Opera singers and ballet dancers found themselves at odds with a strange enemy recently after the actor Timothée Chalamet, in the final stretch of a hotly contested Oscar race, said that “no one cares” about the two art forms.
Read the whole thing for details and for counters from opera and ballet folk. I had to chuckle though because I think Hollywood is also looking down the barrel of nobody cares. The only Timothy Chalamet movie I have ever watched, I turned off about halfway through because, yep, I just didn't care. I am a movie lover, but I have very little interest in current movies. As I have expressed here before, to general agreement, my favorite move star is Bill Murray.
Really you have to feel sorry for all these young people in the culture business who, because of our flawed education systems, have almost no knowledge of the cultural riches of the past. If you know nothing about opera and ballet, of course you are not going to think much of them.
In one of my favorite episodes of Angel he takes his whole crew to see a performance of Giselle, thereby introducing not only his fellow characters, but the audience as a whole, to a romantic ballet. Knowing the history of art enriches everything you do. And vice versa.
The quote I put up the other day comes from this collection:
I'm just about to start the last story, Death in Venice. After running across Molière mentioned in a hundred places it finally dawned on me that I should read him. He is rather like a French Shakespeare, roughly a hundred years later. And he only wrote comedies. I like comedies. The thing is that, in this translation Richard Wilbur sticks as close as possible to the poetic structure of the original, which means hundreds of pages of rhymed couplets in iambic pentameter. It is particularly fun when they are split between different characters. Like Cher or Madonna, Molière goes by one name.
And finally, I have returned to The Histories of Herodotus in the marvelous Landmark edition:
I set this aside for a few months, but I am glad to be back. Herodotus is the source of lots of delightful stories. For example, a Persian lord, in order to send a message with complete secrecy had a courier's head shaved and the message tattooed on his scalp. The he grew the hair back. He simply carried the message "shave the head of this courier." Another story is of a man given an important message that said simply "kill this man."
But the average tree-ring sequence for a sizable fraction of the violins in their sample correlated well with tree rings from near Trentino in northern Italy, and specifically the high-altitude reaches of the Val di Fiemme. And interestingly, those violins tended to have been produced during Stradivari’s so-called “Golden Age” from roughly 1700 to 1725, a period noted for particularly high-quality Stradivarius instruments. Perhaps Stradivari produced his best work when he found a source of wood in the Val di Fiemme and stuck with it, Dr. Bernabei said.
This strikes a chord with me because Robert Holroyd, who built my guitar, sought out wood for the soundboard from high-altitude spruce in British Columbia.
The wood that goes into making a violin — particularly the front surface, known as the soundboard — is critical. Parameters such as wood density and stiffness all affect how a violin ultimately sounds. “The wood choice is very, very important,” Mr. Beare said.
Stradivari is known to have favored spruce, but where exactly he sourced his wood has long been steeped in mystery. That’s where the study of tree rings — dendrochronology — comes in.
Most trees produce a ring of growth each year, and the widths of those rings depend on environmental conditions. High levels of moisture tend to result in wider rings, for instance. So a sequence of tree rings is like a bar code that records the conditions experienced by a tree year after year.
What they don't mention in the article is the particular benefit of using wood from high-altitude trees. The growing season is short so the growth rings are very narrow, which gives a more even acoustic response.
3 February 1967 is a day that belongs in the annals of music history. It’s the day that Jimi Hendrix entered London’s Olympic Studios to record a song using a new component. The song was “Purple Haze,” and the component was the Octavia guitar pedal, created for Hendrix by sound engineer Roger Mayer. The pedal was a key element of a complex chain of analog elements responsible for the final sound, including the acoustics of the studio room itself. When they sent the tapes for remastering in the United States, the sounds on it were so novel that they included an accompanying note explaining that the distortion at the end was not malfunction but intention.
Hendrix’s setups are well documented: Set lists, studio logs, and interviews with Mayer and Eddie Kramer, then the lead engineer at Olympic Studios, fill in the details. The signal chain for “Purple Haze” consisted of a set of pedals—a Fuzz Face, the Octavia, and a wah-wah—plus a Marshall 100-watt amplifier stack, with the guitar and room acoustics closing a feedback loop that Hendrix tuned with his own body. Later, Hendrix would also incorporate a Uni-Vibe pedal for many of his tracks. All the pedals were commercial models except for the Octavia, which Mayer built to produce a distorted signal an octave higher than its input.
Speaking of a 100-watt Marshall stack, when I was asked to play an obligatto guitar part in a contemporary piece for orchestra I found I had to double on electric guitar so I asked the concert office to get me a guitar and amp as I hadn't played electric guitar for years. What they got was a Stratocaster and a hulking Marshall stack that I never managed to turn up to more than 3. The whole viola section shuddered as I wheeled in the amp behind them.
Where is this devotion to interpreting a singular new contemporary composer these days? Deep musical friendships between well-established pianists and composers seems to have disappeared. Is there no time for long-term collaboration? A composer writing music who sees you especially in mind, for your unique musical fingerprint, is a magical thing. You don’t take it for granted. And it’s true the other way. Composer colleagues of mine always feel awe in how the right musician brings their music to life, or even to a place where they thought not possible in their heads.
Perhaps established musicians are playing it too safe. Commercialisation of their albums are top of the agenda, hoping that another Beethoven or Prokofiev Sonata cycle will keep the sales in the green. Or even that professional musicians simply don’t have the time to devote to curating life-long musical friendships with other established composers on the stage.
Several times during his hourlong performance of Beethoven’s “Diabelli Variations” at Carnegie Hall last month, the pianist Igor Levit made the same nonmusical gesture. At the end of a variation he would briskly swipe the flat of his hand horizontally above the keys as if clearing a whiteboard of the previous idea’s scribbles.
The motion seemed to be a mental reset — as if Levit were reminding himself to return to the blank slate of the theme, just as Beethoven had done, so as to ask the same question anew: What else might this music become? It was a reminder that variations are not merely a decorative form but also a kind of problem solving, in which each new section challenges the composer, the performer and the listener to approach the same material with a beginner’s mind.
Human beings have what’s called the serial-order effect: The longer we spend thinking about something, the wilder and more unusual our ideas tend to get.
Gen A.I. is constrained to the most statistically likely solutions. It’s fast, but it stays within a very small sphere of possibilities. Human beings go to edge cases. Time gives us the opportunity to diversify ideas and to see how well what we’ve made holds up.
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Let's have some musical envois. Of course we have to start with Purple Haze:
And of course, the version by Kronos:
The Critic article also talked about the Piano Sonata no. 6 by Prokofiev and there was an article I didn't put up announcing that Yuja Wang got Norman Lebrecht fired from the BBC for sending her a snippy email. So here is Yuja Wang with the Prokofiev Sonata no. 6:
And finally, of course, the Diabelli Variations by Beethoven played by Grigory Sokolov:
For Christmas this year a friend of mine sent me a beautiful Everyman edition of Buddenbrooks and a collection of short stories, both by Thomas Mann. I have known Mann for quite some time--I read Doctor Faustus many years ago--but I didn't realize just how great a writer he is. One of the short stories is Tonio Kröger and the last chapter (it is quite a long short story) contains this remarkable paragraph:
I stand between two worlds, I am at home in neither, and this makes things a little difficult for me. You artists call me a bourgeois, and the bourgeois feel they ought to arrest me... I don't know which of the two hurts me more bitterly. The bourgeois are fools; but you worshippers of beauty, you who say I am phlegmatic and have no longing in my soul, you should remember that there is a kind of artist so profoundly, so primordially fated to be an artist that no longing seems sweeter and more precious to him than his longing for the bliss of the commonplace.
I'm still working on a Monteverdi post, but in the meantime I ran across a quote in an Ann Althouse post that sparked some recollections:
Everybody was really competitive, even though there was nothing to win.
That was a reference to living in Manhattan, but it applies to the Canadian music business as well. I struggled for years as a concert classical guitarist in Canada and, by Canadian standards I was actually "successful". I made a living as a classical guitarist playing concerts, doing radio broadcasts on the CBC and teaching at conservatory and university. Successful! My most prominent concert was a performance with the CBC Vancouver Orchestra at the Odeon theatre in Vancouver, the largest concert hall in the city. This was broadcast live across Canada. I played the Villa-Lobos Guitar Concerto and a couple of solo pieces. The Brazilian consul was an invited guest. For this, which involved three months of hard work learning the concerto, I was paid the magnificent sum of $1,250 Canadian. My typical annual earnings were between $23,000 and $25,000. Sometimes I wouldn't open my mailbox for a month because I knew that it would contain only bills. One summer I got hired to do a summer course for a splendid $3,000 and because it was earned in a short amount of time about half of it was taken in taxes.
But yes, we were all very competitive even though there was nothing to win. In 1986 Vancouver was the site of a spectacular international exhibition with pavilions from countries around the world. In conjunction they held a classical music competition for solo artists. First prize was $700. This isn't a joke it is an insult. So yes, in the classical Canadian music business there is nothing to win. Canada has very little regard for classical music apart from a few square blocks in Montreal, Toronto and Vancouver.
Of course, for classical guitarists in the world as a whole, the situation is not much better. When I was a young guitarist dedicating decades of my life to the hard work of becoming an accomplished soloist it would have been of immense value to me if I had had a consultation with a vocation specialist. He might have told me the following: there are perhaps a million classical guitarists in the world of whom perhaps 50,000 are striving for a serious career. Of these the ones who are actually successful are five. No, not five percent, five individuals. (I could name them, but the list would be out of date. Of the five I met four and studied with two.) One quite successful artist kept a large Mercedes sedan in Frankfurt and every year he would fly there and tour around Germany and other European countries. He also had a recording contract with Philips. He earned perhaps $500,000 a year. That is a successful career.
Here is a clip of a performance from the heydays of my career.
This is one of those posts that does not fit comfortably into any particular category, so I should start with a definition. By a large repertory I mean a large collection of works by a single composer in a specific genre. The locus classicus might be the five hundred and fifty-five single movement sonatas for harpsichord by Domenico Scarlatti. Another prominent example is the one hundred and four symphonies by Joseph Haydn. A lesser-known collection would be the three hundred and seventy-one symphonies by the Finnish composer and conductor Leif Segerstam.
Of course we would want to include the three hundred some cantatas by J. S. Bach. And there are some smaller collections that are also well worth looking at such as the two hundred and thirty some pieces for harpsichord by François Couperin gathered into twenty-seven suites or Ordres. Another spectacular collection is that of the two hundred and fifty-two madrigals of Claudio Monteverdi, collected in nine books. Mind you, over the course of the composition, Monteverdi made radical changes in the very nature of the genre and from Book 7 on there is a wide variety of versions of the form using different kinds of poetic texts, different vocal combinations and especially different instrumental combinations to the extent that some of the longer examples are like miniature operas--a long way from our basic conception of the madrigal.
What fascinates me about these large repertoires is the astonishing creativity involved. Imagine sitting down year after year and composing over and over again short sonatas for harpsichord, overwhelmingly in binary form and each time coming up with something new and fresh. Or doing the same with the symphonic form, though there you have instrumental variety as well as contrasting movements to work with.
What is required for these repertories to flourish is not only the creative genius of the composer, but also the availability of musicians to play the works and a venue and sponsorship to support performances. Of course Scarlatti could count on the patronage of Philip V, the King of Spain and Haydn that of the wealthy Esterhazy family. Bach was employed by the city fathers of Leipzig and Monteverdi by the Gonzagas and the Serene Republic of Venice. So what you really need is decades long support of some wealthy patrons, something we don't really have these days.
How could I possibly introduce these repertories in the context of a blog? Not very easily, I'm afraid. The topic is not only too big for a blog, it is also too big for a series of hefty books. Because of the extensive nature of these repertories, many of them have not even been examined in a thorough way in monographs. And when they have, as in the massive three-volume book on the Italian Madrigal by Alfred Einstein, they are often many decades old. So, basically, it can't be done! So what can I do? Well, I can certainly give little tastes of them, call it a "repertory sampler" which might encourage you to explore this music. I think it is really worth your time because here we tend to have pure creativity unaffected by commercial or ideological considerations--and wouldn't that be a relief!
So I'm going to pick up on a post I put up not long ago and delve into the Monteverdi madrigals to start with. I'm going to pick one madrigal from Book 3, one from Book 5 and one from Book 7 that I hope will enable me to illustrate the shift from Renaissance style to Baroque style in one composer in just a few years.
The Italian-born composer-pianist Ferruccio Busoni was a clairvoyant who will never cease to magnetize a coterie of adherents. In his Sketch of a New Esthetic of Music (1907), Busoni proposed the notion of “Ur-Musik.” It is an elemental realm of absolute music in which composers have approached the “true nature of music” by discarding traditional templates. Sonata form, since the times of Haydn and Mozart a basic organizing principle governed by goal-directed harmonies, would be no more.
An example?
Encountering Adams’s Become Ocean on a 21st-century symphonic program is so fundamentally enthralling that it risks cliché. It is the proverbial oasis in the desert. The Sahara here is contemporary American concert music inscribed in sand. The ocean Adams supplies is equally physical and metaphysical. Its tides heave and recede. In place of tunes, it proposes shifting modulations of texture, pulse, and harmony. The harmonies are triadic but barely directional; they shimmer atop anchoring brass choirs.
Travelers coming to London by sea were sometimes surprised when their sailing ships anchored at the mouth of the Thames and then simply waited—not for a shift in the wind but for a change in the water. Depending on the hour, the river flowed either forward or backward, pushed along by the estuarial tide, carrying lost boots, schools of pike and carp, occasionally corpses, and just now royals and nobility headed toward supper and an evening’s entertainment at a garden villa upstream in Chelsea. Early the next morning, with the water returned to its normal state, George floated back home and allowed everyone finally to retire to bed.
Two days later, when a newspaper gave an account of the outing, the most remarkable thing was reckoned to be not the king and his mobile court, swept along by a reversible river, but rather “the finest Symphonies, compos’d express for this Occasion,” and the German who had written them. He was thirty-two years old, graced with a royal pension, and comfortable in four languages. He was said to have survived a sword thrust when an opponent’s blade landed on a button. He had attached himself to dukes who became princes and princes who became kings. It would take the better part of a century for other people to rearrange his latest work, composed in bright major keys built for the outdoors, and drag it into a concert hall. Its title, Water Music, would forever carry a whiff of cow parsley and river mud. But chroniclers were already calling him “the famous Mr. Hendel,” and on this splendid July evening, a few months into his thirty-third year, he had every reason to believe one obvious thing: the right river, taken at the flood, could work miracles.
Ancient Greek and Roman art tends to look really good today.
This is not a universal rule. The Greeks weren’t always the masters of naturalism that we know: early Archaic kouroi now seem rather stilted and uneasy. As in all societies, cruder work was produced at the lower end of the market. Art in the peripheral provinces of the Roman Empire was often clearly a clumsy imitation of work at the center. Even so, modern viewers tend to be struck by the excellence of Greek and Roman art. The examples I have given here are far from exceptions. Explore the Naples Archaeological Museum, the British Museum, the Louvre, or the Metropolitan Museum and you will see that they had tons of this stuff. Still more remarkable, in a way, is the abundance of good work discovered in Pompeii, a provincial town of perhaps 15,000 people.
Here is another Roman statue, this time depicting the Emperor Augustus. It is called the Augustus of the Prima Porta after the site where it was discovered. Something interesting about this statue is that traces of paint survive on its surface. This is because, like most though not all ancient statues, it was originally painted.
You really have to read the whole thing for a fascinating argument that the reason that our attempts to paint ancient statues come out looking so horrible is because we are doing it wrong.
In 2025, Yannick Nézet-Séguin tops our list of busiest conductors, with an amazing 120 listed engagements – and looking back over the last decade of data, Nézet-Séguin has been a consistent presence among the busiest.
European orchestras are similar in their distance travelled. The Berliner Philharmoniker, Wiener Philharmoniker and Budapest Festival Orchestra all visited 11 countries in 2025. Their raw number of total listed performances are notable too – 137, 132 and 100 respectively, including concerts in their home bases, though the Leipzig Gewandhausorchester outpaced them with 187, visiting 8 countries outside Germany.
In the last decade, we have seen a steady rise of Maurice Ravel in our listings. 2025 marked the composer’s 150th anniversary, so it is no surprise to see his pieces in among the most performed concert works, La Valse and the Piano Concerto in G major both placing within the top five.
I didn't see statistics for most active soloists which would have been interesting.
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Now let's have some musical envois, Let's start with Become Ocean and work up from there.
Now some water music by Handel:
And here is Yannick Nézet-Séguin conducting Tchaikovsky:
The 19th century is like a giant duffle bag stuffed with art, literature, music, culture, exploration, science and really big symphonies. Just coming to grips with how rich and deep the cultural soil is, would be itself a daunting task. And they did it all without AI! The century really extends from the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo in 1815 (amply chronicled in Victor Hugo's great 19th century novel, Les Misèrables) to the onset of The Great War, later known as World War I, in 1914. In between was a century of relative peace under the umbrella of the Pax Britannica. Incidentally, a great narrative that sums up WWI rather well is Robert Graves' Goodby to All That recounting his experience as a line officer in the trenches.
Between those two events, the century glows with prosperity, peace and cultural exuberance mixed with an underlying sadness that perhaps all this will not last--as it did not. Two symphonies from the very beginning of the century sum up both the exuberance and the misgivings and both are by Franz Schubert. First, the Great C Major, is a paean to exuberance:
And for the misgivings, the bittersweet depths of Schubert's Unfinished Symphony:
As a musician, I tend to look to music to illustrate history while others might choose art or literature.
The musical wealth of the 19th century is unsurpassed by any other era. The emotive beauty of Chopin, the brilliance of Liszt, the depth of Brahms, the rustic grace of Dvořák, the magnificence of Bruckner and the host of other talents. And when you consider literature, the harvest is even greater. I'm not qualified to say anything about 19th century painting and sculpture, but I suspect the same is true there.
The obvious causes of this efflorescence would include the unprecedented prosperity brought to Europe by the Industrial Revolution when for the first time in history the masses began to experience true prosperity. The end of the Napoleonic wars were the end of centuries of sectarian violence among a host of religious and cultural divisions. So, peace, a bit of material prosperity and, most important, some leisure to devote to the arts and science.
I'm not sure I can explain why it all came to an end, perhaps we might consult The Decline of the West by Oswald Spengler or From Dawn to Decadence by Jacques Barzun. In any case, it did come to an end and all that expansive and glorious art and culture was replaced by something smaller, colder and more bitter: modernism. I love modernism in music and art, but I think we have to accept that it is a decline. For a musical illustration we could pick an example from Bruckner:
And for comparison, one from Bartók:
Both great works, but one is a kind of pinnacle and the other is a descent, though a wonderful one.
This is more of a sketch than an argument. I tend to come up with ideas that would really require a full-length book to fully illustrate and defend. But I don't have time for that, so mere hints will have to do.
We can hope that the next stage will be some kind of renaissance...
I just finished the Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio this morning, a pretty hefty read of some 900 pages, so I thought I would share what I am reading right now.
Apart from a couple of excessively long and turgid stories, this is more entertaining and an easier read than one would think. For me it plugs a rather large gap in my reading as (apart from Dante) I have read virtually nothing from the 14th century. I wish I had read it when I was twenty as it would have been quite helpful.
I purchased this a few years ago, but never got around to reading it. Now I am doing so with great pleasure and learning things like the difference between the madrigal style of Ferrara and Mantua. The late 16th century madrigal is one of the great repertories of the world and should be better known. Alongside the book I am enjoying listening my way through this fifteen CD collection:
Excellent performances with all-male singers and extensive use of instruments.
This novel by Thomas Mann, while lengthy, is a fairly easy read and a profound exploration of the fortunes of a German family in the 19th century. The Everyman printing, manufactured in Germany, is of superb quality.
I just started this one this morning and again, the quality of the printing, binding and editorial matter is excellent.
I started this serious reading project a couple of years ago in an effort to substitute quality reading for the junk one finds on the internet every morning. In the beginning I sought out challenging recent experimental fiction, critical commentary on the arts and poetry. But now I find I have gravitated to longstanding literary classics.
Adam Walker is a YouTube figure I have. been following for a while and he has many interesting things to say:
The Music Salon was not founded with any of these things in mind, but actually it functioned for a number of years as a nexus of self-learning. I think Adam is correct that we may be seeing the first faint glints of a renaissance in the humanities and we are certainly in need of one.
James Zimmermann was the principal clarinetist of the Nashville Symphony Orchestra (NSO) for more than a decade until he was fired in 2020 over accusations of "racial harassment." As the Washington Free Beacon reported at the time, Zimmerman had reportedly "insulted, intimidated, and even stalked his black colleagues, going so far as to menacingly drive by their homes."
None of that was true, as six of Zimmermann's colleagues and the Orchestra's own documents showed, the Free Beacon reported. Instead, they correctly called Zimmermann an "early victim of the ideological cold war that turned hot in the summer of 2020."
Frank Swann, administrative director of the International Double Reed Society, also known as the International Double Nerd Society, agreed that the oboe is the most difficult woodwind: “really awkward technically, fingering-wise, every-wise.”
The “double reed” in the name of Swann’s organization is part of the problem: You basically blow air at high pressure through tightly pursed lips into a tiny lentil-shaped opening between two pieces of dried grass to make them vibrate. And if doing that doesn’t mark you as an outcast — or give you a stroke, as has happened more than once — the confounded reed-making process, which involves scrapers and thread and takes more years than there are in life to master, is even worse.
The New York Times has a lovely and lengthy piece on one person's quest to revive a renowned American oboe manufacturer. It is a most curious and most difficult instrument, both to play and to build. The article reveals much about the complexity of the instrument. I was good friends with an oboist years ago and one of the biggest challenges is the making of one's own reeds, a complex and lengthy process, but something every professional oboist spends half their life engaged in.
For classical music to endure, we need to demonstrate to a new audience that the form is not similar to modern music but actually very different in important and — once you acquire a taste for it — enjoyable ways. In execution, this theory works very simply: Don’t change the music; change the way you deliver it. Do the opposite of what institutions are doing when they offer radically shortened operas or watered-down symphonies.
Of course, the value of classical music lies precisely in not being like other kinds of music. Recently Rick Beato had a clip in which he said one of the weaknesses of pop music these days is its lack of expressive dissonance. I think what he was trying to get at was that while pop music has lots of rhythm (though little rhythmic nuance) and even lots of harmony, what it does not have is counterpoint and it is through counterpoint that classical music creates and controls dissonance.
His first program assembled rarities by Sibelius and Debussy, as well as a brilliant recent work by Gabriella Smith and the delightfully outrageous Scriabin tone poem “Prometheus.” Far from a typical orchestra evening, it called for two vocal soloists, a choir and a pianist (a splendid Jean-Yves Thibaudet). As if that weren’t enough, there was also a light installation by Grimanesa Amorós that hung benignly in front of the hall’s organ, with an opening around the console made of tendrils that draped and curled like plants at the mouth of a cave.
Salonen premiered the Smith piece, “Rewilding,” with the San Francisco Symphony last year, near the close of his short-lived music directorship there. Plenty of conductors look like they’re simply keeping time when leading contemporary works. But, as is often the case with Salonen, you could sense the same interpretive care he would have given a classic by Beethoven.
That helps for a score like “Rewilding,” whose 25 minutes contain a lot of openness and freedom in pitch and tempo. At times, the music evokes a field recording, with erratic chirps and natural sounds conjured through dull plucks, scratched strings and mallets hitting the spokes of spinning bicycle wheels.
But there is also a broad architecture to “Rewilding,” a steady but subtle journey to a blossoming apotheosis that Salonen shaped with steady control
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Let's have some envois. First some Schumann for oboe and piano:
A spectacular Monteverdi madrigal, "Ah dolente partita" from Book 4:
Was there a fabulously talented musician in late 16th century Italy akin to today's Taylor Swift? Discounting the cultural, social and economic differences (no-one in 16th century Italy could make a billion dollars touring), there sure was: Claudio Monteverdi, born in 1567. He published his first book of madrigals at age twenty in 1587. But this was not his first publication, no, three years earlier, at age seventeen, he published a volume of Canzonette. Here is a a sample from that book:
Yes, pretty simple stuff, but on the other hand, early Taylor Swift is pretty simple stuff too--and this has a bit of counterpoint. Now let's hear something from his first book of madrigals:
Featuring expressive shifts to capture the emotion of the text, this shows the influence of Luca Marenzio and Luzzasco Luzzaschi. But Monteverdi's second book of madrigals from 1590 contains his first masterpieces, skillful development of musical gestures reflecting the rhetorical elements of the texts as well as unusual rhythmic stratification--something not available in poetic forms.
By 1592, when Monteverdi's third book of madrigals appeared, he had matured considerably. He had left his birthplace of Cremona and was now in the service of the Duke Vincenzo Gonzaga of Mantua. The amorous triflings of book two are now the more heroic passions influenced by fellow Mantuan composer Giaches de Wert.
I'll stop here for now and continue this another day. One final remarkable thing about Monteverdi is that after perfecting the madrigal he went ahead and invented opera--not singlehandedly, but his L'Orfeo of 1607 is the earliest opera to be a part of the operatic canon today.
I attended an all-Bach performance yesterday and I am left with a host of nagging questions. On the one hand, I think that kindness is a virtue and criticism can often be mean-spirited. On the other hand, honesty is also a virtue. So, yes, there were issues with the quality of the performance, But there were political and cultural issues as well. Let me set the scene.
A classical guitarist with whom I was previously unacquainted is doing a series of concerts in which he presents all the music that we can legitimately (more or less) perform on guitar. This includes all the so-called lute suites as well as the solo suites and sonatas for solo violin and the six suites for solo cello. The performance was on eight-string guitar. Those two things in themselves were a powerful motivation for me to attend the concerts. There will be six concerts, but I only became aware of the series after the first two had already taken place. So yesterday was the third concert, held in the central patio of the local library. These concerts are all to benefit scholarship programs of the library. The series as a whole is titled "A Peace Musical Offering" as it is dedicated generally to "peace" and references Bach's A Musical Offering.
In the introductory remarks there was no mention of peace between which parties, nor which party might be favored so it was just nebulous virtue-signaling. But that nebulosity also extended to the performance itself. As a long-retired guitar instructor I was troubled by the casual sitting position with the guitar resting simply on crossed legs. Mind you, Thomas Dunford, an extraordinary lutenist, uses the same position. But no professional classical guitarist does, choosing either a footrest or a guitar rest. The guitar itself was quite reasonable with a good resonant sound. The problems started with the first note. I think I can describe the effect as being very like an intermediate guitar student trying to sightread Bach and only partially succeeding. The analogue in prose might be like this:
ok, here we go ... with the ... first phrase of.... the pre. lude to thethirdcello suite uh the third ... cel. lo. suite...
I have taught at two universities, two conservatories and a two-year college and this kind of performance would have failed the audition for acceptance to the program at all of them. I'm not sure what to call the basic failing: complete lack of discipline? If you sit down to learn a piece by Bach, you have to take it in small sections and work on each section at a very slow tempo until all of it is in your fingers. It was as if he had never encountered this idea. He didn't lack technical skills because there were passages that came off relatively complete. But then the next phrase would be interrupted by a forest of missed notes, incorrect bass notes and frequent hesitations.
One of the best master classes in Bach on guitar I attended was that of Oscar Ghiglia at The Banff Centre. I'm pretty sure that if this kind of playing had been offered there, Oscar would have stopped him after the first couple of phrases and made him repeat them over and over and over again until they were smooth and consistent. This performance was like listening to someone with a hopeless stutter try and recite Shakespeare.
What was puzzling was that the performance was not unmusical as such. Nor did he play Bach as if he hated it like some otherwise professional guitarists do. No, the timbre was nice and there were even some phrases that were well-delivered. But the whole was hopelessly sloppy, as if the concept of a minimal professional standard of accuracy just didn't exist. Perhaps what was needed was a little less peace and little more anxiety about simply playing the right notes.
I am reminded of attending a recital of an up-and-coming young Canadian cellist years ago. My flautist friend and I were just leaving at the end when we ran into Paul Kling, a truly great violinist. We sort of shrugged as the concert had been rather frothy with a lot of throwing about of the hair. Paul, in his delightful Czech accent simply said: "you were expecting Rostropovich, maybe?"
I just received the full program booklet for this year's festival and I'm wishing I could go. Every program shows a thoughtful creativity that is often missing in typical classical performances. The 150 page booklet, beautifully illustrated by drawings and sketches by Andy Warhol, lists nine opera productions, ranging from Mozart's Così Fan Tutte, to the Rossini rarity Il Viaggio a Reims, to Strauss Ariadne auf Naxos, to the rarely performed Saint Francis of Assisi by Messiaen, to newer works by Henze and Dusapin. The Vienna Philharmonic, as well as being the pit orchestra for most of the operas, will also give five concerts and the Berlin Philharmonic, two. There are also six guest orchestras including the Budapest Festival Orchestra and the Vienna Radio Symphony.
No fewer than nine concerts feature music by György Kurtág, this year's featured composer. There are also four concerts devoted to the music of Olivier Messiaen including performances of the Catalogue d'oiseaux, the Visions de l'Amen and the Quatuor pour la fin du temps. Opportunities to hear any of these works are rare, but they are all on the program in Salzburg in August.
There will be solo recitals by Grigory Sokolov, Pierre-Laurent Aimard, Evgeny Kissin, Arkadi Volodos, Alexander Malofeev, András Schiff, Igor Levit and Yuja Wang.
There is also a wealth of other performances of chamber music, spiritual music, vocal music and a whole bunch of Mozart. Not to mention a lot of theater works.
I very much wish I could go, but it comes down to a housing problem for me! The cost of attendance at the Salzburg festival is first and foremost the cost of spending two or three weeks in Salzburg in the summer. Even AirBnb places are expensive and hotels are out of sight. After that is the cost of the flights. Third is the cost of the actual tickets, which are really very reasonable considering the superb quality of the performances. Two years ago I spent only €1,400 for tickets to fifteen concerts. But housing can easily cost four to six thousand dollars. The other housing issue is that this summer I will be building my new house, so that is where my funds are going.
But I am very much looking forward to the 2027 and 2028 festivals and hoping to be there.
Instead of jetting off to Europe to hear some wonderful concerts, last year and this coming year I am focussing on visiting various places in Mexico. I was in Puebla at Easter, Oaxaca in October and I just got back from Campeche. This last is not a tourist spot, which I usually avoid, but it is a charming place and has a number of attractions. The place to stay is the Holiday Inn, though it is an hour's walk to the historic Centro. The walk is a pleasant one, though, along the Malecón or seawall.
Along that seawall can be found a lot of pelicans:
The historic district features two large fortresses, each with a museum and well worth a visit. They were built to defend the port against pirates and the English back in the 17th and 18th centuries. Calle 59 has a lot of coffee places and souvenir shops. And the occasional pirate.
Not to be missed is a fine seafood restaurant named Marganzo where all the waitresses wear traditional dress. I had a lovely meal of shrimp risotto (accompanied by sangria)
Followed by grilled sea bass:
And flan with capuchino:
But the real highlight of the trip was the ancient Mayan city of Edzna. Only the central area of about two square kilometers of large buildings have been excavated and are open to visitors. The whole city occupies some 22 square kilometers. That central area includes some apartments, a combination amphitheater and strip mall, a ball court and a large temple sitting on a very large base. The sheer cost in terms of slave labor must have been staggering--no heavy equipment or power tools. Not even a wheelbarrow.
This is a bedroom:
This is the amphitheater and at the top are spaces for little shops or tiendas.
This is the ball court where the ball was sometimes made of rubber and sometimes was a human head covered in rubber.
