Menahem Pressler

YOU CAN ALWAYS count on the College of Charleston’s International Piano Series (IPS) to bring the Holy City a complete and varied cross-section of the pianist’s art. From brilliant young sensations, through mid-career masters, to legendary “elder statesmen” of their instrument—Charleston audiences are blessed to hear some of the very finest of each. But—at least to my ears (and soul)—the latter legendary category is the most rewarding and memorable. For decades now, series Director Enrique Graf has managed to bring us “golden age” masters like Abbey Simon, Earl Wild, and Leon Fleisher—all of whom brought long lifetimes of performing experience, interpretive refinement and musical reflection to bear upon their art. They (and a few others) have been the brightest jewels in the College’s artistic crown.

And that crown acquired another such jewel last Wednesday evening, when Menahem Pressler got down to delightful business at the Sottile Theatre. Maestro Pressler is best-known as the founding (and current) pianist of the fabled Beaux Arts Trio—which has helped set the standard for chamber music performance worldwide. The trio—in near-constant activity for over 50 years—is still spoiling us with of definitive recordings of the great masterpieces of their genre. I own (and dearly cherish) many of them. But what many (including me) have never realized is that Pressler has simultaneously maintained a thriving solo career as well… for which I am grateful, as I have now been able to lose myself—completely and joyfully—in the sublime music-making of yet another great master of his instrument.

So then, what makes Pressler’s playing so special? In a word, I’d have to say “fidelity”—fidelity to the essential spirit and interpretive intentions of the composer. Some great pianists—owing to their singular brand of genius—can get away with quirky personal mannerisms (like Glenn Gould) or flashy, self-serving technical display (like Vladimir Horowitz). But you’ll never hear such personal idiosyncrasies in this artist’s playing. Pressler’s approach is to search for and distill the artistic truth in the music itself—not to obscure or distort it with the colors and characteristics of his own personality. Quite simply, he is a true and self-effacing servant of the music at hand.  And it showed in his selections for the evening’s program, which included two of the deepest and most inscrutable piano masterpieces ever written: works that speak profoundly for themselves. And Pressler let them do exactly that.

Ludwig van Beethoven’s late sonatas are among the most profound musical utterances we have. Poor Ludwig had been totally deaf for well over a decade by the time he wrote it—and his only sound-world was the one inside his head. Thus the works of his final years—especially the late sonatas and string quartets—often reach a level of near-cosmic depth and mystery that leaves critics grasping in vain for the words to do them justice. And so it is in the case of his Piano Sonata No. 31 in A-flat, Op. 110 (1821)—though it is somewhat more accessible than the other late sonatas. The outright loveliness of the laid-back and outgoing first movement (Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo) even seems somehow incongruous, given the master’s reputation as a crusty old misanthrope at the time. Never thunderous or threatening, the varied melodic impulses and graceful flourishes coalesce smoothly into a seamless lyrical flow that—under Pressler’s sure hands—gained a sense of particular warmth and intimacy. He emphasized the cantabile (“like singing”) part of the movement’s marking, and gave the music a particularly amiable glow. Yet he saw to it that the sensitive listener is consistently surprised and delighted at the music’s subtle, brain-teasing shifts and flights of heavenly fantasy.

The fleeting, but much more emphatic second movement (Allegro molto) came almost as a shock, breaking the preceding music’s happy spell—though Pressler kept it short of outright violence. It was the perfect foil to the succeeding Adagio ma non troppo, wherein the almost improvisatory opening passages lead into the Arioso dolente: one of Beethoven’s most sadly exquisite slow melodies.—and our artist brought out every bit of its tragic pathos while avoiding maudlin sentiment. The final stately and rarefied fugue—marked Allegro ma non troppo—begins softly, but gains rapidly in muscular intensity. Pressler’s masterly dynamic control and tempo balances always left him somewhere to go—and his clear voicing of the contrapuntal lines helped his listeners stay with him at every turn. In the softer central interlude, he plumbed depths that defy description—before delivering the fugue’s rousing and triumphant final flourish.

Maestro Pressler then took us into a completely different sound-world with three of Claude Debussy’s atmospheric and evocative piano pieces, known collectively as Estampes (1903). Inspired by the Paris World’s Fair of 1889, all three pieces—as with most of his music—are impressionistic tone-paintings that are more works of texture, mood and imagery than of melody. In Pagodes, one of his inspirations was the hypnotic Javanese Gamelan style. Our esteemed artist combined adroit finger- and pedal-work to produce a drifting haze of tinkling, coruscating notes in the pentatonic mode—evoking a misty, but distinctly Asian landscape. Distinct, but mostly subdued Spanish flavors permeate La Soirée dans Grenade, the second number—employing the Moorish (or Arabic) tonalities that so much Iberian music is based on. Again, Pressler made something magical of it, entrancing us with his dreamy and gentle approach to this Spanish reverie—as well as his wealth of tone-colors. But he revealed his more forceful side in the final Jardins sous la Pluie: a musical image of a garden as seen through a wind-driven, ever-heavier rainstorm. He sustained the piece’s tense and stormy atmosphere beautifully—even during “lulls” in the storm—while doing full justice to the piece’s considerable technical demands.

After intermission, Pressler returned to beguile our ears and stir the deepest recesses of our souls with Franz Schubert’s Sonata in B-Flat, D. 960—one of the most sublime among the gush of deathless masterpieces that Schubert poured out in 1828: the final year of his tragically short life (only 31 years). He knew he was slowly dying—and thus embodied in his late music a jumble of mixed feelings: profound grief, fear, and outrage at having to leave the world he loved so soon—but he never failed to reconcile such negative emotions with beauty and calm. Thus Schubert—already musically manic-depressive by nature—takes us here on a roller-coaster ride through his psyche: tormented and angry one moment; serene and accepting the next.

Ah, if only more pianists would give us the kind of Schubert that Pressler did. So many pianists tend to exaggerate or distort his many passages of searing beauty—and it’s so easy to overdo Schubert’s gut-wrenching emotional outpourings and make something grotesque of them. But Pressler knows his Schubert—and he realizes that the best approach to this magical composer is to deliver his creations in a simple, serene, and straightforward manner. He knows how to allow Schubert‘s striking melodic invention, harmonic wizardry, and gripping sentiments to speak for themselves—and far more eloquently than when they’re filtered through a quirky personality or laden with needless interpretive adjustments. Everything the listener needs is THERE, right in the music—all the performer needs to do is to bring it to life with sensitivity to the composer’s spirit and expressive intentions.

As I said in my initial program notes—analysis of style, structure, or individual movements is almost futile here. Suffice it to say that Pressler—in suspending his own personality—found Schubert’s. He never lingered overlong on even the most exquisitely beautiful passages—and his phrasing and dynamics were perfect; never forced or distorted. His warm and steady (but never mechanical) approach made for exceptionally smooth transitions in Schubert’s many mood swings and key changes. Some may have complained about the “heavenly lengths” of his late sonatas—but in the hands of a master like Pressler, you’d have to be a hamster not to hang on Schubert’s every note and nuance.

In sum, this was a truly singular and unforgettable reading of this paragon among Schubert’s piano compositions. But what I was most grateful for was the bottomless sense of peaceful resignation that Pressler brought to this transcendental work—a sense that could perhaps only be fully conveyed by a man, who—in the twilight of his own years—knows something about facing mortality. And it is just that aspect—more than anything else—that made his performance of this sonata the most rewarding and revealing interpretation I’ve ever heard in concert.

But before I get to those, there’s the matter of the opening numbers: three of the finest among Domenico Scarlatti’s roughly 500 keyboard sonatas (two of them are also on his CD). These short, Baroque-era gems were originally written for harpsichord during the composer’s many years of happy patronage at the Spanish court—but they adapt beautifully to the modern piano. Still, their inherent sparkle and delicacy demand an especially refined technique—which Kennard certainly possesses. No bravura display here—that’s not what the music calls for. But the exceptional clarity and control of his playing was just what the doctor ordered: he brought these pieces to life with restrained glitter—plus smooth assurance, deft ornamentation and subtle sentiment. The third of the sonatas (in G Major, L. 209)—with its welter of repeated notes—was a particularly happy romp; and the exquisite delicacy of the first sonata (in F Minor, L. 189)—was a real delight …that is, until some inconsiderate oaf’s cellphone went off, breaking the music’s magical spell. Hey, people: Turn your electronic gadgets OFF!

Then we reveled in what was—for most of us—the concert’s highlight: the 24 above-mentioned Preludes by Chopin. While some of these pieces are sometimes performed separately—like No. 15, the famous “Raindrop” Prelude—most of them are too short (several being not much longer than 30 seconds) to stand alone—and so we usually hear them in bunches, or (most often) as a complete cycle. And for Chopin devotees, to hear them together is a special treat, as these miniatures stand as a one-cycle microcosm of Chopin’s unique pianistic world. Anybody familiar with his overall output will hear profuse echoes of this “poet of the piano’s” other major forms: etudes, nocturnes, ballades, mazurkas, etc.

Never fear—I won’t bury you in detailed, piece-by-piece descriptions of all 24 numbers. Suffice it to say that Kennard’s strong penchant for Chopin was immediately apparent. He negotiated the cycle’s huge range of moods, tone-colors, emotions and styles—producing elegant, thoughtful and (at need) passionate renditions that painted a revealing musical portrait of the composer—while managing just the right touch of “rubato”—that elusive quality of subtle tempo variance without which much of Chopin’s music would fall flat. From darkly melancholic chord-sequences to blithe and brilliant note-splashes …from unbridled bravura to exquisite filigree …Kennard delivered the finest account of these pianistic jewels I’ve ever heard in concert.

After halftime, our esteemed performer returned to blow us away with three (Nos. 5, 6, and 7) of French impressionist master Claude Debussy’s fearfully difficult Twelve Etudes—works that you don’t often hear in recital. The first of them—a daunting (and dazzling) study in octaves—came off spectacularly well—as did the next one: a glittering exercise for eight fingers (no thumbs) that skitters whimsically up and down the keyboard. The last of them—a cerebral, but exciting study in chromatic scales—was similarly well-executed—though I wonder if the audience really “got it.”

But Sean saved his greatest interpretive vehemence for his grand finale: Samuel Barber’s thorny and thrilling Sonata for Piano—his only work in that form. It was written for the legendary virtuoso Vladimir Horowitz—who, following its premiere, dubbed it “the first great American piano sonata.” Barber worked on it, off and on, for two years—departing from his usual neo-romantic approach, in that he employed some of the trendier musical hallmarks of his day: greater dissonance, chromatic harmonies and even 12-tone techniques. The story goes that, after he had finished the first three movements, Horowitz—having asked Barber for a “flashy” and technically spectacular final movement—pestered Barber by phone to produce the final movement. Miffed, Barber wrote the entire fourth movement the next day: a magnificent, four-part fugue—and, indeed a “flashy” one, of finger-twisting difficulty and almost frightening dramatic intensity.

Kennard impressed mightily in the first three movements—shining both technically and interpretively in perhaps the most atypical and abstruse music Barber ever wrote. But it wasn’t until he attacked the final fugue—with headlong abandon and ferocious intent—that we, the audience, realized what truly extraordinary playing we were hearing. It may not have been “pretty,” but by the time Sean pounded out the final crashing chords, all of us knew that this was an experience we wouldn’t soon forget.

We refused to let him get away without an encore—and he obliged us richly with a glittering rendition of Rachmaninoff’s knuckle-busting, but happy transcription of Fritz Kreisler’s Liebesfreud (love’s joy)—pure pleasure!

In retrospect, Kennard’s playing—thanks in no small degree to Graf’s tutelage—has always been technically adventurous, pushing the limits of what fingers are capable of. But I had often wondered if his often coolly reserved interpretive style did total justice to the music he played in terms of expressive depth and emotional engagement. But I’m happy to report that, as I’ve monitored his personal journey to musical maturity in more recent years (culminating in this event), Sean’s performances—while still marked by uncanny confidence and seemingly effortless pianistic control—have tended to show ever-greater interpretive spontaneity and freedom. It’s as if he’s no longer hesitant to push his personal emotional limits, or afraid to allow his listeners into his heart as well as his mind.

If you want his marvelous CD (which also contains some impressive Stravinsky), you can get it by calling the International Piano Series at (843) 953-6575 or by visiting CougarClassics.com. You won’t regret it!

Diego Suárez

A TIGHT SCHEDULE very nearly forced me to pass on last Saturday’s recital by Diego Suárez—but I simply couldn’t resist the prospect of hearing—for the first time in my life—all twelve of Franz Liszt’s daunting and magical Transcendental Etudes in a single recital! Although somebody must’ve done it before, I know of no established pianist who has attempted such a stupendous pianistic feat, much less a 19-year-old piano student.

I met Diego about a week ago, following the opening recital of the College of Charleston’s International Piano Series. He’s one of the latest in Artist-in-Residence Enrique Graf’s parade of fine young student pianists whose playing I’ve enjoyed—and often marveled at—for well over a decade now. I was really intrigued when Diego told me he had performed the complete Transcendental Etudes over the summer in his native Costa Rica, and invited me to hear him do it again in his upcoming recital.

Having heard of Diego’s keyboard wizardry from quite a few of my musical friends, I showed up with fairly high expectations. Unfortunately, as the recital had been scheduled on rather short notice, the crowd was sparse—but many of Charleston’s genuine piano enthusiasts were still there. Then Diego—a bit ill with a fever (as Enrique had told us)—appeared, seated himself at the College’s wondrous new Yamaha grand, and coolly launched into his formidable program.

The miracle of these pieces—on top of their extreme difficulty—is that many, if not all of them reflect Franz Liszt’s historical role (at least to my mind) as the original musical impressionist: the genius of romantic tone-painting who first blazed the path for masters to come, like Debussy and Ravel. Given his undisputed status as the greatest and most brilliant of the romantic-era pianists, he of course infused his rich musical imagery with daunting technical demands—some of them nearly superhuman, given the fact that he wrote these pieces as études, or technical exercises.

To pull such music off means a performer must have total confidence in his fingers, to the point that his mind (and heart) can fearlessly take over and apply emotion and vivid sonic imagery to the torrent of notes. And trust me, Diego pulled it off. Many flashy young virtuosos can play all the notes in these pieces—but few can play them as beautifully as he did, or with the kind of musical maturity he’s able to bring to them.

I needn’t dwell on each of the twelve pieces to give you some idea as to how it went; a few highlights should suffice. After the agitated near-violence of the two opening movements, the music became suddenly “pictorial” in the much gentler ‘landscape,’ wherein our performer spun out some very convincing tone-painting. He then took us to the races in the Following ‘Mazeppa’—perhaps the cycle’s best-known piece—blithely tossing off fearsome chord and octave leaps over swirling inner voices.

He worked further wonders with treacherous parallel runs and realized the music’s wild, galloping effect to near-perfection. Evoking fairy-tale magic came naturally to him in ‘Will-o’-the-Wisps,’ the following piece—where he achieved remarkable delicacy despite the music’s tricky complexity. Following the next few numbers, he brought out the music’s inherent romantic intensity most beautifully in ‘Remembrance’ and ‘Evening Harmonies’—perhaps  the cycle’s most exotically reflective pieces.

Diego finished the recital in a blaze of fiery virtuosity, keeping his listeners breathlessly on the edge of their seats in ‘Snow-whirls’: a stormy, knuckle-busting piece that laces its pounding, near-violent course with flashing runs that evoke a blizzard’s driving wind and snow. Thus ended one of the most amazing solo piano recitals I’ve heard in some time.

If you weren’t there to experience this stupefying display of keyboard prowess, it’s a shame. But the good news is that Diego is only a freshman—and we can thus look forward to at least four more years of his pianistic brilliance and artistry. And, under Enrique’s expert guidance, he’ll just keep getting better! I drool to think of what we might expect from him down the road… like maybe all 27 of Chopin’s Études in a single evening (like he did in Costa Rica at the age of sixteen). Or perhaps Liszt’s complete Years of Pilgrimage (though he’d have to spread that one out over a couple of evenings).

After this memorable evening, I wouldn’t be surprised.

The Long Sisters

PIANO DUO RECITALS being relatively rare beasts, it was a particular pleasure to attend last Tuesday evening’s International Piano Series recital at the Sottile Theatre, featuring the widely-acclaimed Long Duo. Sisters Beatrice and Christina Long have established themselves as one of the world’s leading duo-piano teams, while also enjoying distinguished individual solo careers.

Our dynamic duo launched their generous and well-chosen program with a saucy and joyous rendition of the scintillating overture to W. A. Mozart’s The Magic Flute—his best-loved opera—as arranged by the great nineteenth-century Italian pianist (also a respectable composer) Ferruccio Busoni.

A master of the pianistic “grand manner,” Busoni’s two-piano transcription manages to achieve almost orchestral depth and effect, while remaining scrupulously true to the composer’s design and intent—which was (as in the rest of the opera) to spoof quasi-serious matters like Masonic ritual and tell at the same time a fanciful, comedy-ridden, coming-of-age story. Our accomplished players delivered it in like spirit, and with incredible precision in the skittering fast sections.

Much more serious fare came next, with modern French master Olivier Messiaen’s “Amen of the Angels, the Saints, the Songs of the Birds”—the fifth piece from his duo-piano cycle, Visions de l’Amen—a work that seeks to explore in music the mystical meaning and functions of the liturgical term “Amen” from various perspectives. Beatrice and Christina delivered this enigmatic and difficult, but soul-satisfying music in perfect musical accord, speaking for the “saints” in solemn modal melody that gradually rose to ecstatically passionate heights as the “angels” joined in. And over it all floated the higher-pitched pianistic “twittering” of birdsong, to magical effect.

Christina and Beatrice Long

As Beatrice told me after the concert, several audiences in big-city venues where they’ve played this work before haven’t seemed to “get it,” what with its dissonance-laced sonorities and melodic inconsistency. But they were surprised and gratified that their Charleston audience—from their enthusiastic response—not only “got it,” but seemed genuinely moved and inspired by its deeply spiritual message.

This year, we celebrate the centennial of American master Alan Hovhaness’s birth—and our “sister act” is marking the occasion in their recitals with his Ko-ola-u: a short and mystically intense piece inspired by a Hawaiian mountain range. The composer’s love of nature was first awakened in him as a child, during long mountain hikes with his father; mountains have remained ever after salient “sacred” symbols in much of his music.

Also strongly influenced by Asian music, Hovhaness further employed a low “drone” characteristic of Indonesian Gamelan music—as well as complex, yet smoothly flowing rhythms based on Indian “ragas”—all supporting a simple melody. The Longs delivered the piece so as to emphasize the music’s simple-sounding, yet potent mystical effect.

Bringing the recital’s first half to a close were four piquant character pieces from Silhouettes, a two-piano suite by the minor Russian romantic composer Anton Arensky: a tunesmith who—judging from this music’s sophistication and charm—deserves far more attention than he’s gotten. The opening piece, “The Scholar,” offered a tongue-in-cheek spoof of academic solemnity, ending with a sober fugue that was almost too serious to be true. “The Coquette” was blithely portrayed in a flippant and frothy little waltz, giving way to the unpredictable and disjointed musical chicanery of “The Buffoon.” Finally, “The Dancer” took us to the cycle’s end in a whirlwind of spicy Spanish sonorities, with whiffs of flamenco and gypsy spirit thrown in.

Our performers outdid themselves in this cycle, delivering the main musical lines firmly, yet sensitively—while lacing many of them with glittering, perfectly synchronized runs and exquisitely subtle pianistic filigree. They never applied their considerable mutual technique for self-serving display—as if to say, “Look what we can do”—but rather to serve the composer’s purposes. Indeed, in their capable and sensitive hands, Arensky’s music came off as being far better than many think it is.

After halftime, our artists returned with four of Hungarian genius Bela Bartok’s 153 pieces that make up the Mikrokosmos: his huge pianistic compendium of works ranging from simple student pieces to knuckle-busting concert works. Bartok transcribed these four examples for piano duo, with impressive results.

“Bulgarian Rhythm” came across as classic Bartok, with its repetitive bass pattern beneath a folk-tune in true Hungarian style. The manic “Perpetuum Mobile” never let up in its pounding, toccata-like drive. The gentler “New Hungarian Song” surprised when its sweet melody turned nervous and disturbed. The final “Ostinato” bounded all over the dual keyboards with headlong kinetic energy and rhythmic complexity. The Longs got a real workout in these pieces, while demonstrating a true idiomatic feel for Bartok’s often quirky, but endlessly fascinating music.

The evening’s main novelty (besides the Hovhaness) was contemporary Japanese-American composer Takeshi Asai’s Spring Thunder, written for the Long sisters. He described the piece, in his own notes, as a kind of an exercise in “Yin-Yang”-type contrasts among the forces of nature—the most apparent of which was the difference between “the hardness and the softness of rain.”

To help realize the impression of rain, the sisters were both equipped with what I believe are called “rain sticks,” or hollow pipes filled with small, dry granules (rice?) which—when upended or rolled—produce rain-like sounds at varying volumes. Beginning and ending with the rain sticks alone, the often jazz-toned piano meanderings in between helped to set moods ranging from tranquil to vaguely unsettled—but not quite violent. I enjoyed the experience thoroughly, perceiving it as a most effective piece of “mood music.” Its performers certainly took it seriously, and I think most of the audience did, too.

The grand finale was courtesy of the prolific French composer Darius Milhaud. Having spent several of his early years as a French diplomat in Brazil, Milhaud had soaked up the native musical idiom like a sponge, and squeezed bits of it back out into much of his music for the rest of his life.

One of the first examples was Scaramouche, written in 1937. The three-movement piece progresses from a brisk and frisky opening “Vif” movement to the slower central “Modéré” that sounded like a poignant Latin melody superimposed over a Schubert dance.

The Longs—with their sure feel for the Latin style—then took us to the concert’s end with “Brasiliera,” a happy and energetic samba. The raucous standing “O” from a happy and grateful audience earned us a sweet and poignant encore: Rachmaninoff’s famous Vocalise.

A big part of this amazing evening’s overall treat was the use of the College of Charleston’s fabulous new Yamaha concert grand, alongside one of their older Steinways. Our players occasionally switched back and forth between the two instruments as the recital progressed, and the Yamaha seemed to take the lead in several of the program’s pieces. Add to that the Long sisters’ glittering collective technique, interpretive sensitivity, and the uncanny communion of souls that perhaps only siblings can share, and the result was a rare evening of music that will haunt me happily for a long time to come.

Every time Alisa performs, her wonder-struck listeners can’t seem to talk about anybody else but her, and how her rare musicality and emotive intensity affects them. In recent years she has emerged as perhaps the finest female cellist of her generation. She graciously agreed to meet with me at the Dock Street Theatre during the festival’s final week to give us a glimpse of the person behind the music.

Lindsay Koob: In Charleston, we only get to hear you in chamber music. In light of your overall career activities, do you consider yourself to be primarily a chamber musician, or an orchestral soloist?

Alisa Weilerstein: I love chamber music and do it here and there whenever I can, including other summer festivals. But I’d have to say that most of my regular-season performances are as an orchestral soloist. Spoleto is my main chamber music oasis; my best chance to make music with my friends.

LK: When (pianist) Inon Barnatan first came to Spoleto last year, I wrote effusively about the wonderful musical chemistry between the two of you—as if you’ve known and been performing with each other forever.

AW: Yes, Inon and I have very strong bonds, both as musicians and as friends. He’s my regular recital partner, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

LK: I understand you grew up in quite the musical family. Please tell me about your early home life. And who were some of your early teachers?

AW: My dad, Donald Weilerstein, was first violin with the Cleveland Quartet for twenty years—and my mom is pianist Vivian Hornik Weilerstein. My dad was gone much of the time when I was very small, but my mom worked with me a lot from the piano. But I was never pushed into anything: I have none of those “prodigy routine” horror stories to tell—they just let me roam free and be a typical kid. Later, I worked with my dad, but I never really got serious about practicing regularly on my own until I was around nine. I had lots of good teachers, but never had a long-term teacher until I was around eleven, when I worked for seven years with Richard Weiss of the Cleveland orchestra. Then, after I enrolled (as a history major) at Columbia University, I studied with the nearby Juilliard School’s Joel Krosnick.

LK: What was your big break? What propelled you into the public’s eye?

AW: Actually, I had several breaks, beginning very early—but there was never this huge explosion that took me straight to the top. I won a minor competition at age 13, giving me the chance to play Tchaikovsky’s Rococco Variations with the Cleveland Orchestra—a huge deal at that age. Soon after that, I signed with ICM management (I’m still with them), and they did a great job for me, starting me off playing concertos with lesser-known, but still very good professional orchestras. So I learned the basic concerto repertoire while I was still in high school. Still, the recognition came gradually. Then I won the Avery Fischer Career Grant at age eighteen, plus other awards down the road. Perhaps my next real break was when I performed with the New York Philharmonic at age 24—and that marked my transition to working with major orchestras everywhere.

LK: What are some of your recent career highlights?

AW: Well, I recently played the Elgar concerto with the Berlin Philharmonic under Daniel Barenboim—which was initially quite intimidating, given the fact that Barenboim first did that one with Jaqueline Du Pre, then his wife. I recently signed a five-CD contract with Decca Records, and the only project with them that I can tell you about right now is that I’ll be recording the Elgar with Barenboim fairly soon. But maybe the best result of my Berlin Phil experience is that Barenboim is very interested in my development as an artist, and has become something of a mentor to me.

LK: What I and our readers would like to know is how it felt to be the “inheritor,” as I’ll call it, of the legendary Barenboim/Du Pre partnership, built largely around their performance of the Elgar. How did it feel to be following in the footsteps of the greatest female cellist of the past century?

AW: I try not to think of it that way; it would be presumptuous to do so. Any good musician brings new things to a piece of music. And Barenboim didn’t think that way either. He cared more about taking a fresh look at the music than holding it up against what anybody had done with it before.

Of course, I was obsessed with Du Pre as a kid; I must’ve heard every recording and watched every video she made by the time I was ten. I even had to force myself to put them away for fear I’d be overly influenced by them. Yes, I was thrilled to do the Elgar with Barenboim. It was an awesome responsibility—and yes, I was kind of overwhelmed… but deeply touched in the end. It was a very emotional experience.

LK: Who are some of your favorite musical partners?

AW: Well, everybody here at Spoleto, for starters—like I said, there’s nothing like making good music with your friends. And I’m working with quite a few really great conductors, aside from Barenboim. Christoph Eschenbach has been amazing, and I’ve toured with Yuri Temirkanov. I’d better not go any further ‘cause I’d probably leave somebody important out.

LK: What is perhaps the high point of your career thus far?

AW: That’s a tough one. Of course, there’s my recent work with Barenboim, and—oops, I almost left him out—Gustavo Dudamel and his fabulous Simon Bolivar orchestra as well as the LA Philharmonic. And, every time, the experience has been unbelievable—simply unbelievable. We’ve done the Schumann and Dvorak concertos together, with more to come. In fact, I’ve done extensive work in Venezuela with the Simon Bolivar and other El Sistema orchestras.

LK: Aside from your very successful debut CD on the EMI label nearly a decade ago, have you made any other recordings?

AW: Yes, I made that CD with my mom on piano, and three recordings with both of my parents for the Koch label: the Dvorak trios, plus works by Janáček and Schumann. We’ve only been playing together since I was six, and we still love making music together.

LK: Is there anything else you’d like to share with your Charleston fan base that we haven’t touched on already?

AW: Just that I love being here in Charleston—I always have such a wonderful time performing here. I’m kind of sad that the festival’s winding down, and I’ll have to wait for a whole year to come back!

LK: Well, we can’t wait to have you back, either. Thank you for your time and the privilege of chatting with you.

AW: It’s been a pleasure.

(middle photo by William Struhs)

Before I get into particulars, allow me to lay down a few blanket observations. For starters, I wonder if I’ve ever heard broader arrays of sounds and unique effects from single instruments as I experienced here. Saariaho is a member of the so-called “French Spectralist” school of composition, whose practitioners approach tonality in a seemingly infinite variety of ways. With natural harmonics as her starting point, Saariaho manages to alter basic tones by means of “multiphonic” treatment, whereby instruments that ordinarily produce a single tone at a time are manipulated in such a way as to produce multiple tones, even chords. One way to do this is to coax natural overtones out of them, which involves varied performing techniques that vary widely from one instrument to another. The other main point is that Saariaho, and others, seek to produce music of mood and texture rather than of melody—while generating often odd and eerie sorts of beauty that will rest easy on most listeners’ ears. Read on, and let’s explore some of the ways Saariaho has realized such goals.

The first piece—for solo double bass—was Folia: the only work presented here that employed electronic enhancement, in order to (among other things) produce varied pitch modulations, alter the volume, emphasize overtones and provide various electronic feedback effects. Still, every basic sound heard here was made by the performer and his instrument—in this case, double bass wizard Brian Ellington of the Spoleto Festival Orchestra (whence most of this event’s performers came). His assorted effects included a bewildering variety of bowing techniques—like “sul ponticello,” or bowing the strings close to the instrument’s bridge to produce a kind of brittle, “glassy” sound. The electronics here merely altered (or distorted) the sound to fit the composer’s overall sonic design. Thus, Ellington achieved effects that sounded like everything from the roars of an enraged bear to shrieks from demented birds. This one—while not one of the more overtly “beautiful” works—was still quite striking and enjoyable.

Conductor John Kennedy

Needless to say, Dolce Tormento (sweet torment), rendered by piccolo master Daniel Stein, came as quite a sonic contrast. Based on a Petrarch sonnet of hopeless, unrequited love, Stein—who actually intoned the sonnet verbally in its original Italian while playing the piece—had his work cut out for him. Until I heard this piece, I never thought of the piccolo as an instrument of ardent expressiveness. But Stein and his piccolo managed to evoke torrents of piercing passion and lovelorn pain, while achieving remarkable effects. I loved the way he managed to fold his rolled Italian “R’s” seamlessly into his embouchure, to achieve fluttering sounds. By adding a vocal buzz, he could make his instrument sound like a kazoo. He further achieved certain non-musical noises—like the neutral “windy” sound of simply blowing through a tube or the clicking sounds made by twiddling his keys. Odd sounds or not, this one could indeed be called beautiful—but also a bit disturbing psychologically, considering the irrationally lovesick sonnet that inspired it.

But it wasn’t quite as purely beautiful as the next piece: Prelude, for solo piano—played by fabulous pianist (and new music specialist) Lydia Brown: a longtime veteran of Spoleto, and of this series. Kennedy described the piece beforehand as a series of imagery-ridden, Haiku-like little poems—and musical poetry is exactly what Brown produced. As usual, there was precious little melody, but plenty of effect. Based on Indonesian scales, the music was full of gentle runs, descending arpeggios and startling, jewel-like little “tone-pings.” She also employed plenty of pedal to produce deliciously amorphous clouds of sound. It was true musical magic.

Speaking of magic, what about a cello that can convince you that it’s actually a butterfly—or seven different ones? Because that’s exactly what cellist Madeleine Kabat did in the ephemeral and fleeting pieces of Sept Papillons (seven butterflies). In these supremely evocative little numbers, each different “butterfly” had a distinct life of its own. Again, using just about every bowing trick in the book (especially the aforementioned sul ponticello technique and plenty of tremolo), she painted ravishing little sound-portraits that depicted butterflies to a T: the music was fluttery, fragile, seemingly aimless, short-lived, and supremely colorful. Listening to it was kind of like watching beloved mime Marcel Marceau do his famous “butterfly-watching” routine. Talk about colorful: you should’ve seen the gorgeous, many-hued gown Kabat wore—quite appropriate for butterfly music.

Finally, Mr. Ellington returned with his double bass—along with percussionist Ryder Shelley, with his assortment of small, bell-like “golden disks” and cymbals—to enchant us with Ciel étoilé (starry sky). The title tells you what the music is supposed to evoke, and I can report that it worked very well. There were no angry bears in the double bass sound this time—but a broad range of sonorities ranging from earthly to heavenly—with little “pings” from the bells jumping out at the listener like bright stars suddenly appearing in the jet-black firmament from behind a cloud. Using a bow to draw overtone-laden sustained tones from his bells added much to the music’s shimmering celestial aura.

Don’t ever tell me that the composers of today aren’t producing beautiful music, simply because there are no catchy melodies you can whistle. While some will no doubt never “get” Saariaho’s music, if she can’t make a convert of you, nobody can. Thank you, Mr. Kennedy. Over the years at Spoleto, you’ve opened my ears like nobody else on the planet.

Photo by William Struhs

Elizabeth Futral

SUNDAY’S CHAMBER SERIES VII at the Dock Street offered a particularly generous and wide-ranging array of works (four of them), with the emphasis on vocal selections—one of which began the program. Orpheus and Euridice, Ricky Ian Gordon’s (b. 1956) take on the ancient Greek myth, is a concert-length work (around an hour)—but, as the complete work wouldn’t have worked for this kind of concert, we heard four choice excerpts from the piece here. It’s scored for piano (Inon Barnatan), clarinet (Todd Palmer) and soprano (Elizabeth Futral). The piece was semi-staged: Palmer, as Orpheus and Futral, as Euridice, made their music on the move, interacting as they went. Palmer began his soulful clarinet serenade from the back of the theatre, moving up a side-aisle to the stage, playing all the while—and Futral soon followed, singing as she came. Both of them went barefoot, moving around the stage and climbing up on the chairs left onstage as props—Barnatan’s, too, and while he was playing! Barnatan remained stuck to his Steinway, grand pianos not being portable; his was a fairly neutral presence, his deft piano playing serving as the musical glue that helped hold the other parts together.

The remarkable thing about this music is that Futral’s lovely singing (in English) and Palmer’s assured playing seemed to be in the same language. Their running “conversation”—even though Palmer’s end of it was rendered in purely instrumental tones—was completely comprehensible; his clarinet “spoke” every bit as eloquently as Futral’s gleaming voice. Whether they were coyly flirting, joking, or engaged in more serious dialogue, you knew pretty much exactly what was going on, just from the way they reacted—both musically and physically—to each other. Contemporary or not, the music was delightful: tonal, melodic, and easy on the ear. Palmer was his usual perky and virtuosic self, and Futral’s gorgeous, happy singing made me all the more anxious to hear her in her title role in Kaija Saariaho’s opera, Émilie (watch for my review the last day of the festival).

Todd Palmer

Let me skip to the concert’s other vocal selection, even though it was the program’s third work: Samuel Barber’s captivating Dover Beach, for Baritone (Tyler Duncan) and string quartet (Geoff Nuttall and Daniel Phillips on violins, with violist Hsin-Yun Huang and cellist Alisa Weilerstein). Nuttall introduced it as an indirect part of the festival’s tribute to its founder, Gian Carlo Menotti—who was Barber’s life partner from their student days together at the Curtis Institute until Barber’s death. Could anybody have gotten away with such public acknowledgement in Charleston of a gay relationship—on a public concert stage, no less—even ten years ago? I think not. Bravo, Geoff!

Back to the music: Barber—blessed with a beautiful baritone voice—composed this early work for his own use as a performer. The mostly gentle and brooding music Illuminates an evocative Victorian poem by Matthew Arnold, floating its affecting vocal line over a lovely foundation of subdued string textures. But there’s an underlying sense of restless foreboding—plus a passionate outburst or two—probably because the work was written as pre- WWII storm clouds were gathering. Thus the piece is often thought of as a musical premonition of the carnage that soon came to pass. Duncan’s performance was absolutely ravishing—as was that of his supporting quartet; together, the captured the music’s moods and subtle nuances to perfection.

The purely instrumental selections went nearly as well. The Concerto for Violin, Flute, Strings & Continuo in E Minor by ultra-prolific Baroque master Georg Philipp Telemann (or “Teleperson,” suggested by Geoff as a more “socially correct” alternative) featured soloists Daniel Phillips (violin) and Tara Helen O’Connor (flute), backed up by the so-called “Dock Street Baroque Orchestra.” The work’s four movements—following the usual “slow-fast-slow-fast” period pattern—were delivered in historically informed style (mostly astringent “straight” string tones, with minimal vibrato)—but still on modern instruments. The music—by turns soulful and sprightly—beguiled the (as usual) packed house. It came off without hitch or glitch—until the manic finale, when there was one fleeting instance of instrumental disconnect between the soloists.

Tyler Duncan

The program’s final work was the Sonata in F Major for Piano Four Hands by W. A. Mozart, as part of the “mini-Mozart festival” gracing this year’s chamber series; the next two programs also feature works of particular merit by Mozart. At the Steinway—on adjoining benches—were pianists Inon Barnatan and Pedja Muzijevic. I wonder if Barnatan’s recent arrival in Charleston allowed for sufficient practice time, as there were a couple of fleeting rough spots in the first and third movements—and their performance seemed, in certain passages, to lack both musician’s usual blithe confidence and the kinds of carefree grace and crystalline clarity that you hear in the very finest performances of Mozart’s music. Still, it wasn’t bad, by any qualitative yardstick—and I was told the following day (by musically perceptive friends) that the piece came off beautifully in the same program’s next two outings.

It just goes to show you that, even given the chamber series’ galaxy-grade performers, not every performance is perfect. In fact, if you were to ask any of them, they would tell you that NO performance is ever absolutely flawless—though most of us mere mortals in the audience aren’t usually able to pick up on every tiny slip. So don’t let my minor quibbles keep you away from any of these otherwise fabulously executed chamber events.

First and foremost, there’s designer/director John Pascoe’s supremely imaginative and often startlingly effective stage design. And this effort was a dream come true for Pascoe. In a recent interview, he told me that—the second time he designed a Medium production for the Italian version of the festival –Menotti resisted his ideas for new approaches to stage design, brushing them off with “I’m too old to change.” Thus the show went on in the same comfortable old ways that failed to infuse new life into the work. As we spoke, Pascoe—who also designed the costumes and (with Ruth Hutson’s collaboration) the wondrous lighting effects—seemed to be licking his bewhiskered chops at the prospect of finally getting to do things his way.

And his way certainly worked. The set’s elaborate and fantasy-ridden trappings positively reeked of postwar squalor and decay. With its musty old suspended furniture arching across the chamber’s uncertain ceiling and the grimy, pitted mirrors to each side, it struck me as a sort of antique shop from hell. Its details—both within and from without—were surreally apropos to the story: a pile of rubble off to one side, a grimy statuette of the Virgin Mary ringed by cockeyed candles, and the dim, ravaged cityscape beyond the doors. The cunning lighting produced a wealth of effects: gradual shifts from sepia to both subtly warmer and cooler color-tones were in evidence, and the massive door’s supposed bullet-holes (?), when strongly backlit, shot pale and shifting beams of light out into the audience. I experienced a burst of mild shock when the right ear of the gentleman sitting in front of me was fleetingly illuminated by one such beam, and another flashed, strobe-like, in one of my eyes (but not the other)—totally weird! All such aspects, and more, reinforced the prevailing moods—and gave the viewer’s eyes plenty to feast upon, even if his ears went hungry.

While a couple of attendees complained about such hungry ears afterwards, mine weren’t. Menotti’s music, while not particularly deep, is certainly attractive and fairly effective in the way it conveys the plot’s narrative. And the man definitely knew how to write for the human voice. He gave the opera’s singing characters some memorable material, by turns disarmingly sweet and emotionally powerful. Madame Flora—while her psychological turmoil never quite rang true—surely got darkly affecting vocal parts to work with. Monica—in her “dance the waltz” episode and others—was blessed with distinctly sweet and charming music.

Musical execution was admirable, from start to finish. Conductor Joseph Flummerfelt, a seasoned Menotti collaborator whose association with this piece goes back to his student days, led a powerful and cohesive performance. I wonder if any more suitable singer than Barbara Dever could’ve been found to portray Madame Flora, the fraudulent medium. Dever, in the inevitable twilight of her illustrious singing career, remains the go-to mezzo for many of opera’s “older woman” roles, like that of the mother in Spoleto’s terrific production of Louise a few years back. Here, she portrayed the boozy “Baba” to near-perfection: outwardly strong and dominant, but inwardly querulous and confused. As Monica, soprano Jennifer Aylmer was an absolute delight—serving as the opera’s sole (and tenuous) link to sanity and good sense. The lesser “grieving séance customer” roles were all very well done. The pit band—drawn from the fabulous Spoleto Festival Orchestra—played impeccably.

But the opera’s most powerful and touching acting came—not from any of the singers—but from Gregg Mozgala, as Toby: the vaguely disabled (and deeply traumatized) foundling mute. Hopelessly in love with Monica (and she with him), he is tortured by his inability to answer when Monica (Flora, too) keep bugging him to “tell me!” He’s the opera’s ultimate tragic victim, and not just because he dies in the end. His struggles, in both his (intentionally) inept dance scene with Monica and his strangled efforts to express his feelings for her, made for this production’s most powerfully moving (even tear-jerking) moments—at least for me. His physical gestures and pain-wracked facial expressions were worth a thousand words (or notes).

By the way, Mozgala (incidentally, a real hunk) has an equally moving and absolutely amazing personal story to tell. As Pascoe told me in our pre-festival chat, the aspiring actor was born with a fairly mild, but still profoundly limiting case of cerebral palsy. More than a decade of leg-braces and conventional physical therapy didn’t help much. But Tamar Rogoff, a determined ballet choreographer who recognized his potential , was able to teach him—by dint of much hard work—a new kind of mental discipline that has enabled him to achieve what I’ll call “mind over handicap” control of his neurologically challenged body; control that has even enabled him to perform in an actual ballet. Check out his YouTube videos: you’ll be glad (and deeply inspired) you did. Pascoe further told me that he had asked Mozgala to “hold back a little” on his new-found measure of physical control here—and the result (if you’ve seen this production) speaks for itself. His presence makes for a totally brilliant (and magical) casting coup.

I doesn’t matter whether or not you care much for Menotti: either the man or the musician. There remain two performances of The Medium to go, and—if you love opera—you owe it to yourself to see this remarkable production.

Photos by William Struhs

Still, it’s ultimate value and meaning to me didn’t surface until quite a few years later when the death of my Grandmother left me seriously pondering my own mortality and the human cycle of life and death for the first time. Then, a sudden memory of the Requiem’s opening lines hit me: “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.” I immediately dug out the LP and spent the next hour-plus listening—and weeping. It was a supremely cathartic experience; I felt tremendous comfort throughout… somehow, my soul was suddenly cleansed of doubt and fear, and my grief’s sharpest edges were blunted. Now I could begin to put my loss behind me.

Thus, ever since, this very great, very tender music has been the heart of my own personal mourning ritual. Whenever I lose someone dear to me, I can turn over my outrage and bereavement to it, and it never fails to help me hurdle my crippling emotions and deal with the worst of my pain so that I can get on with my life. Ever willing to share a wonderful thing, I have often gifted bereaved friends with a recording of it—as a sort of musical sympathy card. What drippy doggerel on frilly parchment can even begin to match its transcendent healing power and sweet, nurturing sense of comfort? If such a friend is close enough to cry with, I’ll join him—and, invariably, we are both blessed.

So now the Charleston Symphony Orchestra and Chorus seek to help bring a sense of final closure to a community that is still hurting from the loss of David Stahl: the primary personification of Charleston’s artistic soul. And what better music is there to realize that purpose than the Brahms Requiem? It was always one of David’s favorite big choral-orchestral works (he conducted it in Charleston at least twice). Unlike some of the “fire-and-brimstone” requiems out there—like the one by Verdi—it’s a work of deep spiritual reflection and solace. And it’s not a liturgical work, beholden to Christian dogma or meant for church use. The texts are not in the usual Latin, but German (from the Lutheran bible). Even so, Brahms—who was not a conventionally religious person himself—managed to avoid any direct scriptural references to Christian belief. In fact, in a letter to a friend, he confessed that he had seriously considered naming the work “A Human Requiem.” (see the program notes below)

As with quite a few requiems from other composers, this is an intensely personal work—most of which Brahms composed after the death of his mother. Like most composers, he realized that requiems (defined as “masses for the dead”) were actually not for the deceased, but for the living: the people left in grieving after a loved one’s demise. Brahms, while he never spoke of his personal devastation at his mother’s passing, almost certainly added the fifth movement for solo soprano (“Ye Have now Sorrow”) specifically in her honor; why else would he have selected a scriptural passage that ends with the words, “I will comfort you, as one whom his mother comforts.”

Dr. Robert Taylor

There is no better person to lead (and conduct) this memorial effort than Dr. Robert Taylor, the College of Charleston’s director of choral activities—and, for the past 12 years, the Charleston Symphony Chorus director. As such, he was David’s close collaborator, having prepared choruses for all of his choral-orchestral concerts during that time. To boot, he was one of David’s close personal friends. So this concert is definitely a labor of love—and not just his own, as he pointed out to me in a recent phone conversation. He told me that just about all of the planning and behind-the-scenes work for the event (marketing, tickets, etc.) has been carried out by Charleston Symphony Chorus members themselves—about 25 of whom have been singing in the chorus ever since David assumed directorship of the CSO in 1983.

In CharlestonToday’s recent video interview (click to watch), Taylor asserts that this concert is shaping up to be an event of truly international-class quality. As he tells us, the CSO and its chorus—recent tough times notwithstanding—remains one of America’s finest regional symphonic organizations. Numbering around 100 regular singers, the Charleston Symphony Chorus will be further reinforced by Taylor’s own CofC Concert Choir and members of his crack professional Taylor Festival Choir—and both are nationally recognized choirs. Add some voices from the wonderful CSO Spiritual Ensemble, plus quite a few accomplished local vocalists who simply want to be a part of this tribute, and the chorus’s total numbers will top 200. Our recently resurrected orchestra sounds as good as ever. The scheduled soloists are absolutely top-notch as well: Soprano Saundra DeAthos—making her Charleston debut—and our own CofC Opera director David Templeton (baritone) are both nationally-esteemed opera veterans. As Taylor put it, “I expect that the quality of our choral, orchestral and solo forces should make this a performance of truly international caliber.”

Thus, if you are one of Charleston’s many music lovers who still feel a sense of helpless, angry loss in the wake of David’s untimely passing, here’s your chance to gain some measure of final solace and closure. If you move fast, there may still be time to get tickets (click to buy). Every effort is being made to accommodate a large crowd: the Memminger Auditorium’s entire interior space will be opened up for this performance, and extra bleacher seating will be installed.

Whether you approach matters of bereavement from a strictly religious standpoint or not, I don’t think any prospective attendee will deny that David’s unquenchable spirit will be there at the Memminger this Saturday, moving among the hearts and souls of musicians and listeners alike. So be there, and share in this unique opportunity to dissolve your lingering sorrow in one of the greatest works of music ever written. We’ll all be much the better for it.

Photos of David Stahl courtesy of www.David-Stahl.com

Program Notes on Johannes Brahms’ Ein Deutsches Requiem

by Dr. Jorgens

The Deutsches Requiem or “German Requiem” is arguably the best known, and for many the best loved, of the works of Johannes Brahms (1833-1897). The premier of the full, seven-movement Requiem took place in Leipzig in February of 1869, but by this time the composer had been working on portions of the piece for a decade or more. Brahms’ inspiration for creating this monumental and highly original work included the death of his mother, with whom he was very close, in February of 1865, and much earlier, the attempted suicide of his friend and mentor, Robert Schumann, in 1854 through his death in 1856. As with all great composers, however, such personal motivation is at best a stimulus to deeper aesthetic and in this case philosophical goals that drive creative endeavor.

This German Requiem is not a true requiem, eschewing the traditional Latin, liturgical text (which is not Biblical but the words of the Roman Catholic Mass for the Dead, from the Roman Missal) for Brahms’ own selection of passages from Martin Luther’s vernacular German translation of the Bible. Those familiar with the Latin requiem—whether through the liturgy itself or through the dramatic musical settings of Mozart, Verdi and many others—will note that while the requiem is a prayer for the salvation of the dead, beginning “Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine” (“Grant them eternal rest, O Lord”), Brahms is concerned instead with the solace of the living who must continue on. The piece has aptly been described as a “requiem of consolation.” Brahms himself said he would prefer the title to refer to “Humanity” rather than to its German language.

Musically, the German Requiem balances tradition with originality. The seven movement structure is entirely Brahms’ own, a monumental arch with a number of unifying devices (prominent use of harp in the first and final movements, use of soloists in the third and fifth movements, fugues in the third and sixth movements, dark orchestral scoring in the somber second and sixth movements, and the comforting centerpiece in Movement IV, the exquisite “How Lovely Is Thy Dwelling Place”—“Wie lieblich sind deine Wohnungen”). Tying the entire piece together, the three note motif, F-A-B flat, is announced by the sopranos at the very beginning and permeates every movement.

Critical reception of the German Requiem today is always respectful and generally very positive as regards the piece itself. But this was not always the case. The great English playwright, George Bernard Shaw, whose acerbic comments were frequently on view in his many reviews of music and musical performance, wrote of the piece that it “could only have come from the establishment of a first-class undertaker.” History has not agreed with Mr. Shaw. The German Requiem is a favorite today with conductors, performers and audiences alike. It was a favorite of Maestro David Stahl, making it a fitting tribute as we perform it tonight in his memory.

Jonathan White and Kori Miller

ALL TOGETHER, NOW: “If you want to know who they were—they were gentlemen (and ladies) of Japan …”—at least the sorts of Japanese characters that W. S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan saw fit to project onstage during England’s Victorian era. And said characters came to wonderfully absurd and entertaining life in Saturday evening’s sparkling performance of Gilbert & Sullivan’s The Mikado at the College of Charleston’s Simons Center recital hall.

If you’ve ever seen Topsy Turvy, the wonderful film about this famous lyricist/composer team who defined classic English operetta, you know that a Japanese village exhibit (peopled by genuine Japanese) in London’s Knightsbridge district gave rise to the radically creative idea behind the work.

You may also recall that said idea (after considerable initial conflict between the two) eventually sparked their mutual muse, leading to the creation and 1885 performance of this milestone work: the most famous of the fourteen comic operettas the two produced. No matter that the work—within the framework of a typically outlandish plot—was a mishmash of distorted European stereotypes of Asian music, culture, and behavior (lots of bowing & mincing mini-steps from the ladies). But such trappings only thinly disguised the work’s rampant satire of prim English society and hidebound bureaucracy. It was musically delightful, wickedly wacky, and thoroughly irreverent—and an instant hit.

Valerie Osborn and Jordan Boyd

Saturday evening’s performance, too, was a real hit with the near-capacity crowd. Non-musical aspects of the production were fairly spare, but effective. The minimalist stage design restricted props and sets to a number of boxes of varying size that were moved around constantly to provide platforms—mostly for assorted characters in their main moments.

Lighting was simple, but ingenious: back lighting in a variety of colors waxed and waned to interesting effect, often leaving characters in frontal shadow between action episodes. Costumes—in keeping with the production’s 1930s-era setting–were a mix of modern business suits (for some of the men), western-style school uniforms (for the “three little maids from school”), and mostly genuine-looking Japanese garb—plus authentic hairdos. Especially effective were Pooh-Bah’s formal western duds, complete with top-hat; and villainous Katisha looked positively menacing in her kimono and stiletto finger-spikes. Actors’ movements were carefully choreographed (and executed), the smallish stage notwithstanding.

Nathan Matticks and Paul Runyon

Musically, all was well, too: this production’s big novelty was an actual professional orchestra (for the first time in a CofC opera production)—though a  small one. Dr. Robert Taylor, the College’s director of choral activities, conducted with spirit and flair. Vocally, the cast was quite typical for G&S productions: several of the lead characters indeed had voices of operatic nature and dimension—though a number of the main roles were done by singers with lighter voices that were more in keeping with the “patter-singing” and exaggerated characterizations they were called upon to portray.

The finest voice belonged to the Mikado himself, played by producer/director David Templeton, who also directs the CofC opera program; he applied his mellifluous baritone to his role most effectively, and portrayed his character’s tongue-in-cheek regal presence handily. Jonathan White’s ever-reliable (and versatile) tenor was perfectly suited to the role of Nanki-Poo: the Mikado’s runaway son and the evening’s romantic protagonist. His sweetheart Yum-Yum was cutely realized by Kori Miller, whose girlish demeanor and charming soprano enchanted.

David Templeton

Noble lord Pish-Tush (Paul Runyon) and Ko-Ko, the Lord High Executioner (Jordan Boyd) offered effective, but somewhat lighter vocals, along with sure comedic instincts. Another of Boyd’s performing assets was his “rubber face,” encompassing a broad variety of expressions and a precarious, near-permanent smile that made his head look like it was going to break apart at any minute.

The other big male voice—a fine, rolling baritone—belonged to Nathan Matticks, as Pooh-Bah (Lord High Everything Else, the quintessential bureaucrat). A natural comedian, Matticks further provided much of the evening’s most inspired (and physically demanding) slapstick antics. Valerie Osborn, as Katisha—the nasty older lady who has romantic designs on hero Nanki-Poo—used her rich mezzo instrument to good advantage.

In sum, this was a well-designed, nicely performed, and very entertaining effort that left no attendee unpleased. It seems that each new opera production under Templeton’s guidance has improved on what has gone before. The future of opera at the College looks very bright, indeed.