a soft spot for them.

Last week I heard the Berlin Philharmonic play Schoenberg’s Chamber Symphony No. 1 in the big orchestra version, which is a piece I studied with Leonard and know really well.  There’s a piece that wears its structure on its sleeve, but it goes by so fast and is so complex (for instance, there are several superimposed structures happening in that piece) that I can’t imagine the audience is following this, though I’m sure they’re aware that the music has structure and is complex in that way.  Schoenberg was of course a Structure Queen as was Brahms ,which is why Sir Simon put them on the same program.  (You have to read Schoneberg’s essay Brahms the Progressive).  In both composers, there’s this tremendous tension between structure and Romantic Sentiment.  A kind of self-repression or self-negation going on I think. The structure seems to be the walls holding the wildness back.  This is what makes Brahms so difficult to perform well, I think.  But when it’s great, when all the structure and emotion are in line it’s beautiful and always a little sad because it’s about real life where rhapsodic music is about our inner fantasies.

And yes, Wagner and Liszt do have structure too, in their own way, but as compositions they are by no means obsessed with it.  It’s fun to be in rhapsody / fantasy world this week.  Orchestra concerts could use more music like this and less “structure concerts.”  Opera, you know where it’s at, you’ve got plenty of both!

This week I’m in Mexico City conducting the Mexico City Philharmonic. I have to hurry up and write this post fast because my concert is at 6pm! It’s one of a number of things that are different here.

If I’m not mistaken, this is the largest city in the world, and the amount of people and traffic is astounding. In a city like this, with so many colors and traditions, orchestral music seems to play a niche role in the visual landscape of the city, rather than the central one it plays north of the border. In so many American and Canadian cities, the concert hall is in the center of town, a grand, expensive monument to Western Culture. And it isn’t really perceived as an accessible place.

Granted, Mexico City does have a grand concert hall called Bellas Artes, but the hall I’m working in is in the south part of the city, an unassuming bungalow painted with earthy stripes like high school in San Diego. The orchestra is huge and plays big programs every week; the hall is filled to 80% capacity each night the orchestra plays. But here’s the biggest deal: the tickets are 20 pesos (that’s less than $2US!). Can you imagine what orchestras would be like north of the border if the tickets were that inexpensive? Who would come to the concerts? How would the low-key hall and the cheap tickets change the experience for the audience? It really boggles the mind.

The only thing I could think of that came close were the $1 seats at the Hollywood Bowl when I was younger. I was going to tons of LA Phil concerts then, buying tickets in the back and then just moving up (there were plenty of empty seats further up on a Tuesday and Thursday night). A lot of people feel special when they shell out the big bucks for a concert they’re into, but I felt special because someone was letting me see an amazing orchestra for only $1. I felt like they wanted me there, and not just my money.

A few weeks ago at the Kitchener-Waterloo symphony, we had an open house in our new home and rehearsal space, the Conrad Centre for the performing arts (above).  It’s a fairly low-key building right on the main street.  Something was going on every half hour: there was dance, theatre, and singing (not all classical).  For our part, it was casual, There was no conductor entrance or exit — I just stood around and chatted with people in the audience before and after.  And it was a new audience — different people, different ages, different ethnic backgrounds.  It was who we wanted, and it was free and low key.

I think if we want new people to love  orchestral music, we have to invite them, and make them feel comfortable.  With orchestras constantly worrying about the bottom line, this is a challenge, but it would work.  We have to make our new audience feel important and the center of our focus, not like strangers in a strange land.

Back in SF for a short weekend. My first time back since moving to Chicago.  It felt like when I was on tour with the SF Symphony in Italy for just one day.  Hadn’t been there in years and had no plans to go back, so I ate my way thru Torino.  I did the same in SF this weekend.

After rehearsal it was all about the usual Blue Bottle Coffee, burger at Absinthe, and the normal Hayes St. stuff.  Also tired Heaven’s Dog which is Slanted Door food with a great bar.

But two things were especially memorable.

Alembic was off the hook: eating a pork belly slider and sipping a Corpse Revival No. 2, I felt like I was in the world’s most delicious zombie movie.  And shishito peppers are the best bar food ever.

Then it was Delfina, which I never went to because I thought it was too hard to get a table.  Big mistake.

Escarole salad with nuts and first persimmons of the year, house cured salmon and then two revelations.

The spaghetti was perfect and the tomato sauce was so fresh but was all umami as well.  I asked them what kind of bacon they flavored the sauce with, but it was vegan(?!).  They just stewed the early girl tomatoes in some sort of magic way (tomatoes are still good in Cali).  How?  Please tell me!

Also there was this ahi tuna on the white beans, but was there grated cheese on top?  Impossible in a serious Italian restaurant, and I was right: it was exquisitely grated hard-boiled egg whites.  They really helped to activate the fish and bean energy.

I just love the Cali cooking and how it’s all about the ingredients.  Why inject chef-ego into nature’s wonderful creations?  Usually, it doesn’t make them better.

Our new place in Chicago has an amazing view. Its up on the 33rd floor and I can see all around.  It’s a great place to think about things like planning a season, and various other items that are crossing my desk.  I find now more than ever I’m getting asked to work on projects like “How do we combine jazz and orchestra in a new way?” or “How do we get these pop songs to work in a subscription concert?”  And what I do is pace around the apartment and look out the window at the lake and think about the air meeting the water.  Some days it’s prettier than others. That’s kind of how it is with these projects.  The truth is I think almost any idea with orchestra can work, but it’s how you do it.  It takes a tremendous amount of thought and you really have to know both sides of the coin pretty well.  What I like about these projects is that they assume that the orchestra is an amazingly versatile and flexible sound entity, and that’s forward-looking  But there is also this tremendous tradition and training and skill with orchestras that you want to draw on as much as possible, or they’ll be bored and using like 2% or the processors.

How do you get the most out of these things? It’s a tricky question, but it’s fun.

THIS ARTICLE in newmusicbox is the most thoughtful examination of The Composer Is Dead.  Now that I no longer live in SF, it makes me nostalgic for the creative crew who live there.  But I’ll be there in a few weeks so beer, sausages, and amoeba await!

Finally I’ve gotten this season’s SCHEDULE up on the site, so if you want to check out where I’m conducting this season it’s all there.  Come and say hi!

Right now I’m in Las Vegas doing Sgt. Pepper with Cheap Trick again.  I have to say that one of the more eclectic experiences of my life was leaving the run here to do a show with Frederica von Stade in Canada, then getting on a private jet the next day and flying back for Cheap Trick the following night.

First of all, Flicka was sublime and she sang a world premiere by our very own Nathaniel Stookey called Into the Bright Lights.  Flicka wrote the words herself and they are personal to the point of being confessional.  It is such a wonderful thing to sing on her farewell tour and I hope she keeps doing them.

Flicka is such a consummate musician, and standing next to her while she sang “Baïléro” and other gems like that was of course unforgettable.  It’s this incredible combination of beauty and humanity and truth that is unique to her.  I’m glad our paths crossed on stage, if only for a brief moment.

Then back to the Cheap Trick show — we did this at the Hollywood Bowl a few years ago, and it’s taken on a life of its own.  This time they’ve put the orchestra directly above the band and me dead center on stage.  Robin Zander gave me this cool jacket to wear, and it occurred to me right away that I’d better do something different.  I’ve seen enough rock-orchestra shows where the orchestra looks disengaged and the conductor is a big ol’ nerd compared to the band.  So I decided to be part of the band and do all of the rock stuff: dance around, look at the audience, smile, sing along, play cowbell, and so on.  I think this works very well!  And it’s fun!  The Vegas orchestra players are very aware they are being watched, and don’t have terribly difficult parts to play, so they want to get involved.  As we were rehearsing to coda to “I am the Walrus” there are these huge downbows in the orchestra parts and the concert master offered me the so-called “LA Flail,” in which the entire string section flails their head on every downbow!  Yes!  One of the reviewers said listening to “I am the Walrus” live made him want to “drop acid and pick up a cello.”  Now that’s a good review, and if you haven’t payed attention to the cello parts on this song, you should.

And finally …

Someone emailed me a little while ago and asked me what I was listening to these days. So here are two things I keep coming back to over and over …

First of all, anything by JORDI SAVALL.  He is an endless well of musical genius and basically I listen to him all the time and wish orchestras played that way.  For instance check this out:

And then on the other side of things I just can’t stop listening to The Bird and the Bee. The songs are so elegant and witty, the voice is so sexy.

I spent many summers with Michael Steinberg and his wife Jorja Fleezanis at the wonderful music festival in Round Top, Texas.  One day, on my way to town, I was stopped by Michael who asked if I might be able to pick up a bottle of Campari.  ”I’m going to sit on the porch and drink a Salieri, which is Campari with orange juice.  It’s quite a lovely drink, and you’re welcome to join me.”   I did, and we talked about music, poetry, and life.  We did this many times over the years, and I was never the same.  Michael had a slow, lilting rhythm when he spoke, always calm in sound, but occasionally sharp and critical in content.  Those flashes always made me wonder what the early Michael was like, if those words had mellowed considerably with age.  When I knew him, he seemed incredibly calm and clear about what was important to him, and that was poetry.  He would gather groups of students together for poetry readings.  Then, after a few years, he began to coach the students on how to read poems: the meter, the rhyme, the click of a “k”, the sexiness of an “l,” the perfect pause, the expression of it all.  Michael believed that the clearest manifestation of poetry was in poems, and that if musicians read poems, away from the hard work of practicing their instruments, they would naturally find poetry in notes.  I remember the feeling of reading in public for the first time, away from the podium, or from my bass.  Just me and beautiful words and naked expression.  It was scary and thrilling, and it’s where I try to get now when I perform.  It’s not easy, it doesn’t always happen, but it’s a worthy goal, and it’s one that Michael revealed to me.

So Michael, thank you, and I’ll miss you.  You’ve become a part of me after all of those years, sipping Salieris on the porch.  I’m glad you left so much for me to read, and I turn to your books often. They’re program notes, but I’m not looking for the history or the facts when I read your work.  I’m looking for those magical turns of phrase that reveal something profound about a piece, words that inspire me and ignite my imagination.  I’m looking for your poetic vision of the music.  Who knew program notes could be poetry?  But then again, I think your lesson was that everything could be poetry.

Here’s a poem that you read to me that I’ll never forget.  In fact, it reminds me of you.  The rhythm reminds me of your voice, the words of a certain kind of music and music-making.  And of course you were a Romantic, in love.

Romantics: Johannes Brahms and Clara Schumann
by Lisel Mueller

The modern biographers worry
“how far it went,” their tender friendship.
They wonder just what it means
when he writes he thinks of her constantly,
his guardian angel, beloved friend.
The modern biographers ask
the rude, irrelevant question
of our age, as if the event
of two bodies meshing together
establishes the degree of love,
forgetting how softly Eros walked
in the nineteenth century, how a hand
held overlong or a gaze anchored
in someone’s eyes could unseat a heart,
and nuances of address not known
in our egalitarian language
could make the redolent air
tremble and shimmer with the heat
of possibility. Each time I hear
the Intermezzi, sad
and lavish in their tenderness,
I imagine the two of them
sitting in a garden
among late-blooming roses
and dark cascades of leaves,
letting the landscape speak for them,
leaving us nothing to overhear.

So I picked up some CD’s at Amoeba a few days ago:

Bellini: Norma (Callas 1961: Conducting La Traviata is pulling me deeper into bel canto. Can we think up some modern version of this kind of singing?)

Dirty Projectors: Bitte Orca (yes yes they are amazing and melismaTASTIC)

Sonic Youth: Goo (apparently I’m supposed to like them, and I’m giving it another shot.  I already like this better than Daydream Nation)

Fennesz: Endless Summer (not as good as the movie, but nice nice atmospheric electronica)

Pet Shop Boys: Very and Alternative (only $4.99 each!  and Alternative is a 2-CD set!  Very comes in a rubbery orange case with NUBS.  Sample lyric:  ”I’m gonna take off all my clothes / And dance to the Rite of Spring / I don’t normally do that kind of thing” These should be much more expensive.  Clever fun and DANCEABLE!)

I’m getting to the end of our La Traviata run at San Francisco Opera.  For a conductor who mainly does symphony work, it has been refreshing and revelatory working on this score.  I can see why Stravinsky gushes about him so much in his Poetics of Music.  There’s something pure about his music: perfectly distilled sounds, perfectly distilled emotion and expression.  But more importantly, there is the beauty and sensuality of the sound itself. Human emotions and foibles and mistakes and failures are transfigured into something glorious and profound.

It’s also amazing to actually conduct a seasoned and accomplished opera orchestra. I love the feeling of each and every one of them listening along with me, ready to go any direction at any time.

And singers, well, it’s just sexy to work with a great singer.  

Beyond this, it’s refreshing to see how much is done in opera that’s not written in the score. Of course this is the result of tradition, and some tradition is bad.  But we don’t run into as much musical literalism here.  A 16th note is not necessarily a 16th note; what is written is not exactly what the singer sings.  Everyone knows this.  I’ve never been a fan of musical fundamentalism: the idea the the written text means literally what it signifies.  There are many musicians who are musical fundamentalists, which is infuriating.  They can’t see beyond the written page, like some religious folks can’t see beyond what is written in the Bible, or some legal scholars can’t see beyond what is written in the Constitution.  This can make Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony sound very bad, for example.

One of the greatest challenges in performing classical music now is getting an orchestra to go beyond the notation, because that’s where the expression really is.

Thanks to Daniel Handler for passing this along.