soprano Suzanne Atwood and bassoonist Sandra Nikolajevs

ONCE AGAIN, a (large) Charleston audience got a taste of the fine caliber of our local musicians—thanks to Sandra Nikolajevs and her efforts to see Chamber Music Charleston not only flourish but become the standard bearer of classical music as a complete cultural experience.

“A Celebration of France” was presented as an evening of French romantic music, yet instead of the familiar Bolero, Pavane for a Dead Princess, and Claire de Lune we were treated to sophisticated chamber works by Ravel and Fauré—two of France’s most influential composers.

Maurice Ravel, known primarily for his piano and orchestral works, wrote just a handful of chamber pieces and only this one string quartet (in F Major), which he finished in 1903 when he was 28. At the time, however—as classical forms were yielding to romantic expression and being threatened by the “modern” impressionistic style—his quartet was rejected by the Paris Conservatoire. Even Gabriel Fauré, to whom Ravel dedicated it, called it a failure.

I was not familiar with this piece and found it to be at once unsettling and beautiful. Unsettling because of its atonal modernity; beautiful because of its structure, textures, variety, and vivacity. The more I have listened to it (going on six times now since the Saturday night concert), the more amazing I find it. The main theme is gorgeous and haunting. The background colors are mesmerizing and sensuous. The elaborate notation and syncopation (especially in the second movement) are fascinating. It is a meticulously crafted balance of elegant textures and colors encased in a classical quartet form. This satisfying combination is surely why the enthusiastic Memminger audience (of some 400 strong) was held captive by this nuanced piece.

Ruben Camacho, Frances Hsieh, Timothy O’Malley, and Ben Weiss

Kudos to CMC Director, Sandra Nikolajevs, for entrusting us with this music, and thanks to the string players (Ruben Camacho, Frances Hsieh, Timothy O’Malley, and Ben Weiss) for delivering it so superbly. The piece is a serious challenge technically and musically, and this group brought out all of the contrasting and complementary elements in the music. Just a fine performance.

Gabriel Fauré preceded Ravel by 30 years and the latter audited Fauré’s teaching classes at the Conservatoire. In 1883, Fauré (then 38) finished his Piano Quartet in c minor—one of five distinguished chamber works featuring the piano.

Although the piano is highlighted in this quartet, it languishes in the background of the first movement as the strings vigorously develop the theme amidst a charming, spirited, elaborate conversation—as only the French can do. In subsequent movements, the piano comes to the fore without, however, dominating the strings. In fact, one of the nice things about this work is the full treatment given to each of the instruments. The piano—the authoritative leader in certain passages—also provides a lush backdrop that both solidifies and romanticizes the string playing.

Irina Pevzner

The third movement (Adagio) is especially grand and gorgeous, with the scale and drama of a concerto that ends with perfect poise. The Allegro molto fourth movement adds a robust and ultimately furious finale to this velvety, complex composition.

Nicely sandwiched between Ravel’s intricacy and Fauré’s intensity was Emmanuel Chabrier’s delicate L’Invitation au Voyage (1870) which was based on a poem by his friend, Charles Baudelaire. It is a rare, if not the only, work ever written for the very pleasing combination of piano, bassoon, and soprano. Pianist Irina Pevzner, bassoonist Sandra Nikolajevs, and soprano Suzanne Atwood brought it alive in a way that made us feel we were in a Paris nightclub.

Chabrier was also friends with impressionistic painters Claude Monet and Édouard Manet. Not coincidentally, this early work (1870) presaged what would become the impressionistic style of music. As explained by www.answers.com, the piece “is curiously static in harmony, with unusual chords used in a striking new way. In particular passages the colorfully dissonant ninth chord is introduced without preparation: it is not flowed into by the preceding harmonies, nor flowed out of to the next. Instead, the chord appears as a sudden effect of musical color, which is just the way Debussy would habitually use such chords after he came to maturity nearly two decades later.”

But as one critic has said, “The revolutionary nature of the song does not alter the fact that it is exceptionally beautiful music.”

Learn more about upcoming Memminger concerts at www.ChamberMusicCharleston.org

Leslie Vicary as “The Last Flapper”

LESLIE VICARY gave a daunting, daring portrayal in “The Last Flapper,” which unfortunately ran for only one weekend at the South of Broadway Theatre on Montague Avenue.

The one-woman play by William Luce (here directed by Mark Gorman) is taken fairly directly from the writings of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s wife, Zelda, who was diagnosed as schizophrenic near the age of 30. Thereafter she lived in and out of—mostly in—mental institutions, which is where the audience finds her the day before she dies in a fire, aged 48.

Leslie’s performance was daunting because she was on stage alone (never an easy task for actor or director) and because she had to carry 90 minutes of dramatic action—which spans Zelda’s entire life—by means of dialogue alone. Her only props were a desk, a chair, and a phone.

At the same time, Leslie’s performance was daring because she had to honestly plum and unabashedly reveal her own depths in order to convey the conflicted emotions and multiple personalities of this character. Given the range of raw emotions that Leslie called forth, it was clear that she could not just “do what you did in rehearsal.” The material is too real for that.

I came away thinking, how do you navigate a script that by design has to be thoroughly scattered? How do you convincingly “act” mentally disturbed and—equally convincingly—summon divine madness on stage? How, in addition to portraying all of this in one character (and at different ages of that character), do you manage to also squeeze in her father, mother, daughter, and psychiatrist—to name just a few?

Even though Zelda was just a character on stage, it was unsettling and mentally exhausting to watch a schizophrenic traverse the territories—the morass—of her own mind. It was also illuminating to see that, even though her mind was distinctly haphazard compared to a “normal” mind, it did not really contain any abnormal thoughts. What made them abnormal was their arrangement. And distorted as some of them may have been, they were often accompanied by a disarmingly candid perspicacity.

For example: “There’s gotta be a streak of sanity in me somewhere.” “Psychiatry is worse than witchcraft; it gives one the illusion of hope.” “We (she and her husband) thought happiness would be something more… dramatic.” “There’s never been a way to hold onto summer.” And my personal favorite: “Mind you: I’m not monogamous in theory; only in practice.”

Zelda’s extraordinary penetration and clarity of thought also shone through in this sequence of lines: “Can you tell me why, when our bodies ought to bring relief from our tortured minds, they fail and collapse? And why, when we’re tormented in our bodies, does our soul desert us as a refuge? Why do we spend years using up our bodies to nurture our minds with experience, only to have our minds turn to our exhausted bodies for solace?”

Many have admired this play as a celebration of Zelda’s artistic talents which lay hidden in the shadow of her famous husband, who forbid her to publish only to then use her writings as source material in his own. The play also acknowledges Zelda’s fierce independence in the early 1900s when “flappers” were being so unconventionally bold as to “wear short skirts, bob their hair, listen to jazz, wear excessive makeup, drink, treat sex casually, drive cars, and otherwise flaunt their disdain for acceptable behavior.” (Wikipedia)

In fact, Zelda fit this mold so well that, contrary to the play’s title, her husband called her “the first American flapper,” adding that he “cherished her most extravagant hallucinations.”

It is those “extravagant hallucinations” that stood out in this portrayal—a portrayal that led us beyond Zelda’s artistic talent and dramatic (often humorous) flouting of social norms. This was a journey into, and a careful dissection of, the inner world of a woman whose outer life held so much promise, only to be sabotaged by excessive self-preoccupation, paranoia, and a seemingly bipolar nature.

To sit there and watch her implode was not pleasant—which demonstrated the pith and power of this performance.

Learn more about South of Broadway.

Katherine Chaney Long and Robbie Thomas

IN A FEROCIOUS PERFORMANCE where he portrays three different characters—sometimes within seconds of each other—Robbie Thomas proves himself one of Charleston’s most versatile actors. So fascinating are his transfigurations in this Village Playhouse production that you forget you are watching a psychological thriller dubbed a ghost story.

“The Turn of The Screw” is Jeffrey Hatcher’s two-actor adaptation of Henry James’s 1898 novel by the same name, here directed by Village Playhouse founder, Keely Enright. On stage with Robbie is Keely’s actor-daughter, Katherine Chaney Long, who is currently a sophomore at Marymount Manhattan in New York City, but who plays well beyond her years with poise and conviction.

Dark and demonic as the story is, it is not so much scary as it is a look at the obsession—if not derangement—that swirls around the specters of childhood corruption and molestation. Much remains unresolved across Henry James’s landscape of brooding implications, sexual riddles, and biblical allusions, yet this demanding, two-actor script traverses a lot of psychological ground.

Where James’s original story confronts the reality-versus-illusion of ghostly apparitions, Hatcher’s script adds a double layer by asking the audience to indulge in a reality-versus-illusion of characters who are there yet not there—specifically the man, woman, and boy portrayed by Robbie Thomas, who throughout the play wears a formal suit vest and tie.

Henry James was interested in the nature of consciousness and the inner workings of psychology, perhaps partly because he himself allegedly suffered from a form of undiagnosed sexual neurosis. That may explain the sometimes confused, self-confessed content of this story. But more importantly for this script—and more modern—is the profusion of opportunities it gives the male actor. Still, where many actors might relish this much latitude, few are up to the task of navigating it convincingly, especially without the support of makeup, costumes, or props.

Pure, powerful, persuasive acting: that is what this play calls for, and that’s what you see in this production—in a captivating demonstration of the actor’s craft.

And not just from Robbie. His counterpart, Katherine Chaney Long, provides just the right ballast to his mix of intimidating, naïve, explosive characters. As a newly hired governess thrown into a shadowy situation, Katherine takes her character through a challenging spectrum of emotions and a well defined arc of change (into darker depths). Her acting pedigree and training, along with her innate unflappability, speak for themselves.

The good chemistry and personal tenacity of this pair more than answer the call of Jeffrey Hatcher’s unique adaptation.

“The Turn of the Screw” is playing through January 28 at The Village Playhouse in Mount Pleasant.

Conductor Joann Falletta

CONDUCTOR JOANN FALLETTA represents the best of what classical music is all about, and it rubs off—as it did Thursday night at the Gaillard Auditorium where she led the Charleston Symphony Orchestra in a lyrically rich program of Russian-European music.

This may have been the best we have heard the CSO play, and much of the credit goes to Maestro Falletta for her understated precision, her inspired leadership, and her willingness to let the musicians shine.

She, however, deflects the praise. When I thanked her for the performance, she responded: “The orchestra was wonderful.” I later heard her say: “The concert is the orchestra’s concert, not the conductor’s. It belongs to the orchestra. It is their sound. The conductor does not make a sound. The conductor’s responsibility is to create a landscape where excellence can flourish; to create that possibility.”

How refreshing to see a world-renowned conductor who does not carry herself like an “artiste,” who is not preoccupied with convincing audiences by means of showmanship, and whose expertise speaks for itself.

Watching Mrs. Falletta on stage, you get the impression that she does serious homework with the orchestra in rehearsals, then lets the performance unfold naturally (rather than in ultra-controlled fashion) under her attentive but not overbearing baton.

~ ~ ~

This very special concert started with the Overture from Alexander Borodin’s (1833-1887) opera, Prince Igor, a work that was finished by fellow Russian composers Alexander Glazunov and Nikolai Rimksy-Korsakov (1844-1908) after Borodin died unexpectedly in 1887. The overture itself is said to show mainly the influence of Glazunov, and it provided a colorful introduction to an evening of dazzling display by the CSO and guest violin soloist, Michael Ludwig.

Michael Ludwig • photo by Emily Everett

Mr. Ludwig, who is concertmaster of the Buffalo Philharmonic (which Mrs. Falletta directs), was featured in the romantic Symphonie espagnole of French composer Édouard Lalo (1823-1892) who wrote the work for Spanish virtuoso, Pablo de Sarasate. This five-movement piece (labeled a symphony by the composer but considered a suite by others) is often played without its middle movement. As Dr. William Gudger said in his pre-concert talk, the additional Intermezzo movement tends to “muddy” the whole thing so violinists choose to leave it out—which effectively renders it a concerto that features spectacular and tireless violin playing.

Mr. Ludwig performs with major orchestras around the world and it was evident why. He has a crisp technique, a song-like tone, and an undemonstrative yet engaging presence on stage. Periodically he sweeps one foot to the side in a waltz-like step, then pulls the other foot to join it as though he is stepping out of his own way before launching into another lunge of the bow. When things really get going, he leans back, points his violin to the sky, and unleashes all abandon. It is a dramatic, yet genuine gesture—which reflects the character of his unique music making.

As an encore, and in perfect contrast to the exhaustive Lalo piece, he played the silky Meditation from Thaïs by Jules Massenet (1842-1912). This could easily have marked the end of the evening, but we were only at intermission!

~ ~ ~

Maestro Falletta says she has performed Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade, Opus 35 with some 20 or 30 orchestras (which is probably why she could conduct without a score in front of her) and that it is a nice way for her to get to know an orchestra, partly because the work has so many solo passages—“hard solos,” as she said, that leave the players very exposed.

(On a side note, principal flutist Jessica Hull-Dambaugh delivered her baby earlier than expected, so the second chair, Regina Helcher Yost, had to step up with barely 24 hours notice and play several demanding solos. Regina not only came through with shining colors, but stood out with her smooth, pure tone. It was a testament to the caliber of musicians in this orchestra.)

In addition to Scheherazade’s many solos, it highlights whole sections of the orchestra. For instance, just the violins play, then the violas, then full duties pass to the cellos and bases, on to the woodwinds, then to the brass section, and so on. On this night, the woodwind and brass players were also on risers where we could clearly see (and more fully appreciate) them. The riser effect enhanced the sound with brighter colors—which perfectly suited Rimsky Korsakov’s broad range of colors and motifs.

His tapestry of sounds is lushly textured, mysterious, romantic, dramatic, and at times poignantly sad. The frenetic finale, where all the fabrics and colors get tied together, is as gorgeous as it is powerful.

Many listeners may know this music from the adapted score for Russian-choreographer Michel Fokine’s twentieth-century ballet by the same name. Well, it is even more mesmerizing when heard in its entirety and for itself. There is one explosive section near the end, followed by an exquisite, delicate conclusion, that could epitomize the beginning of creation. It’s as though all the elements of the universe are being powerfully conceived and assembled, then sent gently on their way through creation with a tinge of parting sadness. It is exotic, haunting, memorable music.

~ ~ ~

The music aside, this concert was particularly special because of the graciousness of Joann Falletta and Michael Ludwig. Having two world-class guest musicians on the Gaillard stage at the same time is, in itself, wonderful. Their magnanimity made it even more so. Although Mr. Ludwig had to leave town right away, Maestro Falletta stayed two more nights in support of the orchestra. She attended a CSO donors reception one evening and a fundraiser the next simply because she believes in this orchestra and wants to see it thrive.

It was a heartfelt gesture, rare in the profession, and extremely fortunate for our arts community.

In between those events, she also found time to do an hour-long orchestra reading (a sort of master class) with the College of Charleston Orchestra. She led students through several movements of a piece they had recently performed, instructing them on different ways to approach the music, and answering their questions. Among other things, she mentioned how important it is for them to consistently look at and listen to each other while playing—something that distinguishes the best orchestras—and to always treat their playing as chamber music in the sense of communication, camaraderie, and mutual support; and to play even base-line sections as melodies—not to simply “follow” the lead voices. In a matter of minutes she had them playing tighter as a group and producing a deeper, richer sound.

What an opportunity and inspiration for these kids, whom she told, “even those of you who will not go on to become professional musicians, you will always be musicians inside and you will never forget the experience of being members of this orchestra,” which is now under the guidance of CSO’s concertmaster, Yuriy Bekker.

Yuriy himself—after several days of rehearsing and performing with Joann Falletta, then watching her inspire our musicians, audiences, and sponsors—remarked how incredibly fortunate our entire arts community is to host such a highly acclaimed conductor who is also an extremely kind, generous, and loving person.

Maestro, you left your indelible mark on this city. Thank you.

The nineteenth-century Hudson River School Painters certainly understood this and strove mightily to convey it—which makes for a fascinating tour of the 45 paintings now on display (through April 1) at the Columbia Museum of Art.

It’s one thing to paint a person or flower arrangement in a studio. It’s quite another to tackle Nature on her fickle terms. Yes, you can take a photograph and work from it in the studio, but then you lose the spatial grandeur, the immediacy of the elements, the tactile quality of natural light, and the assorted play of colors. There’s also the issue of how to eloquently corral Nature on a canvas and what to focus on. Try to encompass everything and you dull the view. Dwell too much on details and you underplay Nature’s uncanny unity.

Below are just a few impressions of how these artists responded to these (and other) demands of being an American landscape artist in the nineteenth century.

William Hart (1823 -1894)
On the Esopus, Meadow Groves, ca. 1857-58, Oil on canvas
New York Historical Society, Robert L. Stuart Collection

In the picture below (a detail of which appears above), the artist emphasized the foreground by means of the cattle and the reflection of the bank and tree. These elements lead your eye back and forth, left to right. The bank especially keeps your eye from venturing beyond it to the background, which is diminished in terms of light, color, and details—to the point of being just vaguely suggested. Even though the bare trunk above the cattle leads you up and into the sky, the sweep of cloud brings you back to the tree on right and down again into the reflection in the pond. It seems evident that Mr. Hart wanted to paint a local, tranquil scene and wanted to keep us there by means of a strong horizontal foreground.

William Hart (1823 -1894) On the Esopus, Meadow Groves

Could it be, too, that he borrowed a page from the Dutch painters Aelbert Cuyp (1620-1691) and Gerard Bilders (1838-1865)? Those two were known for putting cattle in serene landscapes, almost as an anchor amidst Nature’s ever-changing sea of elements. The cluster of cattle and kids in Hart’s painting (which is almost the most interesting part to look at) certainly serves this purpose. Just imagine this composition without it.

Asher Brown Durand (1786 - 1886) Shandaken Range, Kingston, New York

Asher Brown Durand (1786 – 1886)
Shandaken Range, Kingston, New York, ca. 1854, Oil on canvas
New-York Historical Society, Museum purchase, The Louis Durr Fund

Asher Durand, who has several (and varied) works in this exhibit, possessed a poetical view of Nature and a photographer’s eye for composition.

Here he employs a variety of techniques (branches, diagonals, color, and light) to converge our view on a point in the center of the composition, thereby heightening the sense of depth into the distance and back into the foreground—giving you the sense that you are standing way back, as if in a tunnel, looking out through the trees. I was left feeling comforted and secure—almost cozy—in my own private view of the distant countryside which itself has almost no detail and no distinct interest.

Although Durand’s other paintings are larger, more open scenes, they show a similar predilection for emphasizing the foreground and highlighting the animate vitality of trees and bark. In this respect, you cannot help but think that he was strongly influenced by the preeminent Dutch landscape painter, Jacob van Ruisdael (1628/9-1682) who, more than anyone else, knew how to render intimate scenes of Nature on a magnanimous scale, typically with trees as the prominent element.

George Henry Boughton (1833 – 1905)
Winter Twilight near Albany, New York, 1858, Oil on canvas
New-York Historical Society, Robert L. Stuart Collection

In this jewel of a painting—which one writer described as “a perfect piece of winter”—the artist uses an exquisite gray-blue-brown palette that perfectly captures the shadowy light and bitter cold of a winter dusk. This combined effect conveys the loneliness of a sole figure in the middle foreground who is slowly making his way along a frozen stream that reflects the color of the background sky—a deft touch that ties the composition together from top to bottom and side to side.

George Henry Boughton (1833 - 1905) Winter Twilight near Albany, New York

The three trees serve as ballast to guide us into the canvas from the left. The slight bend of the third tree leads us into the painting to follow the horizontal movement of the figure pulling his sled. Meanwhile, the small cottage at right, with its red glow of a warm fire in one tiny window holds our interest for a moment. Our eye then drops to the broken trunk in the bottom-right corner only to be led back into the composition to further dwell on the figure and his cold, lonely task.

The ice, snow, trees, clouds, house, and figure are individually (and beautifully) textured, offering us clear, sharp contrasts—all within a seemingly effortless management of composition. And as beautiful as this painting is as a landscape scene, it is even more a depiction of atmosphere and mood—an expression of the psychology of a season. As a result, you do more than look at this painting: you get drawn into it, enveloped by it, and made to feel cold, almost depressed, by it. Extraordinary. Especially considering that this is one of the smallest, most inconspicuous canvases in the exhibit. Had there been one painting I could have taken home and lived with, this was it.

Louisa Davis Minot (1788 – 1858)
Niagara Falls, 1818, Oil on linen
New-York Historical Society, Gift of Mrs. Waldron Phoenix Belknap, Sr.

The harmonious brown, blue, green, and white palette of this scene of Niagara Falls is extremely pleasing, which tempted me at first to think that this was a really good painting. But something kept nagging me. Looking more closely, I noticed that it lacked the monumental impact of Niagara’s steep height and dramatic, fast-flowing (almost threatening) surge of water, spray, and sound.

Louisa Davis Minot (1788 - 1858) Niagara Falls

Also lacking is a sharp contrast of textures. Notice, for example, how the water, rocks, foliage, and white clouds are all painted in a similar “curly” treatment—perhaps in an attempt to bring unity to the composition, but with the result that the whole lacks interest and conviction. At the same time, the strong horizontal composition is almost too contained, thus cramping the gargantuan falls and making them look quaint rather than large and looming.

Louis Rémy Mignot (1831 – 1870)
The Harvest Moon, 1860, Oil on canvas
New-York Historical Society, Robert L. Stuart Collection

A painting cannot be fully appealing without a balanced composition. Traditionally, this means building a design that flows from top-left to bottom-right, or which revolves clockwise (the two movements that at least our western eye is most familiar and comfortable with).

Louis Rémy Mignot (1831 - 1870) The Harvest Moon

Interestingly, Mignot has reversed this by having his main diagonal move gradually from right to left, which—even though the angle is not severe—creates a strong sense of “drop” for the sun. The sun itself is appropriately placed at the bottom of the diagonal, just at a point where the composition begins to rise again slightly. The graceful curve of a tree keeps our eye from drifting off the canvas and leads us back to the sun. The tree’s curve even echoes the curve of the sun and its halo, as does the green tree at right—and all three of these “rotate” clockwise, counterbalancing the leftward-flowing diagonal.

It would be interesting to see this place (if  it actually exits) to know how much is real and how much was contrived by the artist according to his compositional intent. In fact, the more you study this piece, the more subtle diagonals you find, all of which appear natural, yet which, on closer examination, reveal the hand of man artfully manipulating Nature’s designs. The result is a delightful, relaxing painting that you don’t tire of looking at. This Charleston, S.C.-born painter, who sadly died when he was 39 (and who painted this when he was only 29), obviously had a full range of talent when it came to composition, color, tone, perspective, and atmosphere.

Frederic Edwin Church (1826 – 1900)
Cayambe, 1858, Oil on canvas
New-York Historical Society, Robert L. Stuart Collection

Frederic Church was a painter-explorer in the sense of being an adventurous traveler—in this case to the Andes Mountains—but also in the sense of testing the boundaries of composition. In this painting, he manages to create equal interest in the foreground, middle ground, and background with three distinct worlds of Nature (exotic foliage, mysterious valley, and a cosmic, above-the-clouds volcano).

Frederic Edwin Church (1826 - 1900) Cayambe

To make things easy, he leads our eye from the middle of the foreground, through the lake of the middle ground, directly to the base of the volcano, and up to the striking snow peak and sky. It is simultaneously a very human and spiritually evocative painting that appeals to different sides of our nature. Church had a masterful stroke, but he was also more than just a good painter. His landscapes silently “speak.”

Thomas Cole (1801 – 1848)
The Course of Empire: The Consummation of Empire, 1836, Oil on canvas
New-York Historical Society, Gift of the New-York Gallery of the Fine Arts

In one room of the exhibit, devoted to a series of five large paintings, Thomas Cole metaphorically “warns” young America about the inevitable cycle of growth, splendor, and eventual destruction that previous empires have gone through. It as a thought-provoking presentation where Cole takes essentially the same scene and shows it changing over time: from pure landscape, to the summit of civilization, to ultimate ruin and desolation.

Thomas Cole (1801 - 1848) The Course of Empire: The Consummation of Empire

His painting is superb in such a large undertaking, and the series does prompt you to consider where we are as a country and a world, and where we may be headed. Nevertheless, from a purely artistic point of view, I felt that the inherent beauty of landscape painting and the pure skill of this artist are both overridden by his attempt at philosophical narrative, and by his use of romantic stylization to convey the message—with this particular painting being the most extreme example.

James Fennimore Cooper, on the other hand, had this to say about the series: “Not only do I consider The Course of Empire the work of the highest genius this country has ever produced, but I esteem it one of the noblest works of art that has ever been wrought.”

So what do you think? In the end, isn’t that the question we want to answer for ourselves as honestly as possible—in the arts and in life?

Sometimes it takes an art exhibit to remind us of this, too.

“Nature and the Grand American Vision: Masterpieces of the Hudson River School Painters” is part of a traveling exhibit of works from the New-York Historical Society.

Members of the Taylor Festival Choir

SATURDAY NIGHT WAS THREE Christmas concerts in one: a healthy dose of choral music, a little foot-stomping fiddlin’, and an Irish-music ensemble featuring a guitarist, singer, and songwriter—all under the creative hand of Robert Taylor in “Now We Sing of Christmas” at the Cathedral of St. Luke andSt. Paul.

As usual with the Dr. Taylor’s productions, it was a tasteful, eclectic mix of music in a spirited, entertaining evening.

With chorus members—candles in hand—lining the aisles and balconies, soprano Kori Miller came on stage and slowly uttered a series of hauntingly beautiful notes (echoed by other sopranos in the aisles) from “Sanctus,” part of a Celtic Mass by Irish-born, contemporary composer Michael McGlynn. This work is known for “evoking a powerful sense of peace,” so appropriate for a Christmas concert.

Watching Robert Taylor conduct, I realized how much the whole production, as well as the conducting, is his personal canvas, and how much he relishes the experience. He selects the pieces, adds his arrangements to some of them, writes the narration, finds companion poems and stories (even some jokes), and weaves everything into a musical tapestry.

Two good examples were “Estampie Natalis” by twentieth-century composer Vaclav Nelhybel (who died at age 39), and the popular “The Little Drummer Boy” (originally titled “The Carol of the Drum”) written in 1941 by American classical composer Katherine Kennicott Davis. In the first, a drum beat gives the piece a tribal rhythm, while in the second work a similar rhythm is supplied by the slow-rumbling bass voices.

Dr. Robert Taylor

But what stood out was the texture of both compositions and how much they evince Dr. Taylor’s love of musical complexity, sound layers, and nuances of orchestration. He is a perfectionist when it comes to the notes, but something else became apparent as he stood with his score in near darkness, urging his singers on: that he is pleasantly obsessed with extracting the exact pitch, tempo, dynamics, and synchronization—not for their own sake, but to reach and convey a sense of spiritual serenity. Yes, the best music—like the best painting, dance, and theatre— is always about more than itself. But first you have to get “it” right, as Robert Taylor well knows.

In another song, “Lux Aurumque” (Light of Gold) by the popular young American composer and conductor Eric Whitacre, Dr. Taylor filled his musical canvas with the quietest singing I have ever heard. It was wondrous sound, yet it was as close to silence as sound can get. Delicate and stunning, and just one indication of the devotion of his chorus.

Another indication came in the traditional Irish Christmas carol, “Wexford Carol,” arranged by Dr. Taylor and featuring the rich bass voice of guest artist, Benjamin Lee. The brief pauses were as palpable as the singing in this lyrical piece in which we could see, feel, and hear the entire chorus breathing as one. Surely it is moments like this which give so much satisfaction to chorus members and conductors.

The same can be said for Na Fidléirí, the local fiddling group (of kids 8 to 18) who played three Irish songs with impeccable unity. This is a lively, charming, disciplined group who know their music. Watching them is enough to inspire any parent to want their child to learn an instrument, not just for musical ability, but for the concentration, dedication, and demeanor it builds. The founder of Na Fidléirí is Mary Taylor, who teaches—with equal effectiveness—the Suzuki method at Ashley Hall.

Talk about a musical family: Robert and Mary also have a 17-year-old daughter, Kiri, whose soprano voice sparkled in one of the evening’s choral solos. Not surprisingly, she exhibits the same ability and focus as her parents.

John Doyle

Between the contemplative choral music and the Irish foot-stompin’, we also heard several songs by the velvety-smooth acoustical guitar player, John Doyle, who is known for his harmonic and rhythmic expertise. John is regarded as “one of the most influential and important musicians in Irish music” and “a world-class interpreter of traditional songs.” What a joy to hear a folk-guitar master who, with his stage presence, demonstrates what it means to be a captivating performer as well as musician.

Joining Mr. Doyle was the Green Isles Ensemble that comprises Susan Conant (flutes and whistles), Mary Taylor (fiddle), Charmaine Leclair (cello), Phyllis Mauney (harp), Ryan Leveille (percussion), Laura Turner (keyboards), and Jake Lilley (guitar). They did not get center stage, but they certainly helped make this unique holiday concert a success.

~ ~ ~

It  is worth noting, too, that the front of the chancel was sharply lit by spotlights mounted in the balcony, giving the “stage” a theatrical look. The musicians and chorus were also amplified with professional microphones that delivered a rich sound into the cavernous apse of this magnificent building. During other concerts here I have often remarked to myself about the dim, gray-blue lighting. This evening was a pleasant exception. And it was nice for a change not to have telephone-pole recording mikes obscuring the audience’s view, as is so often the case at musical events these days.

What’s up next for the Taylor Music Group? Find out here.

Irwin Jiang

THE COLLEGE OF CHARLESTON Young Artists Concert is a little bit like attending a wine tasting where there are multiple selections in small quantities, some of which you cannot make a definitive conclusion about, and some you wish you could taste more of—but, alas, no.

That was my experience last Monday, November 21 at the Simons Center where 12 students of voice, strings, and piano performed a delightful selection of works from an array of composers, genres, and styles.

Most interesting to me was seeing how these students develop in the womb of the College’s Music Department—a distinctly rich environment for nurturing their maturation. As people and as artists, they keep getting stronger and more impressive, while the newcomers seem to arrive better prepared than ever—as in the case of the young violinist, Yuhong Tu, studying under Lee-Chin Siow. A little more on him in a minute.

Another thing so valuable about these recitals is that it is a vehicle for the students to learn, not just to play, but how to perform: how to enter the stage, ready themselves professionally and elgantly, ‘be’ the performer, take a proper bow, and exit with grace—each aspect of which requires thought, preparation, execution, and, above all, experience.

It sounds simple, but all these nuances have to be learned and then rediscovered through repetition until they become one’s own. And the learning never really stops where live performances are concerned, so it is fascinating to watch young musicians who are at the early stages of this process.

Since it’s next to impossible for an impoverished reviewer with a day job to cover everything (much as he would love to if the ship of his incredibly generous benefactor ever comes in), I thought I would offer some quick impressions that I gathered about the players themselves, in the order of their appearance.

Fernando Trouche on guitar once again displayed his meticulous craftsmanship. I consider classical guitar extremely demanding since you are typically alone on stage, with an instrument whose limited sound you have to ‘push’ into the audience, yet whose clarity of sound subjects itself to the utmost scrutiny. Missed and muffed notes are not easily camouflaged. But that was certainly not Fernando’s problem. I only look forward to when he takes the playing a tad less seriously and taps his unforced pleasure in bringing the guitar’s voice to audiences. When he does that I am going to buy him a deservedly elegant leg cover.

Soprano Kori Miller

Soprano Kori Miller stood stately in good company—with pianist Robin Zemp on one side and CSO First Trumpeter Michael Smith on the other—as she sang  a lyrical piece from Handel’s opera, Samson. Obviously talented and comfortable on stage, her voice is richer each time I hear her, as evidenced by her holding her own against the extended strains of Michael’s high-piercing trumpet.

Yuhong Tu, the violinist referred to earlier, made a dramatic statement to say the least by playing a virtuosic showpiece, the Carmen Fantasy by Pablo de Sarasate, accompanied by pianist Diego Suarez. Clearly the longest piece of the recital, it was essentially a four-movement (or four-section) work that highlights just about every technical nuance that a violinist can muster, with demanding tempo challenges and changes to boot. Then, just when you think the piece has reached the peak of its excitement it roars off into a spectacularly complex ‘racehorse’ finale. Yuhong was definitely up to the demands of this spectacular piece, during which he showed flashes of trusting his emotions as much as he trusts the strings. You can only wonder what will come when his sensitivity as an interpreter and performer catches up with his already brilliant playing.

After Yuhong’s breathtaking rendition, it was hard to imagine anyone following it with style. Yet that is exactly what pianist Irwin Jiang did with Chopin’s Etude, Opus 10,  No. 12. As you may know, this “Revolutionary” etude was inspired by Russia’s  bombardment of Warsawin 1831 after Poland’s failed attempt at a revolution. It is a huge “study piece” to be sure, with strong emotional overtones and extensive, complex dexterity required especially in the left hand. Irwin made his way effortlessly through Chopin’s “lesson,” playing with serene, leashed abandon in what I felt was the most complete and polished performance of the night. Irwin has natural poise at the keyboard coupled with confidence and great instincts about the music he is playing. Extremely satisfying to watch and listen to.

Chee-Hang See and Amy Tan

Next up was the piano duo of Chee-Hang See and Amy Tan in Saint-Saens’ charming Danse Macabre for Two Pianos—which was far from macabre. On the contrary, it was a romp of delicacy and speed that calls for syncopated listening and playing, and which looked like it was a lot of fun to play. These two, who have paired up for the last two years, made it look easy. As I listened to them, I wondered—since they and Irwin are students of Enrique Graf—is it Enrique’s tutelage or his ability to find these amazing students? When I mentioned this to Amy afterwards, she said, “he just keeps teaching us, teaching us. Did you enjoy it?” How could I not?

I had not seen soprano Ashley Fabian before. She was accompanied by Robin Zemp in a lite piece by Luigi Arditi (1822-1903) as she displayed her pleasure of being on stage, along with the first full twirl I have ever witnessed by a soprano. I kinda liked that little touch, but not nearly as much as her final notes that reached the rooftop.

Yuhong then returned to the stage along with cellist Lujza Durisova and pianists Pedro Uceda and Diego Suarez (another sizzling student of Enrique’s who unfortunately did not solo this night) in two trios, one by Beethoven and one by Piazzolla. How different to be a chamber player than a soloist. And how difficult to meet the demands of Beethoven, who  constantly presses his music and musicians, and of Piazzolla, whose pace, rhythms, and musical lilts are so distinct. His particular flair is a rare, musical scent that is hard to capture in its purity. These young musicians managed well enough, though they are still learning to play ‘to’ each other as well as with each other in the subtle art of collaborative compromise that characterizes the best chamber players. Mastering that art, of course, requires some to hold back a little and some to dig more deeply into their fair share of the notes.

Last up was baritone Nathan Matticks, accompanied by Robin Zemp. Nathan was scheduled to join tenor Jonathan White in Bizet’s famous “Pearl Fishers” duet, but Jonathan caught ill and could not sing, so Nathan sang Verdi’s “Per me giunto” from the death scene of Don Carlos. It turned out to be an excellent chance to hear Nathan on his own and see how much stronger, richer, deeper, and longer his voice has become—and how composed on stage he has become. The combination of technical, instinctive, emotional, and musical requirements of an operatic soloist are not to be envied, and Nathan move than passed muster in every respect.

Bravo to all these “young artists” and to their teachers: Lee-Chin Siow, Marc Regnier, Natalia Khoma, Deanna McBroom, David Templeton, Robert Taylor, and Enrique Graf. For students and listeners alike, they are providing an ongoing and ever rewarding education.

Pianist Matti Raekallio

OF ALL THE College of Charleston concerts that take place on the Simons Center Recital Hall stage (and there a lot of them), my favorite may be Charleston Music Fest.

The core group of violinist Lee-Chin Siow, cellist Natalia Khoma (co-founders of Chas Music Fest), and pianist Volodymyr Vynnytsky are as skilled and dynamic a trio as you will find. They also bring in heralded teachers and performers from around the world, as was the case last Friday night when Lee-Chin and Natalia were joined on stage by Finnish-born pianist Matti Raekallio who teaches at the Julliard School and who has performed as well as recorded an extensive number of piano works.

In Charleston for the first time and grateful for the experience, Mr. Raekallio is a gentleman, a scholar, and an artist par excellence who we were lucky enough to hear in all three works on the program.

In the first piece, he joined Lee-Chin in Brahms’ delightful, delicate Sonata No. 2 in A major for Violin and Piano, Opus 100. As Lee-Chin told us, this musical conversation was the second and sweetest of Brahms’s three such sonatas and it perfectly suited Lee-Chin’s own nature as well as the pleading, yearning tone she gleans from her violin. Sweetness notwithstanding, Lee-Chin was laser focused as usual—an absolute pleasure to listen to. When you can’t wait to hear each next note, you know a performer has your full attention.

The crown jewel of the evening (at least for me) was Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 23 in F minor, Opus 57, the “Appassionata” which Beethoven wrote in 1804-05, a year or two after he had come to terms with his deteriorating deafness. The degree of “tempestuousness” in this piece may certainly be due to that painful struggle, though some, such as Eric Blom, attribute it to the conflicting emotions he felt for two sisters: Therese von Bruswick and Josephine von Deym; the first a “placid maiden whose appeal was entirely spiritual; the second a spirited widow whose attraction was mostly physical.”

According to the Classical Notes web site, Blom speculates that these seemingly opposite inclinations wreaked havoc within Beethoven most of his life. Which may be partly why he had such difficulty expressing his affection for women and why, in this case, he dedicated the piece, not to the sisters, but to their brother, Count Franz von Bruswick. Go figure.

Violinist Lee-Chin Siow

The name “Appassionatta” by the way was not given to the piece until nine years after Beethoven’s death, but it stuck, no doubt due to its blend and scope of delicate trills and fervent turbulence in which you can feel Beethoven at times longing to express his affections, while at others battling—violently—with self conflict.

Never have I heard a pianist bring this piece to life as Mr. Raekallio did. As he himself told us, it is a revolutionary, somewhat strange, and even scary work—which was reflected in its range, dynamics, and ferocious, ear-shattering chords.

What stood out for me was that I have heard pianists tackle those big chords with nothing but sheer power, as though they were trying for as much ‘loud’ as they could get. Mr. Raekallio, however, understands that Beethoven was far more than just noisy and angry, so he approached those and all the other passages with a surgical precision and artful manipulation that was captivating. Mr. Raekallio’s sound was still thunderingly powerful, but there was something else that for me shed new light on Beethoven the man and how the piano served him much better than his voice or behavior ever could.

Beethoven, of course, was a pianist: said to be one of the best of his day, and the best improviser. In this sense, his piano sonatas are his most personal expression, his most complete musical combination of artist and man—a man in whom light raindrops fell regularly next to lightning bolts.

As Mr. Raekallio also explained, Beethoven was an extremely economical composer who had a knack for assembling large musical structures in small motifs and whose music—exemplified in this sonata—is “relentless, ruthlessly logical, and at times fanatical.” This work was a bold, almost wild leap out of classical form into personal, imaginative realms. It clearly personified the composer’s unwillingness to compromise—which yielded magnificence in his music and constant torment in his life.

At the conclusion of this cross-country marathon (who would think that a sonata could feel like a symphony?), Mr. Raekallio got a well deserved standing ovation as we caught our breath before hearing a little more—and a lot lighter—music by Beethoven.

The Piano Trio No. 1 , Opus 70 was dubbed the “Ghost” trio because of the so-called eerie sounds that appear in its slow second movement. According to Wikipedia, “the ghostly music may have had its roots in sketches for a Macbeth opera that Beethoven was contemplating at the time.” An interesting prospect.

Cellist Natalia Khoma

Fortunately, the mood was brighter than that as Lee-Chin and Natalia, accompanied by their guest artist, dove briskly into the first few bars of this otherwise ebullient work that comprises a delightful series of lyrical repartees, handoffs, and switchbacks. It made me think that, for all his forays into uncharted romantic waters, Beethoven’s trios (and quartets) beautifully retain their structural integrity. Whereas many (especially romantic) trios can wander, ramble, and lose the obvious thread of their musical conversation, Beethoven’s chamber works hold to that ruthless logic Mr. Raekallio referred to. And what pleasure it gives the listener.

It helps, too, to have Lee-Chin and Natalia bringing the work to life in a live concert. They are two sweet, petite forces of nature who possess an undeniable dynamic quality. Lee-Chin is an unsuspecting tiger waiting to pounce with her violin, and Natalia wields the cello with uniquely visceral exuberance. Their timing is impeccable, their familiarity with each other obvious, and their music making an utter joy.

Charleston Music Fest is indeed a feast for the ears, and mine are hungry for more.

Learn more about Charleston Music Fest.

Members of the CSO chamber orchestra

YES, IT’s ABOUT THE MUSIC, but it is also about so much more.

It’s about how the composers’ lives divine their works, how eight little notes yield endless variety, how precious listening promotes well being, and how fine music sets the tone for mingling—as it did for us in the Dock Street Theatre courtyard after last night’s superb performance by the Charleston Symphony Chamber Orchestra.

The composer’s—Strauss, Wagner, and Beethoven—were presented in reverse chronological order, but it seems fitting to turn them around here, especially since the program was entitled “Beethoven Left His Mark.”

Beethoven’s Second Symphony

SO MUCH has been written about Beethoven, yet he continues to elude our grasp. Like his music, he remains a mystery and a marvel: a mystery as far as the workings of his inner life; a marvel in terms of his musical ideas, expressions, and innovations.

As Concertmaster Yuriy Bekker mentioned, Beethoven’s Second Symphony is characterized in part by its replacement of the traditional third-movement minuet with a scherzo—in Italian it means “joke”—which in musical terms suggests a passage rendered in a playful manner. In the famous words of  Wikipedia, “Joseph Haydn wrote minuets which are very close to scherzi in tone, but it was Beethoven and Schubert who first used the form widely, with Beethoven in particular turning the polite rhythm of the minuet into a much more intense—and sometimes savage—dance.”

Another Wikipedia article states that “The scherzo and finale are filled with vulgar Beethovenian musical jokes, which shocked the sensibilities of contemporary critics. One Viennese critic famously wrote that it was ‘a hideously writhing, wounded dragon that refuses to die, but writhing in its last agonies and, in the fourth movement, bleeding to death.’”

In a similar vein, musicologist Robert Greenberg of the San Francisco Conservatory described “the highly unusual opening motif as a hiccup, belch, or flatulence followed by a groan of pain.” According to Greenberg, “Beethoven’s gastric problems, particularly in times of great stress—like the fall of 1802—were legendary… and it has been understood almost since the day of its premiere that that is what this music is all about.”

Perhaps easier to digest is the better known fact—as described in an NPR story—that “during the composition of his Second Symphony, Beethoven for the first time disclosed his secret of deteriorating hearing to a physician friend. He later wrote the “Heiligenstadt Testament,” an unsent letter to his brothers where he expressed suicidal thoughts due to his increasing deafness. In spite of his desperate state, the Second Symphony had a humorous and happy air. “ Nevertheless, while “his contemporaries applauded his Second as a noteworthy piece full of power and depth,” they “commonly described his music of that time as bizarre.”

The CSO’s 27-member chamber orchestra certainly demonstrated that in the many abrupt, yet beautifully threaded together, passages where at times you could hear distinct traces of Mozart. At this still early point in Beethoven’s career, he was showing restraint, only occasionally tearing out of the classical yoke and into his novel, power-punching style.

Indeed, where Mozart is effortlessly fleet-footed, Beethoven is fiery and furious. Where Mozart is marvelous and magical, Beethoven is muscular and moody, but joyfully so if there can be such a thing—again, part of that mystery behind his music making.

And here’s an interesting tidbit: Beethoven also made a transcription of the entire symphony for piano trio which bears the same opus number. How interesting that would be to hear the two works in succession.

Wagner’s Siegfried Idyll

YOU HAVE perhaps never heard Richard Wagner sounding this tender and melodious, particularly if, like me, you associate him with his monumental Ring Cycle where he has a penchant for grabbing the listener with interest, then losing him in laborious passages, and then grabbing him again with tremendous brooding passion.

His symphonic poem, Siegfried Idyll, written for chamber orchestra stands apart however, probably because it was so close to his heart—occasioned by the birth of his second and last child, Siegfried, who was born as Wagner was working on his opera by the same name. This musical-character naming convention was the custom with him and his wife, Cosima, the daughter of Franz Liszt and former wife of Hans von Bülow, with whom she had had two children that she painfully left behind to be with Wagner.

It was a complicated, tense, very romantic situation and the moment of this second birth, along with the ardent love Wagner felt for his wife, yielded a work of pastoral charm that was performed on Christmas morning by a small ensemble on the stairs of their villa. Legend has it that Cosima awoke to its opening melody. Wagner also “published a detailed program for the work which describes his mother singing the boy asleep with a lullaby and then contemplating what he will be like as a young man.” Even at his tenderest, this man was elaborate.

And that small ensemble grew larger when for financial reasons Wagner was forced to sell the score. He felt that expanding the orchestration would make the work more marketable, and it is this version that  is typically performed. Interestingly, the CSO musicians organized themselves on stage last night with a string quintet in front, and eight wind-reed-horn players set much farther back—as if to show both the original ensemble and the expanded chamber orchestra. A nice touch.

Strauss’ Till Eulenspiegel

IN THE FIRST work of the evening, another unique grouping appeared when a violin, French horn, double bass, bassoon, and clarinet joined forces to bring us the frolicking Till Eulenspiegel by Richard Strauss whose life spanned the second half of the nineteenth and first half of the twentieth centuries—which explains the pleasant blend of romantic and modern touches in this piece.

The musicians certainly seemed to enjoy themselves with the variety of tempos, textures, and sounds as well as their splendid handling of so many abrupt starts and stops. I for one would be happy if more contemporary music were treated as adroitly and beautifully as Strauss managed with this composition.

Never having heard it before, I remarked in my thoughts (and notes) how delightfully cartoonish the themes were; how well they might be adapted in fact to a lively cartoon whose storyline I could almost envision. No surprise then when I read later that Till Eulenspiegel is “an impudent trickster originating in Middle Low German folklore” who was depicted as playing “practical jokes on his contemporaries, exposing vices at every turn.”

Strauss captured the essence of this character in his symphonic poem, Till Eulenspiegel’s lustige Streiche (Till Eulenspiegel’s Merry Pranks)  in 1894. As Brittanica notes: “The jests and practical jokes, which generally depend on a pun, are broadly farcical, often brutal, sometimes obscene, often scatological; but they have a serious theme”—all of which personifies how the CSO chamber orchestra presented this prancing piece.

Concertmaster Yuriy Bekker

The deftness with which they played this and the other two works brought to mind a conversation my wife had recently with a colleague who had just moved from San Francisco to Charleston, and who, when she suggested he try the arts here in town, had remarked that it did not compare to San Francisco. I (gently) interrupted her and said he was wrong.

Admittedly, San Francisco has a more highly rated ballet and opera, but our classical musicians are on par with those in the San Francisco Symphony, which I heard numerous times while living in Northern California. Without question, our local musicians play as—if not more—tightly, sonorously, and passionately than their cosmopolitan west-coast counterparts.

Last night’s impeccable performance in the theatrical setting of the Dock Street was a shining example.

Acknowledgements: photos of musicians by Richard Bell Photography.

Regina Helcher Yost and John Samuel Roper

WHY DIDN’T ANYONE think of this before?

After all, Charleston is a Southern social town. It only makes sense that one of the best ways to present classical music is in a social context—with bistro tables wrapping around the stage, wine served beforehand, and the crowd mingling in a cheerful, festive ambiance for 45 minutes before show time. It felt like a very special evening as well as a fine musical event.

As obvious as it seems that this is the way to do it, it takes the innovative insight of someone like Sandra Nikolajevs to have the vision and make it come to life, as it did Saturday night at Memminger Auditorium when her Chamber Music Charleston musicians performed “A Celebration of Germany” featuring music by Bach and Brahms.

As Sandra said her in her opening statements, there is something about “the magic and excitement of live chamber music” that warrants an intimate, human listening of it—as well as watching it, since with chamber ensembles it is possible to be so close and see so much as they play

The musicians wore their mostly traditional black, but the men’s shirts were theatrically highlighted with bright pastel ties, while the female soloists wore red and pink gowns—which complemented the pink corner-stage lighting. The set design and wardrobes seemed as carefully choreographed as the music, on a stage that was lit by six gorgeous tube lanterns suspended from the cavernous ceiling.

And the large crowd knew how to enjoy more than just the food, wine, and hobnobbing. The festive auditorium grew steely quiet once the nine musicians launched into J.S. Bach’s buoyant Brandenburg Concerto No. 4 in G.

Bach has many signature works, and this is certainly one of them with its brilliant solo violin (Frances Hsieh) and double-flute pairings (Regina Helcher Yost and John Samuel Roper). While these three instruments soar to the skies with their sonority and charm, there is no rest for any of the musicians who have to keep fervid pace with Bach’s relentlessly forward-moving melodies.

And one of the nice things about an evening like this—which makes chamber music so “magical and exciting”—is that, no matter how many times you may have heard a familiar piece like this, you hear it anew, appreciate it anew, and come away once again delightfully refreshed.

After three movements of Bach’s complex, tightly-woven, emotionally driven notes, we got a full taste of Johannes Brahms in his Sextet No. 2 in G Major—a piece that we learned reflects his ardent love for two women in his life, neither of whom he married, and one of whom was the wife and widow of fellow German composer, Robert Schumann.

Which explained the piece’s silky tones, romantic wistfulness, and meandering themes that at times exploded into fervent tempestuousness through two violins, two violas, and two cellos. Brahms romantic compositions are not as defined as Bach’s Baroque scores, but they are exquisitely textured, which makes their long, sometimes wandering passages, well worth the journey of a dutiful ear, especially aided by Sandra’s introduction of the piece and its touching, biographical content.

CMC Director, Sandra Nikolajevs

The fine music aside, however, what stood out on this evening was the musicians, their quality of play, their dedication to and love of playing, and the overall presentation as conceived by Director Sandra Nikolajevs. This was the beginning of a new kind of classical music experience in Charleston (“Celebrations” of France and America—with a selection of their wines—will follow as part of the CMC Memminger Concert Series). And it won’t surprise me to see this venue imitated out of recognition and admiration of how well it works.

Count some more of your blessings, Charleston. You don’t get this kind of classical music experience many places.

Follow the Chamber Music Charleston Memminger Series.