I lived the first six months of my life within a half mile of the Garfield Park Conservatory, and yet didn’t remember anything about it when I returned for the Alonso brothers concert.
A conservatory, according to Merriam-Webster, can be a greenhouse or a music school, which made it appropriate to place these two powerful pianists among pots and plants to present their pleasurable program.
Fortunately, the room was comfortably climate-controlled, cooler than other parts of the conservatory, corresponding to the captivatingly cool Caribbean music of the concert, which bore no relation to that which was elicited from students by that famous alleged ought 5 graduate of the Gary, Indiana Conservatory, Harold Hill.
Breaking from a scheduled playlist that was to include Brahms and Debussy, the Alonso brothers concentrated on pieces related to their Cuban heritage, some of which were familiar to the audience, such as Malaguena and Oye Como Va, the composer of which, Tito Puenta, actually was Puerto Rican, but was inspired to write the piece by Cuban composer Cachao, originator of the mambo. In any event, the Santana version of it helped get me through my senior year of college.
In addition to changing their playlist, the brothers informed the audience, during their enthusiastic, informative, and humorous song introductions, that they originally had been scheduled to play their duets upon a single piano, but asked for a second, while hoping that this added expense wouldn’t be taken out of their paychecks.
The lead singer did a decent David Clayton-Thomas impression and the musicians were excellent, especially the drummer, whose featured solo was a showpiece for his lightening-fast hands. But I wondered how the front man for the band calling itself Blood, Sweat & Tears (pursuant, I assume, to an array of legal agreements) could keep a straight face talking about “we” when referring to the band’s hits and accomplishments, including winning the 1970 Grammys Album of the Year over Abbey Road.
What made this braggadocio cringe-worthy for me is that only one of the current members of the band joined it before 2010, and even he joined 10 years after the last of the original members left. Did they really think the elderly audience was so senile that they would believe that these clones were the real thing?
Or perhaps the band was counting on an audience that had indulged in one too many of the omnipresent happy hours in The Villages. The local paper is filled with notices about them, right before the pages filled with notices about AA and Al-Anon meetings.
In The Villages’ three town squares, happy hours are accompanied by local bands playing golden oldies for free for the resident golden oldies, which begs the question as to why the residents pay to see a faux Blood, Sweat & Tears. Maybe it’s for the uncomfortable folding chairs in the Savannah Center.
Or maybe it’s for the chance to see surprise guest performers, like sports commentator and interviewer Roy Firestone, who was there plugging his book and forthcoming show, telling anecdotes, and doing speaking and singing impressions. I have to admit he wasn’t bad, but his act seemed so out of place that a lot of people sat and squirmed until the band appeared to do its impressions. At least that was my impression.
I saw Svetlana Belsky play the piano as part of the EStrella Piano Duo at a Fourth Presbyterian Church lunch hour concert last year and was very impressed with her skills and wit. So, upon finding out that she would be performing the opening concert of the 3rd Chopin in the City Festival at the Consulate General of Poland, I casually mentioned to anyone who would listen (invoking Rule #1 – “It can’t hurt to ask” and Rule #2 – “It only takes one.”) that it sure would be great to get an invitation to the private event.
And so, having been successful in my quest, I found myself at the concert and reception, having a lovely conversation with a member of the Consulate General of the People’s Republic of China, who informed me, my free drink in hand, that he and members of the other consulates in town regularly make the rounds of each other’s events.
It was shortly thereafter that I learned that, despite the attraction of the party-hopping, I was not cut out for the diplomatic service, as the gentleman seemed to lose interest in our discussion after I informed him I knew where his Chicago headquarters were located because I had seen picketers marching outside of it.
The concert itself was wonderful, once it got started after seemingly interminable opening remarks by a woman who seemed to be practicing an Oscar speech as she thanked everyone she had ever met, or hoped to meet, for helping to make the evening possible.
Belsky played beautifully, with energy, grace and skill; a twinkle in her eyes, and the occasional impish grin that she made a part of the music. And her commentary between pieces once again exhibited her wonderful sense of humor. I hope to crash another of her performances in the near future.
It’d been a little over a year since I first went to see The Paper Machete live magazine at the Green Mill on a Saturday afternoon. I learned from that experience that seats are hard to come by (the Wednesday evening show, at least the one time I went, isn’t as crowded), and so arrived an hour and a half before show time, which was only 15 minutes earlier than necessary to avoid unintentionally making lots of new friends among a crowd of people standing around, pressing their bodies into an insufficient amount of space.
Getting there early also affords one the opportunity to watch emcee Christopher Piatt, standing behind the bar, trying to not so subtly rehearse his frenetic Danny Kaye court jester lip-synching routine.
Piatt is a constant, but the rest of the cast of The Paper Machete changes from show to show, so it was an amazing coincidence that Becca Brown, whom I saw perform there a year ago, was again on stage, showing off her strong singing voice.
The comedy also was good, as before, but I was there primarily to see Big Red, that is Meghan Murphy, do her thing, as I have done at Theater Wit, Steppenwolf, and Venus Cabaret.
She didn’t disappoint, capping off her performance by holding the last note of her set long enough that I could have read a couple chapters of a book, had I brought a book.
Piatt, in thanking Murphy and expressing his admiration of her talents, referred to her as the personification of Jessica Rabbit, which seemed to please Murphy.
Fanboy that I am, I couldn’t resist approaching Murphy after the show as she sat at the bar drinking with friends. I introduced myself and fawned over her for a respectable, but not creepy, amount of time before going on my way.
It is said that when two koalas find themselves occupying the same tree, they will hide from each other to avoid being noticed. Some say this happens because koalas are viciously territorial, but I’d like to think they do this out of a sense of decorum, or polite comportment, or respect for the other occupant of the tree. All of which has only a little to do with the 61st Grammy Awards ceremony, where colorful plumage draws notice – plumage in the form of sequins, silver lamé, and fine silk. Oh, and music.
For Grammy neophytes, here’s a tip: there are two awards ceremonies. The first, known as the Premiere Ceremony, offers recognition to non-prime-time categories such as Best Spoken Word Album (Jimmy Carter’s Faith – A Journey for All won) and Best Boxed or Special Limited Edition Package (“Weird Al” Yankovic won). It takes place in a right-sized Microsoft Theater auditorium with comfortable seats and two massive jumbotrons showing crisp details of everything happening on stage.
Many winners were not present, making those non-winners present feel just a little queasy about their misguided optimism. We were there to cheer on the very present Spektral Quartet and jazz saxophonist Miguel Zenón, whose collaborative CD, Yo Soy la Tradición, was nominated in the Best Latin Jazz Album category.
Joshua Bell in background adjusting his bow tie
About 30 minutes after we took our seats, the word went up and down our row that a famous Strad-carrying member of violin aristocracy, Joshua Bell, had taken a seat directly behind us. And that’s when the koala behavior set in. No one in our row would openly acknowledge his presence, much less turn around to say hello. True, I may have imagined it, but there was a vaguely discernible sense of classical string musicians slinking down in their seats, as if to avoid notice by a fellow musician. Stay cool, friends, was the mood in our midst, though I personally cheered loudly when Joshua was announced as a contender for the Best Classical Instrumental Solo (violinist James Ehnes, who happened to be grocery shopping in Florida at the time, was pronounced the winner).
Kalani Pe’a and friends
Programs like this are best when they showcase lesser-known musicians to audiences interested in their work. A few performers stood out in this way: the larger-than-life Hawaiian singer Kalani Pe’a – sporting a glittering purple sequined jacket – served as a presenter and also took home a Grammy; Seun Kuti and guitarist Fatoumata Diawara, who dazzled us by channeling her inner Santana; and 15-year-old vocalist Ángela Aguilar, who took solo and trio spotlights with Aida Cuevas and Natalia Lafourcade. If someone knows Aguilar’s dress designer, could you please pass me that name?
Fully employed guest blogger Samme Orwig
The “big” awards ceremony was held in the Staples Center, and this was clearly a made-for-TV event. There were no jumbotrons, and the audience was, in effect, one large, living prop. For example, those watching the show at home might’ve wondered why it took the audience so long to realize that yes, it really was Michelle Obama making a surprise appearance on stage. Only a few people could actually see her clearly, and no one wanted to cheer without being absolutely sure it was the former First Lady. Once we were convinced, the crowd went wild – as they did when the other stars, whose names were announced, stepped onto the stage. Nonetheless, it was worth being packed into stadium seating just to say we saw performances by Dolly Parton, Diana Ross, and Lady Gaga – all in the same night.
Other notables inside the Staples Center included H.E.R.’s performance of “Hard Place,” which bore melodious echoes of an old song called “Perfection” by Badfinger; Brandi Carlyle’s “The Joke,” which some felt was the most moving piece of the evening, and, of course, Lady Gaga’s nuclear production of “Shallow.” One of my favorite Gaga moments had happened earlier, when she made a shout-out to her Little Monsters, causing cheers to erupt. It made me wonder why more stars don’t create a special name for their fan base, because a name like “Little Monsters” offers the type of tribal identity that humans – even if we don’t want to admit it – crave.
Samme and Clark – where’s the red carpet?
For their nomination earlier that afternoon, Miguel Zenón and Spektral were up against household names such as Eddie Daniels and a few lesser-knowns, but the 16-man Dafnis Prieto Big Band took home the Grammy. Will Spektral be in the hunt for Grammys 2020? There’s no telling, but Spektral’s next collaborative CD, with composer/performer Nathalie Joachim, will be released this coming September.
All You Need is Love, and I got 90 minutes of it, attacking my visual and auditory cortices from every direction (not to mention those parts of my brain related to long-term memory, as it has been over 50 years since the Beatles first gained our attention). The problem with the show is that, if you focus too much on one thing, you don’t notice five other things that are happening at the same time. There’s no pause, rewind, or instant replay. I’m sure there must have been a kitchen sink thrown in somewhere that I missed.
The varied and spectacular exhibitions of strength, grace, and agility by the show’s performer/athletes, as they danced, twisted, stretched, and threw their bodies around, made me think of Katelyn Ohashi, the UCLA gymnast who is the current queen of YouTube because of her amazing routine at the recent Collegiate Challenge at the Anaheim Convention Center, which undoubtedly will lead her to the greatest reward a gymnast can attain, no not being awarded a gold medal at the Olympics, or getting a job with Cirque du Soleil, but rather winning the mirror ball on Dancing With the Stars.
I first saw Cirque du Soleil when it was performing Saltimbanco under a tent in the early 1990s. For some bizarre reason my most vivid memory of that show is the guy who climbed up chairs that he piled on top of each other. I always wondered what his mother thought as she grounded him, literarily and figuratively, sending him to his room, in the hopes of interrupting him as he went about wrecking furniture in pursuit of a career in the lost art of hand balancing.
In addition to the music, special effects, and huge cast, Love features hundreds of garish costumes, not unlike what you see on the street in front of the hotel.
While others listening to classical music may try to appreciate its finer points or focus on getting inside the composer’s head, I just like the way it sounds, which leaves my brain free to wander during concerts.
Some day I might pick up a copy of Classical Music for Dummies, cowritten by David Pogue, whom I usually only think about as Techno Claus on CBS Sunday Morning, when I think about him at all, but who also is a monthly columnist for Scientific American.
It wasn’t so much during Chicago Symphony Orchestra Concertmaster Robert Chen’s brilliant violin solo at Fourth Presbyterian Church, but rather after, that I began thinking about the space itself, when Rush Hour Concerts Artistic Director Anthony Devroye, who filled in on viola with the Chen Family Quartet that day told a couple of us who had trouble seeing from the back that the quartet didn’t use the stage because the asymmetrically curved wall behind it caused acoustic problems – more science.
No science entered my head during the Dame Myra Hess concert, which featured the music of Charlie Chaplin. Quint and Aznavoorian closed with Chaplin’s Smile, from Modern Times, which reminded me of Jimmy Durante singing Make Someone Happy at the end of Sleepless in Seattle, which reminded me of its screenwriter and director Nora Ephron, who was an answer on Jeopardy this week.
In the immortal words of The Statler Brothers’ classic (not classical) Flowers on the Wall (I counted 12 on my guest bathroom wall), “Now don’t tell me I’ve nothin’ to do.”
Secretariat, widely considered the greatest race horse of all time, was nicknamed Big Red. He wasn’t part of the show at the Venus Cabaret.
But Meghan Murphy, also nicknamed Big Red, was. This was the first stop on what Murphy described as the act’s world tour – Chicago, Philadelphia and New York.
I love the Venus Cabaret, which opened this year adjoining the Mercury Theater (get it?). It’s an attractive space, with its own bar, and without a bad seat in the house, though there was some glare off the screens behind the stage, which I didn’t hesitate to tell management about when they sent me a survey after the show.
In honor of Big Red, the bar offered a couple of red drinks, one with vodka, one with whiskey. I wonder what they’d have at the bar if Michael Lee Aday (Meatloaf) were performing there.
Though there was some new material in this, their eighth annual show, Big Red and the Boys pleased the crowd by performing the group’s “standards”, like Get Your Holiday On, often encouraging the audience to sing along.
Big Red also broke out her holiday costume, complete with well-placed lights outlining her physical assets. The costume, along with the boys’ flashing bow ties, came in handy when Murphy occasionally had a hard time finding her spotlight, which just served as another excuse for some of her off-the-cuff, contagious humor. Murphy, whose website describes her as actor, singer, dancer, and badass, always seems to be having a good time on stage.
I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of perverse show could be created by combining Big Red’s with the play next door, Avenue Q, having Murphy as Lucy, who is described as “a vixenish vamp with a dangerous edge.”
I was expecting two pianos (piano duo versus piano duet), but what I got instead was two women, playing selections from Mendelssohn’s Midsummer Night’s Dream, Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade, and Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition, on one piano, at the same time, hands flying everywhere, occasionally crossing over each others’ hands, and bodies, with such grace and, at times, glorious frenzy, that one had to watch, not just listen, to fully appreciate the experience.
Speaking of pedals, when I asked the women after the performance how they determined who would play which side of the piano during their duets (it varied), Belsky told me she really likes to use the pedals and that that often affects their decision.
It hadn’t occurred to me watch their feet during the performance, though I did pay attention to who was turning the pages (it also varied, with one incident of an accidental double page turn that was quickly remedied without interruption to the music), so I don’t know if Belsky was pulling my leg. She had displayed a wonderful sense of humor during her introductions to the songs.
Both women in Estrella were born in Russia, so I have no idea why they chose a name that the Urban Dictionary defines as a totally cool Spanish girl (I also should have asked them that), though I concede that they seemed cool, even though their music was hot.
I missed Saint-Saens’ Romance. Op. 36, but got to the hall in time to hear sustained applause for Sophia Bacelar (cello) and Noreen Cassidy-Polera (piano), which got me thinking about the dynamics of audience applause. I found a study that spoke of it in terms of a disease, saying that “Individuals’ probability of starting clapping increased in proportion to the number of other audience members already ‘infected’ by this social contagion, regardless of their spatial proximity. The cessation of applause is similarly socially mediated, but is to a lesser degree controlled by the reluctance of individuals to clap too many times.”
Midway through the first movement of the second piece, Rachmaninoff’s Sonata in G Minor for Cello and Piano, Op. 19, paramedics from the Chicago Fire Department showed up with a wheeled emergency stretcher, which they pushed up the middle aisle to a row near the front, where they loaded a man onto it, then reversed their course, pushed the cart back onto the elevator, and disappeared, all silently, in a matter of moments, and without causing the slightest interruption to the musicians, neither of whom lost concentration or looked up, perhaps so focused as to be unaware of what was transpiring 10 to 15 feet in front of them. Brava!
As for the man who was removed, from a distance he didn’t appear to be in any great discomfort. Perhaps he just needed a ride to a meeting (he had a briefcase with him) or perhaps, because I had arrived a few minutes late, I was unknowingly in the middle of the filming of an episode of Chicago Fire.
Or, as the sonata was, according to the program notes, among the first of Rachmaninov’s major pieces after he went through hypnotherapy to overcome writer’s block, perhaps the music itself has hypnotic qualities, and there were no paramedics. Is that Rod Serling I see in the corner?
