I have neither the skill nor the inclination to analyze fiction, so there isn’t much that I could say about Stefan Zwieg’s Beware of Pity that wouldn’t be trite. My friend C.S., whose copy I borrowed, claimed that it was the best novel he has ever read, though he has since disowned that claim. I did not think much of the book for most of its duration, delighting in the details more than the overall theme, which I thought was spoon-fed to the reader to a disappointing degree. The characters, too, with the possible exception of Dr. Condor, were not portrayed with particular distinction or vivid color. Imagine my pleasant surprise, then, when the story, as it neared its denouement, steadily gathered steam and, in the last thirty or so pages, became almost overwhelming in its power and the palpable sense of inner torture Hoffmiller experiences. And that’s to say nothing of the fact that what I thought was going to be the climax (given away by the introduction I had made the mistake of reading), was not it at all, or only a small part of it. Hoffmiller is an anti-hero that the best (worst?) in literature will need to reckon with.
For some reason, I was imagining the novel as a movie the entire time I was reading it, preferably a high-budget period melodrama, with thoroughly researched and exquisitely rendered detail. True, a film of Beware of Pity would likely be British, despite the story taking place in Austro-Hungary on the eve of WWI, but for some reason I was picturing Paul Giamatti as Condor. I could also imagine someone like Ian McEwan writing the novel today – same setting, same characters, just a little more evenly rendered without sacrificing any of the power of the ending.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Thelonious Monk with John Coltrane: Complete Riverside Recordings
In their day, and to some extent still, Thelonious Monk and John Coltrane were two of the most controversial figures in post-war jazz. Both have had their ardent admirers and fierce critics since time immemorial. The consensus today seems to respect them both as pioneers who pushed the art form into theretofore unchartered territory, while the aesthetic and emotional appeal of their music remains as open to debate as ever. It is all the more surprising, then, that the two hardly ever played and recorded together. Aside from a double set of their Carnegie Hall concert from 1957, released to great fanfare four years ago, and a barely audible bootleg from the Five Spot from around the same time, The Complete Riverside Recordings (Riverside, 2006) is the only other surviving document of their collaboration, and purportedly the only one recorded in a studio.
Recorded by Orrin Keepnews, then owner and producer at Riverside, over three sessions in the spring and summer of 1957, the set promises more than it delivers, but almost makes up for that by other unexpected revelations. This is an archival document, not a record to be listened to for pleasure. False starts, aborted takes, and even studio banter are plentiful. Whether you consider that to be valuable or distracting will depend on your perspective, of course. Suffice it to say this is a record to study, not to float away to into some magical jazz universe. Far more important, however, is the personnel. Monk, Coltrane's senior by nine years and the undisputed leader of these sessions, had brought in a septet (!) which included, in addition to Coltrane, Art Blakey on drums and Wilbur Ware on bass, the now forgotten Ray Copeland on trumpet, Gigi Gryce on alto and, unbelievable though it sounds, Coleman Hawkins on second tenor.
Or perhaps not so unbelievable - Hawkins was Monk's first steady employer in the late 1940s, and the quintessential swing-era saxophonist had done an amazing job late in his career keeping up with the bebop kids without sacrificing his trademark style. So the most obvious reason the recording is valuable is the opportunity to hear not the interplay between Monk and Coltrane, but the contrast between Coltrane and Hawkins. In fact, the first track to offer this - Gryce's Blues for Tomorrow -- does not feature any of Monk's piano at all (he is reported to have fallen asleep and wheeled out on an equipment cart, but Keepnews had to use up the studio time he had paid for). Coltrane solos first, followed immediately by Hawkins. Coltrane was on the cusp of his "sheets of sound" period in 1957, but here he betrays little of what was to come a couple of years later. His tone is much less edgy than what most listeners are used to, but the solo as a whole is unfocused, and already sounds unnecessarily busy. Hawkins wins hands-down - his statement is swinging, well structured, played with enough energy to keep up with the rest of the band but without compromising clarity.
Further comparison between the two is available on Ruby, My Dear - Hawk and Trane get one version each. Coltrane acquits himself better here - his solo is measured, relaxed and very "inside" (the same can be said of his solo on Epistrophy), while Hawkins pulls off a few boppy runs in homage to his session mates.
Behind all of this, or some of it at any rate, is Monk. He actually solos very little, preferring to play the role of glue, but when he finally does on Epistrophy and Well, You Needn't in the middle of Disc Two, it is very effective. His solos are firmly based on the themes, he does not show off, and where he uses the dissonance for which he was supposed to have been famous, he balances it perfectly with space - the stranger the intervals, the fewer notes he uses. His comping, too, is much in the same vein, though it is worth considering the fact that he plays much more behind some of the horns than others, and the one that gets short thrift is Coltrane. Whether it was a clash of two intense musical personalities, or a simple lack of familiarity with one another's styles, we will never know. Suffice it to say that Monk lays out a lot, and when he does not, as on Trinkle, Tinkle and, to a lesser extent, Nutty (he starts but seems to give up after a while), his playing behind Coltrane is far from adventurous. It sounds as if the two couldn't quite find a shared musical language, and Monk, being the more experienced of the two at the time, simply got out of the way.
His playing behind Gryce, by contrast, whether sparse, as on the short version of Epistrophy, or more dense, as on Well, You Needn't, is always appropriate. It really seems that of the bunch, Hawkins included, Monk is the most comfortable with Gryce, and in general, it would not be an overstatement to say that Gryce is the real discovery of the record. Boppy, but without the nervous jitter of Charlie Parker, he develops his solos thoughtfully and has a good feel for the tune and his accompanists. Definitely on this reviewer's list to explore further.
Whether Complete Riverside Recordings is essential will depend on your approach. For an historian of 1950s jazz, it is an indispensable document. For the rest, it tantalizes with possibilities while leaving us with little that is truly satisfying, while at the same time suggesting many areas for further exploration.
Recorded by Orrin Keepnews, then owner and producer at Riverside, over three sessions in the spring and summer of 1957, the set promises more than it delivers, but almost makes up for that by other unexpected revelations. This is an archival document, not a record to be listened to for pleasure. False starts, aborted takes, and even studio banter are plentiful. Whether you consider that to be valuable or distracting will depend on your perspective, of course. Suffice it to say this is a record to study, not to float away to into some magical jazz universe. Far more important, however, is the personnel. Monk, Coltrane's senior by nine years and the undisputed leader of these sessions, had brought in a septet (!) which included, in addition to Coltrane, Art Blakey on drums and Wilbur Ware on bass, the now forgotten Ray Copeland on trumpet, Gigi Gryce on alto and, unbelievable though it sounds, Coleman Hawkins on second tenor.
Or perhaps not so unbelievable - Hawkins was Monk's first steady employer in the late 1940s, and the quintessential swing-era saxophonist had done an amazing job late in his career keeping up with the bebop kids without sacrificing his trademark style. So the most obvious reason the recording is valuable is the opportunity to hear not the interplay between Monk and Coltrane, but the contrast between Coltrane and Hawkins. In fact, the first track to offer this - Gryce's Blues for Tomorrow -- does not feature any of Monk's piano at all (he is reported to have fallen asleep and wheeled out on an equipment cart, but Keepnews had to use up the studio time he had paid for). Coltrane solos first, followed immediately by Hawkins. Coltrane was on the cusp of his "sheets of sound" period in 1957, but here he betrays little of what was to come a couple of years later. His tone is much less edgy than what most listeners are used to, but the solo as a whole is unfocused, and already sounds unnecessarily busy. Hawkins wins hands-down - his statement is swinging, well structured, played with enough energy to keep up with the rest of the band but without compromising clarity.
Further comparison between the two is available on Ruby, My Dear - Hawk and Trane get one version each. Coltrane acquits himself better here - his solo is measured, relaxed and very "inside" (the same can be said of his solo on Epistrophy), while Hawkins pulls off a few boppy runs in homage to his session mates.
Behind all of this, or some of it at any rate, is Monk. He actually solos very little, preferring to play the role of glue, but when he finally does on Epistrophy and Well, You Needn't in the middle of Disc Two, it is very effective. His solos are firmly based on the themes, he does not show off, and where he uses the dissonance for which he was supposed to have been famous, he balances it perfectly with space - the stranger the intervals, the fewer notes he uses. His comping, too, is much in the same vein, though it is worth considering the fact that he plays much more behind some of the horns than others, and the one that gets short thrift is Coltrane. Whether it was a clash of two intense musical personalities, or a simple lack of familiarity with one another's styles, we will never know. Suffice it to say that Monk lays out a lot, and when he does not, as on Trinkle, Tinkle and, to a lesser extent, Nutty (he starts but seems to give up after a while), his playing behind Coltrane is far from adventurous. It sounds as if the two couldn't quite find a shared musical language, and Monk, being the more experienced of the two at the time, simply got out of the way.
His playing behind Gryce, by contrast, whether sparse, as on the short version of Epistrophy, or more dense, as on Well, You Needn't, is always appropriate. It really seems that of the bunch, Hawkins included, Monk is the most comfortable with Gryce, and in general, it would not be an overstatement to say that Gryce is the real discovery of the record. Boppy, but without the nervous jitter of Charlie Parker, he develops his solos thoughtfully and has a good feel for the tune and his accompanists. Definitely on this reviewer's list to explore further.
Whether Complete Riverside Recordings is essential will depend on your approach. For an historian of 1950s jazz, it is an indispensable document. For the rest, it tantalizes with possibilities while leaving us with little that is truly satisfying, while at the same time suggesting many areas for further exploration.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Kennedy Center Chamber Players, January 10th, 2010.
First concert of the year last Sunday: the Kennedy Center Chamber Players with an all-Brahms program. Three string sonatas, one each for cello, viola and violin. In a word, excellent.
Cellist David Hardy opened with the E-minor sonata, Op. 38, which is possibly my favorite piece of chamber music, partly because it is so transparent. As great as much of Brahms's work is, a lot of it can be quite dense. So much goes on all at the same time, even when only two instruments are playing, that following the music takes real effort and can, in extreme cases, take away from the emotional enjoyment. Not so with Op. 38. Apparently written for a musician for whom cello was a secondary instrument, it is full of gorgeous melodies, unhurried, logical development, and interplay between the soloist and the accompanist that is immediately graspable but no less delightful for it. My reference version of the work is the recording Yo-Yo Ma did with Emmanuel Ax back in the mid-80s, but that's almost beside the point. Comparing a live performance to a recorded one is apples to oranges anyway, and is even more meaningless in this case because the early digital sound of the CD on my decidedly non-high-end system is so abrasive as to be downright unpleasant. If you are shocked at the idea of Yo-Yo Ma sounding scratchy, I would be happy to lend you the disc. Still, it does establish some kind of baseline, however low.
Hardy and pianist Lambert Orkis, who accompanied on all the works, sounded gorgeous, not only by comparison to the CD, but objectively. Their tempos were a bit more brisk than Ma and Ax's, but at the same time they managed to sound less metronomic, slowing down and stretching the beat just a little on the quieter sections. On the arrestingly beautiful main theme of the first movement, Hardy dug into the low strings with gusto and never let up. Orkis's accompaniment - typically of Brahms, he was really a co-soloist (Brahms even listed piano first when he published most of his sonatas) - was easy, confident, and never let itself be overshadowed by the cello.
Up next was the E-flat viola sonata which I had never heard before. The character of the work could not have been more different - it was full of Brahms's trademark density, but somehow managed to create a lighter mood, being neither dark nor melodramatic (the cello sonata, by contrast, is a bit of both). Violist Daniel Foster took a measured, analytical approach, and while I enjoyed hearing a new and interesting work, two days later I could not recall much about it; whether because it was unfamiliar music or because of Foster's detached approach, I do not know.
After the intermission, we were treated to Nurit Bar-Josef's rendition of the D-minor violin sonata. Bar-Josef, of course, is the National Symphony's principal, and as close as DC has to a violin superstar. She was fantastic - as much as I enjoyed the other two performances, she was on a different plane in terms of how much of herself she put into the music. Just her movement - she looked like she would start leaping about the stage any instant - betrayed her complete emotional dedication to the music. And the D-minor sonata is no picnic to play, either. The last of the three sonatas for the instrument Brahms wrote, it is the longest and the most complex. Probably because it is in a minor key, it is also my favorite. It is full of all kinds of stuff. In the opening movement, the jumps between high and low registers are so dramatic that sometimes it sounds as if a trio is playing. The entire work is full of Brahms' trademark baroque-like long eighth-note runs that he was so fond of using, especially in his late works. The last movement is marked Presto Agitato - enough said. Bar-Josef and Orkis took everything in stride but managed not gloss over anything. Or so I am remembering it now -- to be honest, I was too absorbed in the music to register many of the details. And that is exactly what you want from a first-rate live performance.
Cellist David Hardy opened with the E-minor sonata, Op. 38, which is possibly my favorite piece of chamber music, partly because it is so transparent. As great as much of Brahms's work is, a lot of it can be quite dense. So much goes on all at the same time, even when only two instruments are playing, that following the music takes real effort and can, in extreme cases, take away from the emotional enjoyment. Not so with Op. 38. Apparently written for a musician for whom cello was a secondary instrument, it is full of gorgeous melodies, unhurried, logical development, and interplay between the soloist and the accompanist that is immediately graspable but no less delightful for it. My reference version of the work is the recording Yo-Yo Ma did with Emmanuel Ax back in the mid-80s, but that's almost beside the point. Comparing a live performance to a recorded one is apples to oranges anyway, and is even more meaningless in this case because the early digital sound of the CD on my decidedly non-high-end system is so abrasive as to be downright unpleasant. If you are shocked at the idea of Yo-Yo Ma sounding scratchy, I would be happy to lend you the disc. Still, it does establish some kind of baseline, however low.
Hardy and pianist Lambert Orkis, who accompanied on all the works, sounded gorgeous, not only by comparison to the CD, but objectively. Their tempos were a bit more brisk than Ma and Ax's, but at the same time they managed to sound less metronomic, slowing down and stretching the beat just a little on the quieter sections. On the arrestingly beautiful main theme of the first movement, Hardy dug into the low strings with gusto and never let up. Orkis's accompaniment - typically of Brahms, he was really a co-soloist (Brahms even listed piano first when he published most of his sonatas) - was easy, confident, and never let itself be overshadowed by the cello.
Up next was the E-flat viola sonata which I had never heard before. The character of the work could not have been more different - it was full of Brahms's trademark density, but somehow managed to create a lighter mood, being neither dark nor melodramatic (the cello sonata, by contrast, is a bit of both). Violist Daniel Foster took a measured, analytical approach, and while I enjoyed hearing a new and interesting work, two days later I could not recall much about it; whether because it was unfamiliar music or because of Foster's detached approach, I do not know.
After the intermission, we were treated to Nurit Bar-Josef's rendition of the D-minor violin sonata. Bar-Josef, of course, is the National Symphony's principal, and as close as DC has to a violin superstar. She was fantastic - as much as I enjoyed the other two performances, she was on a different plane in terms of how much of herself she put into the music. Just her movement - she looked like she would start leaping about the stage any instant - betrayed her complete emotional dedication to the music. And the D-minor sonata is no picnic to play, either. The last of the three sonatas for the instrument Brahms wrote, it is the longest and the most complex. Probably because it is in a minor key, it is also my favorite. It is full of all kinds of stuff. In the opening movement, the jumps between high and low registers are so dramatic that sometimes it sounds as if a trio is playing. The entire work is full of Brahms' trademark baroque-like long eighth-note runs that he was so fond of using, especially in his late works. The last movement is marked Presto Agitato - enough said. Bar-Josef and Orkis took everything in stride but managed not gloss over anything. Or so I am remembering it now -- to be honest, I was too absorbed in the music to register many of the details. And that is exactly what you want from a first-rate live performance.
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