The National...Front Disco

For a few years, BAM's Next Wave Festival, formerly the de facto who's who of cool and arty in NYC, was called, behind closed doors, the Last Wave or the Same Wave, as the likes of Philip Glass and Bang on a Can found themselves on stage year after year....and in general the musical offerings at BAM were considered somewhat inferior to the theater and dance programming.

This has changed radically in the space of two years, during both the Next Wave and Spring seasons. BAM launched Brooklyn Next, a multi-venue festival showcasing the musical talent of Brooklyn (the borough with the most musical talent at this point, sorry Manhattan we'll still give you the best bankers), and the indie King and Queen Sufjan Stevens and Joanna Newsom played multiple sold out nights at the Opera House. Let's not forget the take over BAM night which was by many counts a wonderful experiment that will likely be perfected next time...

It is to BAM's credit that this turn around, this tapping into a younger musical aesthetic, happened without radically altering their format. Sufjan played one night, a dance company from Israel the next. Ho-hum. All part of the Next Wave for us, my darlings.

A slightly less successful foray into the land of BAM WILL ROCK YOU was The National, on February 22 and 23, as part of Brooklyn Next. The National hails from Brooklyn, which is cool, and they recently exploded in popularity, which is also cool. But they are a hybrid of mopey rock and anthem-y rock, which can be difficult to enjoy in a soft padded seat in a formal concert hall. Whereas Sufjan Stevens and Joanna Newsom's musical styles are plainly intimate, even when backed by orchestra and hula hoopers (looking your way, Sufy), The National has a fully plugged-in sound. They encouraged the entire audience to stand, which we did, or at least the Orchestra level did (I can't imagine the Balcony level did, because it is pitched so steeply everyone would have fallen to their death)...this left around 800 people bumping their knees into the wooden seats in front of them, and standing awkwardly on an inclined surface for about 3 hours. Oh wait, no the concert only felt like 3 hours.

The National has a number of albums out, though as I said they recently exploded in popularity, meaning that most people really are familiar with their most recent album. They played a nice long set, and 3 encores which included at various points a huge disco ball and the singer tromping through the audience. The only problem is that 3 enores gives a few too many climaxes, and after a while it stopped feeling bigger and bigger, and the collective energy of the audience was something like, "wait, they are coming out AGAIN? I just put my coat on!"

Still, the programming of The National at BAM is nothing to be scoffed at, and shows a deep desire by a...hmm...how to say?...cultural institution to compete in what is becoming a crowded playing field...The National could have performed at Terminal 5, or Hammerstein, but chose a different route which benefitted both sides - what band doesn't what to be considered arty, and how can BAM resist shedding the shackles of "OUT OF TOUCH?" This was the second time this season I have seen a disco ball used at BAM, and I am thinking now that might have been a wise investment. Though let's pray we don't see Donna Summer there any time soon.

Grumpy Little Men

I, like many, was in love for a time with Stephin Merritt. Or more precisely, I was in love with the idea of him, which was of course a weirdly fake version of him based on the songs of the epic Magnetic Fields album 69 Love Songs along with the accompanying interview which revealed a funny, sensitive soul would quote some of the things I could, or some of the things I could, or the things I wanted to be quoting or whatever, and who seemed to have interesting, quirky friends, and who also liked to drink.

Of course, 69 Love Songs came out in 1999 which is a long time ago in pop music matters as well as my imaginary love life. Since then Stephin Merritt has been accused of racism and sourism several times and I have fallen in and out of love with Sufjan Stevens enough times to make Stephin Merritt well, a long-forgotten fairytale.

That said, I approached the Magnetic Fields concert on February 22 in Town Hall with a healthy bit of curiosity. I had just read a blurb in the Times about Mr. Merritt's dislike of performing live, and his habit of getting annoyed when people applaud. Which is kind of weird, even if you have a sensitive ear. I mean, dude, it is what people do when they are sitting in a velvet seat and like what they are hearing. Take it as a compliment, even as it is inflicting incredible pain on you.

Additionally, I hadn't paid too much attention to the Magnetic Fields since about 2001. Would I know any of their songs? Surely they would never sing "Book of Love" again since it was covered by Peter Gabriel?!?!?!!?

Alas, they sang "Book of Love." And it was beautiful. It was also their last song, so I am jumping the gun. The set was long and varied, and contained some hidden gems from 69 Love Songs as well as 6ths tunes and Gothic Archies songs. Claudia is more or less the frontman er woman in terms of banter and keeping the audience afloat. The musicianship was mixed - Claudia can play the piano well enough, but the empassioned cello solo which began a song I did not recognize (wait maybe it was "Born on a Train") was undermined but the cellist's wandering pitch. Sigh. Perfectly good pop music undone by too much Yo-Yo Ma.

Stephin for the most part sat in his own little corner of the stage, wincing every time the audience applauded, and generally looking like he was at a party thrown for him, but his dog just died. He was a grumpy little man.

I realized however near the end of the show, that he KNOWS he is a grumpy little man. He's in on his own joke. He knows he is the Eeyore at the party...or as in the song he forced Claudia to sing, a "tiny goat."

The Scottish Play

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury

Signifying nothing.

There are moments in performances, sometimes, which are so beautiful, so wonderful, they make attending the performance worthwhile really on that moment alone. In the fall I heard the Berlin Orchestra play a chord in a Mahler symphony which was quite simply the most beautiful single chord I have ever heard an orchestra play. Everything about it was sublime. I'm not a much of a Mahler fan, and the rest of the 80-minute symphony left little impression, but man that was one f-ing beautiful chord.

Patrick Stewart's "tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow" soliloquoy in Rupert Gould's Chichester Festival Theatre production currently playing at BAM inspired the same reaction from me. The grief, the fatigue, the pain of Macbeth were all evident as Patrick Stewart just so-slightly shook while taking a few simple steps downstage. And, as in all great moments in art, it was universal. It took me beyond the production, into my life, into the nature of life itself. Of course it doesn't hurt that that is one of Shakespeare's best moments already.

I found much of the rest of the production a little incomprehensible, and not in that I-don't-get-Shakespeare kind of way. The production was set in a vaguely 30's fascist bleached-yet-still-dirty world, yet Lady Macduff appeared to be dressed in Eileen Fisher as well as had wandered into the wrong play by way of Brideshead Revisited. Shortly before she and her family were massacred Hostel-style she wondered why this was happening to her, and I couldn't have agreed more. Lady you were in the wrong castle.

Similarly, Banquo gets offed in a moving train which as staged reminded me of the opening of Music Man (He's a what? He's a what?) which isn't a good thing in Shakespeare.

Oddly, I enjoyed the one aspect of the production most critics are singling out as out of place - the Weird Sisters, who are being criticized as "rapping" and other unsightly acts. I however thought their scenes were entirely enjoyable, and don't think that speaking in rhythm is necessarily rap, ahem. There was a sort of Nuns in an Orgy bit that is also getting people's knickers in a twist; my god, we're talking about the Three Witches, they can do whatever they want. The scene of them conjuring the voices of spirits was thrilling and genuinely creepy.

Afterwards my companions and I went to a warehouse/loft party in Greenpoint where I learned it is impossible to talk about Shakespeare while dancing to Kylie Minogue.

Robyn Shows Me Love

I don't enjoy the Highline Ballroom. I am firmly of the mindset that beer should cost no more than 5 dollars a pint/bottle. Okay maybe 6. If I am in restaurant I will usually accept 6, or maybe 7. 8 is pushing it. I don't think I have bothered ordering beer at any of the superior restaurants I have been to, so I don't know if Jean Georges charges 12 dollars a glass for a nice Pilsner, but I suspect I would be okay with that.

What I don't enjoy is paying 7 dollars for a Heineken at a bar or club, when I know that I can get a sixpack of Heineken from the corner bodega for a couple dollars more, and I know I will enjoy whatever company I drink that sixpack with, though the same can not be said for my company at the Highline Ballroom on February 5.

I was gathered with several hundred of Swedish chanteuse Robyn's biggest fans, people who have been listening to and loving her new album despite the fact that it has not technically been released in the US...I was originally skeptical of the entire Robyn endeavor. Her one big hit I knew, "Show me Love," came out during a period of pop music history I think of as a gross step backward, a period that eventually gave birth to hydra-like boy bands (chop off one head, four more grow back in its place) and Britney Spears (whose music I feel hipsters decided to like somewhat ironically because in her own way Britney is kind of punk rock). Yet I was reintroduced to Robyn through her catchy song "Konichiwa Bitches" and its ridiculous video. It was love at first sight. Clearly she was never meant to be a one-hit wonder. Clearly she had fun and interesting things to say. Clearly her being Swedish meant that she could do whatever she wanted and I would still love it.

Robyn's fans were a motley assortment of gay boys who defied specific gay-ifications - these were not little twinks or sassy dandies or, prissy PR bitches (that would b the women they were with) - and straight men and women who had clearly rushed to the Highline straight from their jobs, which required them to weat a lot of black. Not attractive enough to be Euro-trash. Copy editors? Possibly.

I was stuck behind a particularly tall gay gentleman, who danced a bit like the muppet Animal, but did manage to see enough of Robyn and her companions onstage to realize this was probably the first show I have ever seen that consisted of two drum sets, a couple drum pads (for Robyn to spastically hit during several percussion-heavy bridges) and a set of keyboards, played by "Karl."

Robyn herself was as cute as could be and sang one short song after another in a seamless, energetic flow of songs about...well what is "Konichiwa Bitches" about, anyway?...and love. Robyn sang two versions of her tender ballad "Be Mine," one upbeat and the other slow and plaintive, and while the song was about how "you never were, and you never will be mine" all the gay couples held each other, as if "Be Mine" was their song. Even Gay-Animal stopped dancing to huddle with his bleach-blonded boyfriend.

Robyn even received a Valentine's Day card as big as she is.

(Pictures of "Karl" and the Valentine's Day card ripped mercilously from Stereo Gum...)

Nobody Knows Rats Like a New Yorker...

The Brooklyn Philharmonic (always with the Brooklyn Philharmonic!!!) just finished their John Corigliano Festival, which featured a variety of the 70 year-old composer's music, though not as extensively as Pittsburgh. There was chamber music at the Brooklyn Museum, there was a song cycle at Brooklyn Public Library, but mainly there were rats. Lots and lots of rats:

John's music is theatrical in nature, or lends itself to theatricality, and his birthday wish was for the orchestra to stage his flute concerto "Pied Piper Fantasy," originally written for James Galway. So off the artistic members of the Brooklyn Philhamonic went, looking to stage the classic story of a piper who saves a town from rats, only to be snubbed, and then steals their children. Yay! We all love a friendly story! The piper for this would be Aussie Alexa Still, who was thrilled to death to participate in this and was willing to come in weeks in advance to meet with the director.

The director. Oh yes, a director. Someone had to actually come up with something. Enter David Herskovits, Artistic Director of Brooklyn-based Target Margin Theater. David was fairly gung-ho, and after meeting with John in his award-laden den (Oscar here, Grammys there, a Pulitzer, and bunches of stuff on the walls blah blah blah) was given the go ahead to be bold and creative. (An aside: where was Music Director Michael Christie in all of this? Ah yes. The Music Director was where he should be, learning the score. He left the staging entirely up to David and John.)

There needed to be lights! Enter Lenore Doxsee, production designer. There needed to be costumes! Enter Lenore, again. There needed to be rehearsals coordinated and production schedules created and, oh yes the Brooklyn Philharmonic and BAM decided to do 1 no scratch that 2 Joanna Newsom concerts during the same week (see below) but wait did I tell you that Pied Piper had a bridge that was built over a moat? So this bridge had to go in and out and there were also some seats that were taken out for the bridge but were on sale for Newsom, and they needed to go back in but also the orchestra needed to rehearse this music, which John insisted was one of his hardest scores, and then we had to coordinate the children.

Wait I didn't tell you about the children? Silly me. So the end of the Pied Piper Fantasy features children playing flutes who are lured by the Piper and then leave the hall. It is 7 minutes of extremely catchy marching music. John had told David that many children were needed. Many! 18! 21! Lots of kids! But make sure they can all actually play the flute! Rather older and able to play than young and cute and worthless!!!! So the Brooklyn Philharmonic Education Department found kids, from all over Brooklyn and Manhattan. Some dropped out; more were found.

And of course the rats. At least I remembered to mention the rats at the beginning. David thought that it would great to have...50 rats come up out of the moat, attacking Alexa the Pied Piper on her little bridge. And that would be great. But there was no money to pay the rats, and the rehearsals would be during the day....who would be willing to work for free and had too much time on their hands? College kids!!! Grad students!!! And...actors!!! A casting email went out. Head shots and resumes came back. More or less unnecessarily, as if you could make the rehearsals you were in. Many were called, all were chosen. A little over 30 in the end. Not the swarm of 50 David had asked for, but enough to annoy the New York Times reviewer.

So how did the lighting and the costumes and the rats and the kids come out in the end? Pretty damn well. The performance, with Maestro Christie onstage with Alexa, John, David, Lenore, 20 kids, and 31 rats, received one of the longest ovations in the history of the Philharmonic. An older usher next to me leaned in and whispered of John C., "He's a Brooklyn boy!" And continued applauding for one of his own.

(Don't believe all this? Check out Feast of Music, which has way better visuals of the night than I do, and Sequenza 21).

i couldn't keep the night from coming in

For the past two nights I have been backstage at BAM during the sold out Joanna Newsom shows. Watching shows from the wings is of course not really they way you are supposed to see a show - concerts are designed to be viewed from certain directions. The lighting, the sound design, all created for the 2,000 fans in front of Joanna. I instead opted for the sidelines, where I could watch the musicians' faces as well as those of the audience.

I took a couple of fuzzy pictures with my camera phone but otherwise I behaved myself. For some curious reason I didn't bother to introduce myself to her, and actually only smiled and clapped at her and her band as they wondered on and off the stage.

There can be something oddly sad about being backstage after a concert. The excitement to put everything together is done, the music has been played. Now musicians are packing up their instruments, putting on their coats, going home. Backstages aren't really glamorous places - they save that for the public facade. The most beautiful concert halls I can think of in New York - the Met, for example, or more immediately, BAM - have backstages full of long corridors that always need to be repainted and a bulletin board telling musicians or the stage crew when the next call or rehearsal is. The ceiling is too low and have pipes running just below it. There are newspapers strewn about and empty water bottles. The furntiture doesn't match. Being backstage at a performing venue is like being in your grandma's basement.

So in grandma's basement at BAM, there was Joanna Newsom, a defier of categories who falls into some group of folk-something-something but is really a singer/songwriter with a harp, who seems to inspire all sorts of misled fan-love. It is fairly easy to think of the tiny blond woman plucking those strings and singing about water (always water!) and meteorites as elven. An elf. Though alas, she is not. She lives in the 21st century and doesn't retire to her stone cottage wearing a velvet cape, to pet her horse and spin gold. In fact rumours were abounding that she was dating someone from Saturday Night Live, which is decidely un-dainty princess.

Also in the mix in these concerts was the Brooklyn Philharmonic, an organization I suspect is taken for granted, led by their Music Director Michael Christie. Michael seemed genuinely into the music he conducted, which is pretty awesome. On February 2 he is leading the Philharmonic in a concert of John Corigliano and Hector Berlioz...I wonder how much overlap there will be between the Newsom crowd and the pure orchestra concert crowd...Berlioz' music isn't elven necessarily, but it is a nice 19th century equivalent of water and meteorites, and there is little doubt in my mind that Berlioz wore velvet capes.