calimac: (Default)
My old friend Jordin was in hospital for heart surgery. His recovery was not going well, and now

Oh, alas.

I wrote about my friendship with Jordin when recounting my history with filking a couple years ago. But some of that could bear repeating.

Jordin appeared at UC Berkeley in the fall of 1978, a new grad student in physics fresh out of MIT. He'd been involved in the heavily-organized science-fiction fandom of the Boston area, and sought out such fandom as existed in the Bay Area. He tried out my on-campus club (I was a senior-class undergrad at the time); he became vice-chair of the Elves', Gnomes', and Little Men's Science Fiction, Chowder and Marching Society (the old-line East Bay fan group) for a while; but what most interested him was filking, the singing, composition, and collection of humorous and serious original songs and parodies about SF, fandom, and space exploration. Organized filking, as a fandom of its own and not just something fans occasionally did at parties, was just getting started in our area then. Jordin was used to organized Massachusetts filking, where they had things like the NESFA Hymnal, a full-scale songbook, and when he found that we were disorganized, yet had songs known not in Massachusetts, he formed the idea of a west-coast songbook. He proposed this at a local housefilk and asked if anybody wanted to help. Teri Lee and I volunteered, and that's how we became the three editors of The Westerfilk Collection. There turned out not to be time to compile it before the 1979 Westercon in San Francisco, though we did produce some songsheets then, and it came out the following year.

Ah, we had some great times creating that with the primitive technology of the time. The three of us did most of the layout on evenings and weekends in the Lawrence Berkeley Lab office, up the hill from campus, which Jordin did his physics work out of. Teri hand-drew the sheet music (yes, really), and I - who had the most secretarial experience - typed up all the lyrics on the finished sheets with one of the office Selectrics. Jordin kept the work organized. We had a lot of laughs and a lot of fun. There was of course much more than that - there was choosing appropriate songs and getting rights to them, organizing the contents, getting illustrations, and then printing and distributing, and Jordin was the principal in most of this, as well as the guiding spirit who kept it all focused on a vision.

Then it was published, and for years it was the basic bible of West Coast filking as it was intended to be. Jordin got more involved in filking. He learned to play the guitar, to sing (after a fashion), and to compose songs, some of them heroic ballads of human longing for space, and others corrosively funny. I could tell you of a lot of these songs, but others can do so more authoritatively than I, so let me just mention one, a parody to a hoary old folk tune (so you should know it) and one of his very first. Around the time these movies were new, Jordin expressed concern that, while there were a lot of songs about Star Wars, there seemed to be a dearth about Close Encounters. So he wrote one.

They'll be comin' to the mountain when they come
They'll be comin' to the mountain when they come
Devil's Tower is their mountain
For their taste there's no accountin'
They'll be comin' to the mountain when they come.

And many more verses equally silly.

Then I went off to grad school and eventually dropped out of filking. For a while I didn't see much of Jordin, but a lot happened to him. First he and Teri parlayed the success of the Westerfilk into Off Centaur Publications, the first major filk publishing outfit, even more important for its concert and studio tapes than its songbooks. Jordin actually recorded a couple tapes of his own songs. After several years of great success it all broke up in recriminations and lawsuits, sometime around 1987 (I was no longer around, but I'd known most of those involved, and doubt very much Jordin or some others were at fault), but Jordin kept on in filking.

But meantime he also got his Ph.D. in 1984, describing a method of automated search for supernovas - how exciting! - and began a career in high tech for some impressively well-funded startups. His specialty was laser propulsion of space travel, and he actually got some test rockets up. It expressed the same organizational skills he'd displayed in editing the Westerfilk and, more importantly, it was a step towards realization of the dream he'd expressed in his serious filksongs.

(Jordin's scientific papers all used the middle initial T., which he once told me he'd made up so that he would have one.)

By the time I saw Jordin much again, he was married to Mary Kay, a long-time fan and library cataloger (also my profession) originally from Oklahoma, and he was busy with his fast-moving career, shutting back and forth between the Bay Area and Seattle. He and Mary Kay lived in the Bay Area for a while, then they moved to Seattle because more of the work was there, then they decided they preferred the Bay Area, then they tried living in both places at once, then they moved back to San Jose. My relationship with Jordin had become a casual acquaintance, not the closer friendship of our Westerfilk days, but I'd see him at parties and he'd tell stories of working with Elon Musk and the like.

And then he needed to get his aortic valve replaced and

And we have lost a visionary - who strove to convert his visions into practice - and a creator and a wit and a friend.
calimac: (Haydn)
Well, the Music at Menlo summer festival has started, which means I'm spending a lot of my time up there. Last year, the Menlo School campus was under construction and the ballroom concert facility, Stent Hall, was closed. This year Stent is open, but the construction is still going on, so half the parking lot is still occupied with construction office trailers. And the lawns on campus are now replaced by gravel. They were artificial turf before, I think, so I don't think water rationing has prompted this, but it will put a damper on the outdoor lawn practice sessions that Menlo has been prone to.

Fortunately the first two concerts have been over at the CPA, which is the high school auditorium across town, and which is actually large enough for just about everybody who'd like to come. The first concert was Italian Baroque, and I covered that for the Daily Journal, which won't be out for a few days yet; and the second was high Classicism, which I covered for SFCV and which is up.

In case you wonder, as one did, what the "Hob." in Haydn's work lists is short for, it's "Hoboken." Anthony van Hoboken was the scholar who cataloged Haydn's works, as Ludwig von Köchel did Mozart, though Hoboken's is more of a classified list where Köchel's is chronological.

I wish I'd had more space to discuss Gibbs' lecture, which was fascinating. He began by discussing the rise of professional playing and the need for textbooks to teach it. In 1756, the year of Mozart's birth, he said, an influential violin textbook appeared, which he quoted from. Two decades later, the author wrote Mozart a letter encouraging his violin playing, even though we think of Mozart mostly as a pianist. By this time I had been waiting patiently for Gibbs to reveal the punchline, which is that the author had reason to be concerned with Mozart, as he was Mozart's father, Leopold. When Gibbs did unveil that tidbit, it amused the audience greatly.

Gibbs has compiled a list of the repertoire at Ignaz Schuppanzigh's 1820s set of chamber music subscription concerts, the first set of their kind, and found that 86% of the music was by one of the trinity, Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven. That's what really set them off as the founding composers of what we now call the classical repertoire. The rest was by younger living composers, starting with George Onslow (a Frenchman I've heard of but know little of), and also including Spohr, Hummel, Andreas Romberg, Carl Czerny, and oh yes, a fellow named Schubert. Why did Schubert write his String Quintet with two cellos, instead of two violas as Mozart and Beethoven did? Well, probably because he'd been listening to Onslow, who did it that way, like this.
calimac: (JRRT)
I haven't fully researched this out yet, but as one of those grain-of-sand-type irritants, it's worth recording.

Sometimes when I wish to amuse myself, I go and read some of the numbered list articles at Here's one from 2010 that I just came across: "6 Great Novels that Were Hated in Their Time," and by "hated" they mean "hated by critics and readers alike when they first hit shelves."

Well, maybe not.

I've read all six of them. One I found merely uninteresting, two in my opinion deserve every negative review they ever got (I'll let you guess which two), but the other three really hit me strongly when I read them at a tender age, and I still consider them masterpieces of their kind.

But were they hated? Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath, for instance, did get a lot of political criticism from the right when it appeared in 1939, but not so much critique for its literary qualities. It was a huge bestseller, majorly talked about, and that successful movie adaptation the write-up mentions came out only nine months after the book was published. That was really hot stuff, even then.

And then, at the end of the list, comes The Lord of the Rings. The entry quotes the Drout Tolkien Encyclopedia as saying that "No 'mainstream critic' appreciated The Lord of the Rings," but besides the fact that this comes from one of the less reliable contributors, what it seems to mean is more that they weren't in a position to fully appreciate its greatness, not that they didn't like the book. Because in fact, while the book did receive its share of severe pans (most famously from Edmund Wilson), it also got many strong positive reviews (most notably from W.H. Auden and Naomi Mitchison). It also got readers, selling remarkably well for a three-volume novel of a highly unusual kind from a basically unknown author. Most of the really hostile critical commentary on Tolkien dates not from when The Lord of the Rings was new, when the kind of people who didn't like that sort of thing mostly ignored it, but from more recent years when its popularity has become massive.

Among the negative reviews the article quotes is one from The New Republic describing it as "anemic, and lacking in fiber." That puzzled me, since The New Republic's review, which you can read here, concluded with unsurpassable enthusiasm, "There are very few works of genius in recent literature. This is one." (A famous line, given that it was quoted in innumerable blurbs for decades afterwards.) Did it also call the book "anemic, and lacking in fiber"? It did not.

I had to do a little digging, but it appears that this quote comes not from any review when the book was new, but from a New Republic article - called, with oh so brilliant originality, "Bored of the Rings" - from January 2002. That's right during the hoopla attendant on the release of the first installment of Peter Jackson's movie adaptation a month earlier, and not far in the wake of all the mass polls declaring Tolkien's book one of the most popular of its century. So, rather than a critic not recognizing a new and untried book as a masterpiece, this is someone spitting in the wind in defiance of a long-established masterpiece.

There's more. In the context of "mainstream critics," calling Isaac Asimov a "heavyweight" is laughable, even before knowing that Asimov denied any critical ability and hardly ever wrote book reviews. The quote in any case is not a quote from Asimov, but a paraphrase quoted from the same unreliable article as the line about the "mainstream critics," and while Asimov might have said something of the sort as a cautionary note, he was actually a great admirer of The Lord of the Rings, which he read several times. (Interestingly, Tolkien himself once named Asimov as an SF author he liked, so there was a mutual admiration society there.)

Since I've actually been compiling together a list of early reviews of Tolkien - it turns out that each of the standard bibliographies has items that others missed - I ought to measure also their grades of the book, and see how it came out. But I do know that a lot were favorable.
calimac: (Default)
Another posthumous Donald E. Westlake novel has been published, and I've read it and added it to my annotated Westlake bibliography. I think the writeup communicates all I have to say about it:

Forever and a Death (2017)
Serious thriller novel, set in Australia, Singapore, and Hong Kong, written in the late 1990s but not published at that time. Based on an unused treatment for a James Bond movie, the novel removes Bond but leaves in the Bond villain, a businessman so over-the-top in his maliciousness that the cops disbelieve the heroes when they describe his deeds on the grounds that nobody would do that. The result has some of the mien of Kahawa without the humorous overtones, and the caper is the villain's not the heroes'. What it does have in common is being long but fast-paced, and in having an assortment of miscellaneous heroes, some of whom get killed. The leading hero - if he can be called that; much of his character arc is left out - is one of Westlake's ordinary men who under pressure discover a capacity for necessary ruthlessness, only this one is more plausibly presented than some.
calimac: (Default)
Good: The setting, the glory of western Canada, with tremendous mountains looming over the city, and cool weather even in the height of summer.

Bad: The traffic. Vancouver is like Seattle, with cramped narrow streets serving as major arteries and too much traffic being stuffed down them. Nor has Google Maps informed itself of a major street closure that's wreaked havoc in the Point Grey district.

Ugly: The drivers. Unlike in Seattle, they're bad-tempered, and unpredictably incompetent. The bicyclists, too: arrogant and entitled over pedestrians who dare to avoid obstacles by crossing bike lanes.

Good: Factory museums outside of town, the salmon cannery at the mouth of the Fraser River and the copper mine in the mountains above Howe Sound. Both full of clearly-presented detail on what was done there and what it was like to work at it (including racial and other labor issues), in displays and from tour guides with the knack to be compelling. Both turned on vintage machinery so you could hear how noisy it was (having warned you to cover your ears).

Not so good: The fabled Museum of Anthropology at UBC. If you really, really, really like traditional native art from various cultures, you'll like this. If your interest is only in passing, there's too much of it, and not enough about the cultures it came from. Go to the Musical Instrument Museum in Phoenix to see this sort of thing done properly.

Good: The Sea to Sky Gondola, up in Howe Sound near the mine museum (and right by a stunning waterfall) is the one to take. Great views not only from the gondola but from up top, decent cafeteria, no insects, no kitsch, and a wooden-plank suspension bridge. Someone decided to hold their wedding on the viewing platform at the far end of this, and we got to watch the couple try to make their incongruously bridally-dressed way back across the suspension bridge against the clutching wind.

Bad: The more famous Grouse Mountain gondola. The ride itself is OK, but the crowds are much worse, there's no good viewing spots on top, the animal shows all shut down by mid-afternoon, and the mountaintop is full of, absolutely loaded with, gnats. And not Gnat King Cole either. Ycch.

Eh: The SeaBus ferry across Burrard Inlet was an inexpensive and brief substitute for a harbor tour, and the north side has got a delightful covered market and street shopping to explore, but the seating on the ferry is all indoors, the south end is an obscure industrial district, and I didn't realize the ferry was part of the Metro transit system until I showed up to buy a ticket, or I would have taken the SkyTrain to which it connects (none of my maps showed that) to get there.

Good: The food. Ranged from good to awesome. One small Thai restaurant really beat the band, but the most memorable meal was of Salmon n' Bannock's "First Nations Inspired Cuisine." Unlike the fabled and now long-gone Muckamuck of decades past, this doesn't try to reproduce their recipes but gives modern presentations of foods that the original peoples of western and central Canada might have been expected to eat. Lots of salmon, bison, elk, wild boar, wild rice, plus bannock, which is a thick chewy cracker vaguely resembling what I've had from Natives in Arizona and eastern Oregon as fry bread. The waitress patiently explained everything and recommended a slate of appetizers to me so I could try a lot of different things. The cured salmon was intensely fresh, the duck sausage extremely ducky, and the boar meatballs sufficiently boaring.

Bad: I was looking forward to having my final meal at a tempting Chinese place near the airport, but to have time I needed to show up at 5 when they opened for dinner. Only they didn't. At 5:10 I had to give up.

Good: Vancouver is still a city of used bookstores. Lots of used bookstores, and I got to at least 8 of them.

Ugly: But the most-praised online is a pestilent rathole of a kind I haven't seen in 25 years, and the others like it are long gone. The stock is not bad, but it's crowded and mazelike and with so many books piled up in the way on the floor that the fire marshal, assuming they have them in Canada (which, judging from this, I guess they don't) would have a heart attack. Also, it smells in here. It smells as if a muskrat had urinated on the carpet and then died there. The best used store - large, clean, well-sorted - is literally around the corner, so whut the hey?
calimac: (Haydn)
Much hoopla about the local production of Hershey Felder's one-man show about Beethoven. I'm interested in Beethoven, so I decided to go. I thought it was all right.

Based on a brief memoir by a doctor who, as a boy, had known Beethoven in his last years, it presents Felder as the mild-mannered doctor, looking back at his memories, often abruptly dropping into the persona of Beethoven himself, or of his own father presenting his memories of Beethoven's earlier years. Then, in one persona or another, Felder will sit down at the piano and play something, and not at very brief length either.

Though Beethoven the rough, coarse, revolutionary is not omitted, the focus of the show is strongly on Beethoven's gentle, heartfelt soul. So the pieces played at greatest length and with the greatest care and emphasis are things like the slow movement of the Pathétique Sonata, the slow movement of the Moonlight Sonata, the slow movement of the Emperor Concerto, "Für Elise," etc. These are all soft and beautiful, the antithesis of Beethoven's reputation though they're all well-known pieces, so it made a nice corrective.

Soft and fuzzy in its picture of the life as well. Much sympathetic clucking about how Beethoven tried (supposedly) lovingly to protect his young nephew from the clutches of his (purportedly) horrible mother, not so much on the psychological disaster area this struggle turned the nephew into. Oh well.
calimac: (Default)
Driving home down the Nimitz freeway at dusk from the annual social, grilling, and anniversary party, I saw bits and pieces of a vast number of fireworks displays, some of them almost directly in front of me. The variety in style of these explosions has been increasing of late, much to their benefit.

Pass the U.S. citizenship test.

For that matter, pass the U.K. citizenship test.
calimac: (Default)
So much dramatic tension is achieved by having characters not be able to communicate with each other - think of the ending of Romeo and Juliet, for instance, which would be impossible without a miscarried message - that we have the critically important question, how do you employ this tension in a world where all the characters carry cell phones?

And the answer is, have them put the phones on vibrate and leave them on the other side of the room. Voila, the return of the missed urgent phone call.

- This piece of dramatic advice courtesy of the third season of Orphan Black, which does it a lot.
calimac: (Haydn)
The Stanford Chamber Music Seminar, wherein resident ensemble the St. Lawrence Quartet and various guest artists coach both young professionals and skilled amateurs in the techniques and, as importantly, the enthusiasms of chamber music playing, was on this week, and several public concerts were included therein. This year I managed to get to almost all of them.

They included noon concerts during the week, at Bing, whose highlights included the St. Lawrence teaming up with a guest cellist for a wholly delightful quintet by Boccherini (though possibly "wholly delightful" is redundant once Boccherini's name is mentioned), Op. 25 No. 4. That's this one, although the performance I heard was better. Also the members of the St. Lawrence acting as section leaders for a pickup string orchestra playing C.P.E. Bach's Hamburg Sinfonia No. 2. That's this one, although the performance I heard was better.

On Saturday there was a showcase concert by the young professional groups, including two of the groups I heard last summer at the Banff competition: the Tesla Quartet, the second-place winner, in Haydn's Op. 9/6, and the Omer Quartet in Beethoven's Second Razumovsky.

Sunday was the big finale concert for all 24 participating groups, each playing one movement of something, and for once I was able to attend the whole thing, which began at 11 am and lasted for five hours. No intermissions this year: you know what happens, they're called for ten minutes and wind up lasting 25. Two of them add an additional hour to the playing time.

So instead, there was a lot of ducking out to the restroom during changeovers between pieces, and if you didn't get back in time, you wait outside and listen to the next piece through the closed doors. Usually these events begin with a few dedicated Sunday morning risers at the start and slowly get more populated as the day goes on. This year, however, it was packed at the start, and then leaked away a bit later on. There were a lot of good performances and fewer of the usual winceable but sincerely meant. We got to hear two performances of the slow movement of Schubert's "Death and the Maiden" and of the finale of Bartok's Fourth. Best of the day was probably a wholly convincing rendition of the first movement of Tchaikovsky's rambling Piano Trio, especially from the pianist, Simon Tom.

Unusually, the program included some songs with chamber ensemble, by Ravel and Finzi. One of the Ravel songs, from the Chansons madécasses to words by Évariste de Parny, is an 18th century anti-colonialist poem, a thing I didn't realize already existed then.
calimac: (Default)
If you're lucky, you have a truly good teacher in school.

I had a couple. And one of them was most definitely my high school history and civics teacher, Mr Leonard Helton, whom I just learned died a month ago.

In those days, Mr Helton was a vibrant, dark-haired, bearded man with glasses. He came from Morgan County, Kentucky, as he never ceased to remind us, and brought his unreconstructed Kentucky hills accent to teach the advanced two year course in U.S. history and civics, an option for the brighter students who wished to opt out of the shorter standard courses.

This wasn't a standard course with a strict lesson plan. There was, for instance, no textbook; our reading was self-directed at Mr Helton's personalized recommendations. The course was more of an opportunity for Mr Helton to give free-form lectures, full of humor and anecdote, but always at the service of the pedagogical point, and to engage in conversation and debate with students. He always came out best in the debates, and not just because he was more experienced and knew more. He was just a better debater, as proved by the time he invited the vice-principal to come to the class and debate him on the topic: Hamilton or Jefferson, which political philosophy is superior, and more at the root of American political culture? Mr Helton allowed his opponent to pick either side (he picked Jefferson, so Mr Helton took Hamilton), and not only did Mr Helton come out best in the debate, he said he'd have done so the other way around, too.

What I learned most concretely from him was not topical, but on how to write a large research paper, a form of work he passionately advocated. I wrote two large papers for him, one on the geography of the Lewis and Clark Expedition and one on the formation of California's first state government, each large enough, at least in wordage and amount of work put in, to have served as a university senior thesis. (As I know because I wrote one of those, too.) It made the work when I actually got to university seem easy.

At the end of the course in my senior year, Mr Helton picked three of his prize pupils (two boys and one girl) and had us take the College Board Advanced Placement test in American History. We gathered in the school office one quiet Saturday, pop-quizzing each other on the way in ("What was the Truman Doctrine?"), and Mr Helton proctored us. We all got the highest score, and to our scattered univs went with the seal of approval of the toughest, brightest, sharpest, and most challenging and enlightening history teacher we could have had.
calimac: (Haydn)
Unless the decision to be implemented in next season's schedule is someday reversed, yesterday's will be the last Wednesday subscription concert the San Francisco Symphony will ever give. The main floor looked pretty full, but only 4 of the 34 seats in my balcony box were occupied. I wonder if it will ever be that empty again?

It has a couple famous excerpts, the Love Scene and the Queen Mab Scherzo, but Berlioz' Roméo et Juliette is rarely heard in full. And now I know why: it's twice as long as the Symphonie fantastique, but except for those excerpts, it's less than half as good. The other instrumental passages at least certainly sounded like Berlioz, though lacking the Fantastique's brilliant imagination, but the two long choral movements, ugh. The texts are largely dull narrative, and the settings even duller, much of them in recitative style, and only occasionally reflecting what drama there is in the text.

The work is also poorly organized. Prokofiev made the death of Tybalt the most sizzling moment of his R&J ballet; Berlioz left it out. And I didn't know he has two Queen Mab scherzos, the instrumental one and a vocal one, a lot of attention for a character with only an evanescent referential appearance in the original play.

This goes on the "I heard it, I don't ever have to listen to it again" list.
calimac: (Default)
It was 20 years ago today, J.K. Rowling taught the boy to play ... Quidditch.

So it's a good occasion to consider one's experience with the series. Scalzi has done so; I've put my remarks in comments and will expand upon them here.

I think it was a couple years into the Harry Potter phenomenon that I finally got around to reading the first book. I found it a charming, sprightly children’s story that I enjoyed a good deal. But the sequels, slowly – books 2 and 3 were OK – I found more and more pompous and draggy and overwritten, so that early in book 5 I gave up. Others may say they got more adult. Maybe, but I’ve read lots of adult fantasies without the same difficulties. That’s my taste. Yours may differ.

I did cheat and read a few chunks from the last two books - including the infamous "birdbath of doom" scene from book 6 - just to keep up on the story.

Needless to say, I'd read other - and better - "school for wizards" stories before. Still, it's a phenomenon whose success I don't begrudge.

I can name all 7 Chronicles of Narnia in either canonical order. I doubt I could name off-hand all 7 Chronicles of Harry in any order. One problem I had even with the books I liked was that the plots were so similar I could not remember which thing happened in which book.

I watched the first couple movies, and found them different from the books in roughly the same ways that Peter Jackson’s LOTR movies were different from the book. Scalzi likes this. I don’t.

What I did like, however, was Harry Potter the Vampire Slayer, a video taking the songs from Buffy's musical episode and setting them with clips taken from the Potter movies. The correlations don't always fit and aren't always consistent, but I enjoyed the attempt. Harry is Buffy, yes; Ron and Hermione are Xander and Anya, of course, but Luna is also Anya and Hermione is also Willow; Harry is Willow so that Ginny can be Tara, but she's also Dawn; Dumbledore is Giles; Draco is Spike; Voldemort is Sweet; and holy umbridge, Prof. Trelawney is Parking Ticket Woman! Click here and you should be able to watch the whole thing.
calimac: (Default)
One: their outsize effect on innocent ordinary traffic. SF Pride, which is not until Sunday, prevented me from getting to a Symphony concert Friday night. I was running too late for public transit, and I'd forgotten about Pride since I wasn't planning to come up during the weekend, and it wasn't until I was already irrevocably committed to going through the Civic Center area (which was my destination in any case) that there were signs warning of street closures, which weren't taking effect yet anyway.

But they did. I spent an entire half-hour in completely unmoving traffic only 3 blocks from the symphony hall, and only escaped by popping into the space left open by a car that had darted down a wrong-way alley and then imitating the action of the tiger. The open road was the one leading away, so thence I went.
calimac: (Haydn)
The first time I went to one of these annual walk-through concerts, over a decade ago, I assumed from the kinds of ambient and avant-garde music being promoted, and from the fact that the event was four hours long, that we'd be likely to be offered some four-hour-long works, of which there exist quite a few, by austere quasi-minimalist composers like LaMonte Young or Morton Feldman.

Nope. Some of the music sounded like theirs, but the performers played mostly in half-hour sets with breaks between them, which, in a world in which unbroken four-hour-long music exists, struck me as slightly cheating.

This year, however, something close to that order of magnitude finally happened. A pair of new performers, violinist Helen Kim and pianist Samuel Adams (yes, that Samuel Adams, and I noticed that his famous dad had come along to listen) occupied the main chapel for 75 minutes with Feldman's For John Cage. Wispily ethereal, like most of Feldman's work, it actually maintains interest for all this time by the minute variations Feldman continually runs on a set of tiny upward scale passages, microtonal on the violin just slightly off from the piano.

The performers had to play much louder than the score's ppp because, even in the separated main chapel, a continual wash of echo from other performers down the hall kept seeping in. Plus plenty of found sounds in the chapel itself, including my empty water bottle rolling off the bench and onto the floor. But this is a work dedicated to John Cage, who would not have minded such intrusions in the least.

Other performers I heard in the main chapel were Sarah Cahill playing a session of Lou Harrison piano music, which is also what she did last year, and Kitka, the small but mighty acapella female choir, which this year gave us extremely spicy South Slavic folk music.

I spent most of the first hour, which is always the least crowded part, wandering around in search of performers I hadn't heard before. I was most taken by a pair of women in the large columbarium, Krys Bobrowski who played glass harp on a set of industrial beakers while Karen Stackpole rubbed large gongs with a mallet, setting up an ambient sound of conflicting overtones that buzzed mightily. I also liked Robin Petrie and friends, as they were billed, who played a gentle folk-like ambience on hammered dulcimer, guitar, and hand drum. The Real Vocal String Quartet, who were playing a jazz-bluegrass fusion work and humming as they played, sounded promising. For the rest, I heard a guy playing a xylosynth, which is what the name sounds like; another group whacking away at wooden xylophones in a dead, dry sound; a saxophone quartet playing slow ambient dissonance; another sax and plucked cello in slow jazzy improvisations; an ambient electronic hum so quiet and motionless I couldn't tell whether I could hear it or not; a slow noodle on electric guitar; a strangely weak violin and cello duo; a solo violinist playing what the sign outside his niche said was "Cluck Old Hen Variations" and it sounded like that; and what I can best describe as a modernist baroque harpsichord.

I did catch a set by old favorites Paul Dresher and Joel Davel on their battery of electronic synthesizers, and the superiority of their music-making to much of the rest was renewedly impressive. But I missed their space-mate Amy X Neuburg entirely, and percussionist Laura Inserra (but I picked up a CD of hers at the main sales table), and every time I tried to look in on Probosci, the new group that most impressed me last year, the other group sharing their cramped space (the Garden of St. Matthew, which is always overcrowded) was playing instead.


Jun. 21st, 2017 01:22 pm
calimac: (Default)
1. It's been blazing hot here lately, getting up to the 3-digit numbers Fahrenheit. And to think that it's only June. It's so hot in the desert that planes are forbidden to take off. Memo: don't change planes on summer afternoons in Phoenix or Vegas.

2. Accordingly, I bought a small watermelon at the store. It wasn't until I cut it open that I discovered that it was a variety with yellow pulp, which I'd never had before. It tasted like any other watermelon, but looking at it was disorienting.

3. It's so hot that the cats are thiiiis long. Maia has been playing dead on the carpet, though it'd probably be cooler on the linoleum.

4. Speaking of the linoleum, it's been the subject of Pippin thinking outside the box, as it were. We don't know why he's doing it. It's not necessarily associated with the box needing to be cleaned, and we've had him medically tested for any physical problems.

5. The word before the Georgia election was that even a narrow loss would be a grand repudiation of the Republicans. The word after the narrow loss is that it's a disaster for the Democrats. My own take is that a continuing series of narrow losses won't cut it.
calimac: (Haydn)
I was almost on my way out the door to the San Francisco Symphony last Thursday afternoon when my editor phoned and asked if I wanted to review ... the San Francisco Symphony. Well, that was easy.

I had my review in Saturday morning, but I don't think the copy-editors work on weekends, and it usually takes them most of a day to get the work up, so the review didn't appear until this morning. Now that SFS is moving all its first performances to Thursdays instead of Wednesdays, this will create a timing problem.

I'd like to add something about the process of writing a review like this. I'm a repertoire-oriented classical listener, not a performer-oriented one. When I talk about Lalo's orchestral style, or compare Rachmaninoff to earlier Russian composers, I'm speaking from long-standing personal knowledge of their full orchestral oeuvres. But the individual characteristics of performers, even distinctive ones, tend not to stick in my head. That's where having a dozen years of a blog in which I review all the concerts I attend, whether I'm covering them professionally or not, is useful. My statements about the styles of conductor Petrenko and violinist Bell (whom I barely restrained myself from calling "the famous Washington Metro busker") come from comparing what I thought this time with what I'd written about them before. That's the external memory function.

I used the same technique to write, for my other outlet, this preview article on tomorrow's (it's tomorrow's now; it was next week's when it was published) Garden of Memory concert. I waited until the list of this year's performers was posted, then I scarfed up descriptions I'd written of them from previous concerts, strung them together, and that's the article. I wrote this for publicity. Although it's already crowded enough in there, I'm still trying to get others to attend. I know lots of people who would love this event, but I've only occasionally seen any of them there.
calimac: (Default)
According to the news here and here, the Berkeley SF and fantasy store Dark Carnival (named for Ray Bradbury's first book) is shutting down.

Sorry to hear it, though I confess I hadn't been there often in recent years. My sf/f fiction buying has dwindled, and the store is 50 miles away and a bit off my usual beaten paths. But I have gone there occasionally, because it's a gloriously cluttered store full of tiny nooks, odd balconies, and miscellaneous contents, in particular books of non-mass-market origins, the kind I most want and that are hardest to find. For years its alphabetical shelves featured large stocks of hard to get books like Philip K. Dick's Nick and the Glimmung or the Newcastle edition of Dunsany's 51 Stories because nobody bought them out. I was last there in search of a copy of Mervyn Peake's collected Nonsense Poems. I was sure they'd have it. They did.

But I remember Dark Carnival from its earliest days. It was the first sf specialty store in the Bay Area, long before Borderlands or Future Fantasy and even a bit before The Other Change of Hobbit or Fantasy Etc. (Of these, only Borderlands is still with us, and it had a scare not long ago.) I found it down on the south stretch of Telegraph, the first of its three locations, when I returned to UC in the fall of 1976. It was very small then, mostly a large semicircle of paperbacks, but there wasn't a lot to stock in those days. Jack Rems, owner ever since, was usually there, as was his first clerk, a young woman named Lisa Goldstein, who'd occasionally mention she was working on a novel. It was published several years later and led her on the path to becoming the renowned fantasy author she is today, but then she was a bookstore clerk. [personal profile] sturgeonslawyer and I would hang out down there and indulge in a lot of chatter with Jack and Lisa, but we'd also buy books.

I remember author readings by the likes of Peter Beagle and Patricia McKillip, the first occasions I met either, but the occasion I most remember is walking in a few months after opening to find Jack holding out an ARC (cardboard-bound pre-publication Advance Reading Copy) from Ballantine Books that had just come in. It had a letter printed on the cover from the editor, Lester Del Rey, saying that he had something really special here: for everyone who had loved The Lord of the Rings, this was the new book they were waiting for. Lester was proud to offer us this epochal reading experience.

Remember that this was early 1977 and nothing else like The Lord of the Rings had yet seen print. We were curious and hopeful. But it took only a few minutes of flipping through the ARC to discover clumsy hack writing, carbon-copy ripoffs, and generally pervasive badness of a kind we'd not seen before in books that were supposed to be good. (We've seen it a lot since, though.)

You're ahead of me. The book was The Sword of Shannara by Terry Brooks. Didn't buy a copy of that one.
calimac: (Default)
I reviewed his memoir, Back to the Batcave, when I read it a few years ago. Here's what I wrote:
The memoirs of a man's struggle to be taken seriously as an actor. See him searching for psychological insights into Batman's character before playing him in the camp (West hates that word) 1960s TV series. Yes, really. But what most annoys him is that he's never been asked to play Batman in any of the movies. Points out that he's old enough now (this is 1994, when he was 66) to do the "Dark Knight" role, and he'd play it that way too, he says. Lots of amusing stories of the itchiness of the costumes, the breakdowns of the Batmobile, etc. Repeated avowals that various guest villains were delights to work with are rendered believable by blunt accounts of a few who weren't.
To which I can add that I remember that he specified that the three big repeat villains - Cesar Romero (Joker), Burgess Meredith (Penguin), and Frank Gorshin (Riddler) - were always fully prepared and professional on set, but that it was Gorshin in particular that West made friends with. They'd go off and have a drink together after work.

The fact is that, as a boy, virtually my entire consumption of superhero media consisted of TV shows - the Adam West Batman, re-runs of Superman, and the endless Marvel cartoons of Spiderman, Incredible Hulk, and Fantastic Four that infested the afterschool TV hours. I never read the comic books; I had other things to read. Consequently I was never among those irritated at the Batman TV show for not taking seriously enough the concept of a man fighting crime while dressed as a bat. In fact, I liked the show and West's deadpan straight-arrow portrayal of the righteous hero. Sorry I never saw him in anything else.
calimac: (Default)
Two years ago when B. and I attended the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in June, it was so blazing hot that the power in the big indoor theater shorted out during a performance.

This year it was cold, and wet. A lot of, though not consistently, drizzle, with the occasional cloudburst. Even though we had to walk around in it, we know what we prefer.

We saw five plays this year.

Henry IV, Part I: A routine and not especially inspired modern-setting production, complete with strobes and machine guns in the battle scenes, and ridiculous accents for Glendower and Douglas, only partially redeemed by a sprightly (as opposed to the more usually played irritable) female Hotspur (Alejandra Escalante) and a brilliant delivery of Falstaff's speech on honor (V.1) (but, alas, nothing else) by Valmont Thomas.

The Merry Wives of Windsor: Another Falstaff play, but this time Falstaff was played by a woman, and appropriately a woman of age and size at that (KT Vogt), but unlike Hotspur the character was played as a man. This was one of OSF's patented fast and cheerful Shakespeare comedies, further livened by excerpts from and allusions to 80s pop songs with lyrics appropriate to the plot, with a band to back them up. The entire cast, in their Elizabethan costumes, sang and danced a couple, including something by Whitney Houston (I was told: don't ask me what, as I don't know anything about Whitney Houston) and Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart"; others were more individual, for instance (one of the few I recognized), Master Ford (Rex Young) expressed his rage and jealousy by singing "Psycho Killer" by Talking Heads, with the French parts of the lyrics interjected by the French suitor, Dr. Caius (Jeremy Johnson). Surreal, man.

Beauty and the Beast (stage adaptation of the Disney movie): OSF casts actors, not singers, but the singing here was all first-class and the best part of the show. The acting and pacing were likewise good, and I was never bored; but the staging, particularly of the supernatural elements, was so primitive as to be totally incomprehensible. Were it not for my dim memories of the movie (which I saw only once, when it first came out), I wouldn't have been able to figure out what was going on.

Shakespeare in Love (stage adaptation of the Miramax movie): Slightly spacier (as in, less coherent) than the movie version, played by actors who mostly (the Viola conspicuously excepted) physically resembled the ones in the movie, this was more like watching a remake of the movie than I was entirely happy with. But it was well done.

Mojada: A Medea in Los Angeles (modern adaptation of the Euripides play) by Luis Alfaro: Begged for comparison with last year's The River Bride by Marisela Treviño Orta, likewise a new play of Latino pedigree with a strongly mythic plot. That one really socked me, in part because the myth was new to me; in this one, the plot was by Euripides, so I knew what was going to happen, searing as it was. Also, unlike as in Euripides most of the plot was packed into the last ten minutes, instead of slowly unfolding; the rest was mostly background. But it was well-done background; Alfaro translated that plot into his undocumented-immigrant LA setting well, and I was not expecting the marriage to Glauce to be translated as literally as it was. The acting was of course excellent. Sabina Zuniga Varela as Medea was as chatty and bubbly as any young actress in the post-show talk, but on stage, like a good actress, she was totally different: still, silent, and dangerously reserved.

Culinarily this was not much of a visit of discoveries, except for accidentally finding that the Black Sheep, the pseudo-British pub that's one of my favorite local spots, is closing down next month, so I'm glad I'd decided to eat there one last time. Most of the new restaurants in Ashland are the kind with tiny menus, specified side dishes (I hate that, as the mains I like are invariably paired with the sides I don't, and it's insulting the chef to try to mix and match), and high prices. We took advantage of slack in our time schedule to have our best meals out of town.
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