Waltzing Through the Maelstrom

A couple of weeks ago, I was called by a publicist about a piano recital happening at Carnegie Hall. In order to promote recycling and earth-friendly practices, the pianist, Soyeon Lee, would be wearing a gown made from recycled juice pouches. The magazine I work for has a peripheral relation to the outdoors, but this story wouldn’t be up our alley. It was possible that one of our sister, more outdoorsy, magazines would be interested, I said -- though not likely -- and I gave the publicist the appropriate name for a contact. As thanks for pointing him in the right direction, the publicist offered me tickets anyway. So last Tuesday night, Kathy and I went to see an amazing pianist play some terrific music -- and, oh, yes, see her shiny, orchidlike gown. (Which, it turns out, she only wore after intermission. A smart move, I think, since she showed us how well she could play before wearing a big, if momentary, distraction.)

I know nothing about classical music. I don’t listen to it much -- occasionally, but not often -- and I pretty much never write about it. Mostly because I don’t really have the vocabulary. I’m a word guy, and most instrumental music stymies me a bit. With folk, jazz and world, I’ve got enough background that I think I might be able to open my mouth without embarrassing myself. But classical? Hell, I’m not even sure it’s called Classical. One of the pieces Ms. Lee played was written in 2007, and was a world premiere. How Classic can it be?

So there’s the idiot factor. If I stick my head out of my gopher hole to talk about classical music, I will undoubtedly look like an idiot. Opinions can vary on Green Day or The Decemberists, Tom Waits or Stevie Wonder. You can like ‘em or not -- it’s just an opinion. People feel entirely comfortable dismissing rap or country music as an entire genre. And it’s just a matter of opinion, no harm, no foul. But classical? It seems more like math to me -- there’s a right and there’s a wrong. I’m okay with seeming unhip (Jesus, the quote at the top of my blog for the moment is from a Fixx song, so how hip can I be?), and it’s okay if people think I’m stupid. I’m just wary of opening my mouth and confirming it, as Mark Twain says. (See what I’m doing here, bringing Mark Twain into things? I’m really worried that you’ll think I’m stupid, so I want to assure you that at least I can read. God, I hope the remark I’m alluding to is Twain, and not Wilde or Johnson. But I’ll be strong and not look it up. Resolve.)

So, the concert. It was terrific. Really engaging in most parts. I really liked Lee’s rendition of Isaac Albeniz’s Iberia, Book I, and later her performance of Bach’s Chaconne in D minor (adapted -- or is that arranged? -- by Busoni). I drifted off a little during Prokofiev’s Sonata No. 7 in B-flat Major, but it was kind of lullabylike, and, as I said, I’m a word guy. I fall asleep in the silent parts of movies -- and even subtitled ones -- all the time. I fell asleep during the quiet, stalking scenes of Predator. It’s a wonder I ever got through Rififi, with its 31-minute silent safecracking scene. But, y’know, safecracking. Anyway, her performance was wonderful, I'm sure -- my short doze should only be seen as a reflection on me.

After intermission was the Bach (quite good, and I feel like an idiot that I don’t have more to say about it than that) and a new piece by Huang Ruo, called Divergence: for Piano and Speaker. It was really interesting to watch, and it called for Lee to not only play the piano conventionally, but to pluck and hammer at its strings. At the end of the piece, a speaker (in this case, Ruo himself) recites a Chinese poem, “Sounds Ever Slow,” by Li Qing-Zhao. The effect of the voice is so startling that my first reaction upon hearing it from the balcony, even though I knew it was coming, was to think, “God, what an asshole.” Then I realized it was part of the performance instead of some attention-starved jerk, and relaxed and enjoyed it. Honestly, I think it was more interesting to see performed in person; I don’t think it’s something I would enjoy just in audio form, but the whole experience was memorable.

And then there was the Ravel. Lee played a piece called La valse, and it was just amazing. Originally written as an homage to Johann Strauss, La valse (why the lowercase? A mystery of classical music) is a waltz of the most apocalyptic sort. The piece sets a proper, elegant waltz against a swirling maelstrom of music. Playing it on one piano (it was originally written for a large symphony, and also transcribed for two pianos), the performer is pretty much at war with herself. And listening to it is like watching a traditional, high-society dance continue against all odds as the dance floor cracks in two and a giant chasm opens during an earthquake. It’s astounding. I’ve never seen or heard anything like it. It’s beautiful and devastating, as both pieces of music (it’s really just one, but it seems like two) race to conclude before the other. Will the dancers finish before they’re sucked into the gaping maw of the earth? It’s the sound of an aristocracy dying. A week later, I’m still awestruck.

I just hope I don’t sound like an idiot.

Rob

P.S. I plan to cover the after-party and the dress and such in a later post. But this one’s gone on long enough, don’t ya think?

P.P.S. If you want to read someone with serious classical music kung-fu, check out Brenda's blog. She has the virtue of knowing what she's talking about. I'm just flailing around in the dark.

P.P.P.S. Holy crap, they're remaking Rififi! And double holy crap, I already knew that and forgot it!