Said by my choral director, during my voice check: "You shouldn't feel like a slacker. It's not like you sit at home and smoke pot for 5 hours a day."
Hmm. If only he knew. . . On second thought, I don't want him to know anything.
21 August 2008
20 August 2008
A new way of reviewing new music
Yikes. I don't know anything about this piece or much about Tan Dun to legitimately critique this review by Mr. Joshua Kosman, but it is pretty scathing. He does not mince his words. At all.
He seemed to find the first half pleasant enough. But not so the second half:
I've read enough reviews by Kosman to know that for the most part, he is a fair reviewer. He knows his stuff. He seems open-minded. Sometimes I feel like he gets carried away with his over-utilization of metaphors, but that's a minor quibble.
Still, I wonder about reviews like this. It's not that I expect reviewers to always like what they listen to. Nor do I think that it is the reviewer's job to help or support artists or performing groups (though I'm sure rave reviews don't hurt). And I certainly don't expect reviewers to gloss over something that is truly bad.
But can music be this bad? Here is a recording of it. (The link doesn't seem to work too well on my computer.)
According to info I found online, Tan Dun's piece is supposed to be an elegy for victims of the 1989 Tiananmen Square Massacre. Kosman may not have liked it, but such an undertaking sounds very personal and significant to me. It certainly doesn't sound "empty" or "pointless".
I'm not trying to undermine a reviewer's expertise or his job, but part of me wonders whether a review that is this acerbic serves any meaningful purpose. If I go to a performance of this work, even though usually I try not to take reviews at face-value, I or anyone who has read this review will now go into the performance with a bias.
Could he have just said something to the effect of, "this wasn't my cup of tea" or "the concept was nice, but it failed in the execution" instead of calling it overweening? What about the piece was so vacuous and pompous? Were the themes not developed enough? Was it just so "out there" it didn't work? Too gimmicky? Too "Eastern" sounding?
I wish that given how critical he is, there was more room for elaboration. While I grant that reviewers have the right to write scathing criticisms and have a right to their opinions, negative or otherwise, I do feel that a) because experiencing music is somewhat subjective (True, no good musician would dispute the greatness of Beethoven, Bartok, etc., but most music runs the gamut in terms of quality); b) new music already has enough "barriers to entry" for many of his potentially concertgoing readers to "get" than say, Bach or Brahms; and c) unlike a well-known piece by any of these aforementioned "B" composers, my guess is that many readers may not be familiar with Tan Dun's piece; that when one writes a review about pieces that he feels this strongly about, more details are in order.
Such an explanation would be much more useful to readers (and not to mention, to Tan Dun, if he reads this review) than say, "This work is feces and serves no purpose."
Not that Kosman's job is to champion new music, but his review also doesn't help quell the fears of new music-phobes who might be further dissuaded from attending future concerts or taking risks with this genre.
I admit to being this new music-phobe at times. I've definitely become more interested in contemporary music over the last few years, particularly since joining an ensemble whose mission is to promote such works. But this "interest" extends mostly to "brand name" composers who are hardly "new" anymore. I am also open to new things if the price is right, but I confess that when I did see this last program for the Music @ Menlo series, at the price point they were offering this new music concert, I wasn't willing to "risk" it, given that the only name I recognized was Tan Dun's.
I know that is closed-minded of me, but after reading Kosman's review, I'm not left with much incentive to open it up much.
He seemed to find the first half pleasant enough. But not so the second half:
Thereafter, though, things soon bogged down. Kenneth Frazelle's Piano Trio, commissioned for the occasion, turned out to be a long and rather shapeless recycling of ideas from Brahms, Tchaikovsky and Ravel. Frazelle's work at least bore the marks of modesty and honesty.And then,
For truly overweening emptiness, there was Tan Dun's "Elegy: Snow in June," a pointless 25-minute jumble of sounds for cello and four percussionists.Each of the percussionists . . . had what seemed like several dozen instruments at his disposal - none of which was played for more than five seconds at a time - and cellist Andrés Díaz sat in the middle offering driblets of melody and squeaky interjections. The goal seemed to be to use the sheer profusion of incident to distract listeners from the lack of musical ideas.
I won't critique the writing, since someone elsewhere seems to have taken that up as their niche.
I've read enough reviews by Kosman to know that for the most part, he is a fair reviewer. He knows his stuff. He seems open-minded. Sometimes I feel like he gets carried away with his over-utilization of metaphors, but that's a minor quibble.
Still, I wonder about reviews like this. It's not that I expect reviewers to always like what they listen to. Nor do I think that it is the reviewer's job to help or support artists or performing groups (though I'm sure rave reviews don't hurt). And I certainly don't expect reviewers to gloss over something that is truly bad.
But can music be this bad? Here is a recording of it. (The link doesn't seem to work too well on my computer.)
According to info I found online, Tan Dun's piece is supposed to be an elegy for victims of the 1989 Tiananmen Square Massacre. Kosman may not have liked it, but such an undertaking sounds very personal and significant to me. It certainly doesn't sound "empty" or "pointless".
I'm not trying to undermine a reviewer's expertise or his job, but part of me wonders whether a review that is this acerbic serves any meaningful purpose. If I go to a performance of this work, even though usually I try not to take reviews at face-value, I or anyone who has read this review will now go into the performance with a bias.
Could he have just said something to the effect of, "this wasn't my cup of tea" or "the concept was nice, but it failed in the execution" instead of calling it overweening? What about the piece was so vacuous and pompous? Were the themes not developed enough? Was it just so "out there" it didn't work? Too gimmicky? Too "Eastern" sounding?
I wish that given how critical he is, there was more room for elaboration. While I grant that reviewers have the right to write scathing criticisms and have a right to their opinions, negative or otherwise, I do feel that a) because experiencing music is somewhat subjective (True, no good musician would dispute the greatness of Beethoven, Bartok, etc., but most music runs the gamut in terms of quality); b) new music already has enough "barriers to entry" for many of his potentially concertgoing readers to "get" than say, Bach or Brahms; and c) unlike a well-known piece by any of these aforementioned "B" composers, my guess is that many readers may not be familiar with Tan Dun's piece; that when one writes a review about pieces that he feels this strongly about, more details are in order.
Such an explanation would be much more useful to readers (and not to mention, to Tan Dun, if he reads this review) than say, "This work is feces and serves no purpose."
Not that Kosman's job is to champion new music, but his review also doesn't help quell the fears of new music-phobes who might be further dissuaded from attending future concerts or taking risks with this genre.
I admit to being this new music-phobe at times. I've definitely become more interested in contemporary music over the last few years, particularly since joining an ensemble whose mission is to promote such works. But this "interest" extends mostly to "brand name" composers who are hardly "new" anymore. I am also open to new things if the price is right, but I confess that when I did see this last program for the Music @ Menlo series, at the price point they were offering this new music concert, I wasn't willing to "risk" it, given that the only name I recognized was Tan Dun's.
I know that is closed-minded of me, but after reading Kosman's review, I'm not left with much incentive to open it up much.
17 August 2008
Witnessing the process of making music
Last night, my friends let me sit in on one of their rehearsals of Mendelssohn's Piano Trio in D minor. Wow. Except one former professional musician, none of them are professionals, and all haven't really played in years, but they sounded great together. I couldn't just pick up my violin and play like that. The pianist was just something else. Prior to last night, I had never heard her play, but had strong suspicions that she was pretty good, b/c she has a grand piano. Her part is at least 10.3 times as hard as the other two parts. She was amazing.
I know that listening to amateur musicians rehearse and work through passages doesn't excite most of my musician friends, professional, elitist, or otherwise, but what a treat to be able to hear the process of music being created. So often, what we hear is the final product, which, as a (sortof) performer, I know is also itself a work in progress. It evolves, and even if you play/sing the same thing three times, each performance is slightly different. Still, what you present is theoretically a polished final product. Never perfect (well, at least speaking for myself), and can always improve, if you had more time, but a final product all the same. You rarely get to hear a work-in-progress, in which the performers deliberate over this and that dynamic, tempo, and other minutiae. True, I get a sufficient dose of this in my own rehearsals, but it's quite different when you're an outside observer, because you get to listen with an undistracted ear, and you're not immersed in the process.
I love live concerts put on by professional musicians in venues with perfectly engineered acoustics, and 90 percent of my live listening experience is of this sort, but sometimes I just prefer music as I heard it last night. Impromptu. Mid-rehearsal, before everything is 100 percent polished. Music as it undergoes the stages of transformation. Plus the music somehow sounds more significant, because it is being played by people you know really well. It's Mendelssohn but mediated through a familiar filter. I almost felt like I was peering into their soul somewhat, since I wasn't supposed to be there, and you don't take that sort of thing lightly.
The best part is that this all happened within a stone's throw from my apartment. Isn't it nice to have such talented friends so close by so I can get my Mendelssohn fix?
I know that listening to amateur musicians rehearse and work through passages doesn't excite most of my musician friends, professional, elitist, or otherwise, but what a treat to be able to hear the process of music being created. So often, what we hear is the final product, which, as a (sortof) performer, I know is also itself a work in progress. It evolves, and even if you play/sing the same thing three times, each performance is slightly different. Still, what you present is theoretically a polished final product. Never perfect (well, at least speaking for myself), and can always improve, if you had more time, but a final product all the same. You rarely get to hear a work-in-progress, in which the performers deliberate over this and that dynamic, tempo, and other minutiae. True, I get a sufficient dose of this in my own rehearsals, but it's quite different when you're an outside observer, because you get to listen with an undistracted ear, and you're not immersed in the process.
I love live concerts put on by professional musicians in venues with perfectly engineered acoustics, and 90 percent of my live listening experience is of this sort, but sometimes I just prefer music as I heard it last night. Impromptu. Mid-rehearsal, before everything is 100 percent polished. Music as it undergoes the stages of transformation. Plus the music somehow sounds more significant, because it is being played by people you know really well. It's Mendelssohn but mediated through a familiar filter. I almost felt like I was peering into their soul somewhat, since I wasn't supposed to be there, and you don't take that sort of thing lightly.
The best part is that this all happened within a stone's throw from my apartment. Isn't it nice to have such talented friends so close by so I can get my Mendelssohn fix?
14 August 2008
Closing another chapter
Well, I think my parents just officially moved, b/c I can't get through on their old line. Phooey. The most important phone number for almost half of my lifetime--the number I called when I felt homesick; the number I called whenever I needed more $ during college; the number I called when I finished my finals, graduated, got into grad school, got a new job or quit my old job; the number I called whenever I returned to the U.S.; the number I called to "check in" with my parents every few days when I drove across the country alone at 23; heck, the number I still call once a week or so--is no longer.
And I can't sleep, b/c I'm wallowing in maudlin sentiments (as you can see). I have never actually lived there long enough to legitimately call it home, but there is still that twinge of wistfulness. My brothers, on the other hand--particularly the youngest one, who has spent roughly half of his sentient childhood there--have both lived there for extended periods. I lived there for a year when I did my year "abroad", plus spent many summers and winters there.
In my case, "home" where I spent the bulk of my childhood is a no-longer-extant house in a suburb near NYC. The house that TT and I spent the bulk of our childhood was dozed down several years after we moved out. I have some fond memories of the house and the immediate neighborhood, but given that the physical structure is gone, our former neighbors and friends no longer live there, the old hangout places are gone, the place no longer feels like home. In fact, the last time I drove by my old street (four years ago? Wow. Has it been that long?), I felt an odd emptiness. The place we called home for 14 years no longer exuded that familiar warmth. It was a bit unsettling.
But home is more of a state of mind than a physical location per se. It is a place where your parents still have that silly vase you made back in fourth grade. It is a place where you celebrate important occasions and holidays. A place where traditions and rituals live on. A place where you find the Christmas tree still decked out in the same ornaments and lights from 20, 30 years ago.
Both mentally and emotionally, "home"--and when I say home, I mean 実家, which doesn't have a neat English translation, but the literal translation is "true home"; essentially, it is where one's family/parents are. It's what I used to call "home home" in college, for lack of better word.--has gradually shifted some 6700 miles westward, across the Pacific, from the penumbrae of NYC, to the penumbrae of 東京, where my parents lived, well, until yesterday.
My parents' latest home was in 横浜、in a wonderfully convenient location. 11 minutes by JR to 横浜 station proper, 3 minutes (or walking distance) to the 横浜中華街、and within 15 minutes from some of the best shopping to be done. It was also very convenient to 東京 and other transportation hubs.
The other thing that is significant about this place (my second "home") is that I associate it strongly with my (re)connection with Japan. Since I was born and raised in the U.S., Japan is not home in the sense of home country, nor do I feel any political allegiance to it, but given my family and friends there, I feel very connected to the place. It's not home per se, but I feel very at home when I am there. Over the course of the past 16 years or so, I went from feeling like a complete outsider/foreigner when I first visited my family in their new home, to living, breathing like a "local". Granted, I never stay in Japan for extended periods, but now, whenever I visit, it feels home-ish enough that I feel equally in my element whether I'm here or over there. It's quite a liberating feeling. When I'm over there, the Celsius, the kilometers, the kilograms, the 24 hour clock system--it all makes sense. I have no idea what 24 degrees Celsius converts to in Fahrenheit, but when I'm over there, I know what it feels like. My body and brain automatically make the switch. Thus the 横浜 home is also where I reconnected with my heritage, roots, discovered this other side of me, reforged my identity to incorporate this new part of me, etc.
In some ways, the move feels somewhat like I'm closing a chapter of my life. It also marks a new stage for my parents, who have officially become "empty nesters", with the last of my brothers just having moved out.
The new 家 is closer to the ocean, but farther away from 東京. More inconvenient in that sense, but also much closer to 鎌倉, which is one of my favorite cities, and a good place to get one's 12th century Japan fix, when going to 京都 is not a possibility. Hmm. Maybe not a bad trade off after all.
And I can't sleep, b/c I'm wallowing in maudlin sentiments (as you can see). I have never actually lived there long enough to legitimately call it home, but there is still that twinge of wistfulness. My brothers, on the other hand--particularly the youngest one, who has spent roughly half of his sentient childhood there--have both lived there for extended periods. I lived there for a year when I did my year "abroad", plus spent many summers and winters there.
In my case, "home" where I spent the bulk of my childhood is a no-longer-extant house in a suburb near NYC. The house that TT and I spent the bulk of our childhood was dozed down several years after we moved out. I have some fond memories of the house and the immediate neighborhood, but given that the physical structure is gone, our former neighbors and friends no longer live there, the old hangout places are gone, the place no longer feels like home. In fact, the last time I drove by my old street (four years ago? Wow. Has it been that long?), I felt an odd emptiness. The place we called home for 14 years no longer exuded that familiar warmth. It was a bit unsettling.
But home is more of a state of mind than a physical location per se. It is a place where your parents still have that silly vase you made back in fourth grade. It is a place where you celebrate important occasions and holidays. A place where traditions and rituals live on. A place where you find the Christmas tree still decked out in the same ornaments and lights from 20, 30 years ago.
Both mentally and emotionally, "home"--and when I say home, I mean 実家, which doesn't have a neat English translation, but the literal translation is "true home"; essentially, it is where one's family/parents are. It's what I used to call "home home" in college, for lack of better word.--has gradually shifted some 6700 miles westward, across the Pacific, from the penumbrae of NYC, to the penumbrae of 東京, where my parents lived, well, until yesterday.
My parents' latest home was in 横浜、in a wonderfully convenient location. 11 minutes by JR to 横浜 station proper, 3 minutes (or walking distance) to the 横浜中華街、and within 15 minutes from some of the best shopping to be done. It was also very convenient to 東京 and other transportation hubs.
The other thing that is significant about this place (my second "home") is that I associate it strongly with my (re)connection with Japan. Since I was born and raised in the U.S., Japan is not home in the sense of home country, nor do I feel any political allegiance to it, but given my family and friends there, I feel very connected to the place. It's not home per se, but I feel very at home when I am there. Over the course of the past 16 years or so, I went from feeling like a complete outsider/foreigner when I first visited my family in their new home, to living, breathing like a "local". Granted, I never stay in Japan for extended periods, but now, whenever I visit, it feels home-ish enough that I feel equally in my element whether I'm here or over there. It's quite a liberating feeling. When I'm over there, the Celsius, the kilometers, the kilograms, the 24 hour clock system--it all makes sense. I have no idea what 24 degrees Celsius converts to in Fahrenheit, but when I'm over there, I know what it feels like. My body and brain automatically make the switch. Thus the 横浜 home is also where I reconnected with my heritage, roots, discovered this other side of me, reforged my identity to incorporate this new part of me, etc.
In some ways, the move feels somewhat like I'm closing a chapter of my life. It also marks a new stage for my parents, who have officially become "empty nesters", with the last of my brothers just having moved out.
The new 家 is closer to the ocean, but farther away from 東京. More inconvenient in that sense, but also much closer to 鎌倉, which is one of my favorite cities, and a good place to get one's 12th century Japan fix, when going to 京都 is not a possibility. Hmm. Maybe not a bad trade off after all.
13 August 2008
Flying through the streets
I got a looooooooong-overdue bike tuneup today. It was so long that they had to replace both the chain and the rear cassette. I usually do it once a year in late spring or at the start of summer, but this year, I haven't been able to get my act together. Thus, my annual bike tuneup was 3-4 months late.
One of these days, I will learn to tune up my own bike (like when an REI w/in biking distance decides to offer such a class when I'm free. . .), but in the meantime. . ..
Wow. My old gears must've gone to hell in a handbasket, because the bike I got back felt like a new bike. I flew home today. I couldn't believe the difference. Wow. I'm still marveling over how much-improved my new bike is.
For the past few months, I had been averaging about 10 mph speeds. I'd start out at about 13-14 mph, then half-way in, get tired/winded and pedal about 9-10 mph the rest of the way in, which is ridiculously slow. People old and young all flew past me. I felt like a sloth. Physically, I felt fine, so I couldn't understand why I'd get so tired biking in, and why, no matter how hard I pedaled, I couldn't bike more than 10-12 mph for sustained periods. I mean, I have a straightforward, flat, 6-mile commute each way. A walk in the park. It got to a point where I hated biking into work, b/c of how winded I felt afterwards. (Doing my runs after work, right before biking home didn't help matters one bit.)
Well today, post-tuneup, I averaged about 15-16 mph, with very little effort exerted on my part. The ride home was actually enjoyable. I felt nearly invincible, and for a fleeting moment, I almost felt transported back in time, to my grammar school days when we used to ride through the neighborhood streets, sans helmets, ignoring stop signs, ruling the roads. . ..
That is, until a stupid frenetic squirrel ran right into my path and abruptly brought me out of my nostalgic revelry.
One of these days, I will learn to tune up my own bike (like when an REI w/in biking distance decides to offer such a class when I'm free. . .), but in the meantime. . ..
Wow. My old gears must've gone to hell in a handbasket, because the bike I got back felt like a new bike. I flew home today. I couldn't believe the difference. Wow. I'm still marveling over how much-improved my new bike is.
For the past few months, I had been averaging about 10 mph speeds. I'd start out at about 13-14 mph, then half-way in, get tired/winded and pedal about 9-10 mph the rest of the way in, which is ridiculously slow. People old and young all flew past me. I felt like a sloth. Physically, I felt fine, so I couldn't understand why I'd get so tired biking in, and why, no matter how hard I pedaled, I couldn't bike more than 10-12 mph for sustained periods. I mean, I have a straightforward, flat, 6-mile commute each way. A walk in the park. It got to a point where I hated biking into work, b/c of how winded I felt afterwards. (Doing my runs after work, right before biking home didn't help matters one bit.)
Well today, post-tuneup, I averaged about 15-16 mph, with very little effort exerted on my part. The ride home was actually enjoyable. I felt nearly invincible, and for a fleeting moment, I almost felt transported back in time, to my grammar school days when we used to ride through the neighborhood streets, sans helmets, ignoring stop signs, ruling the roads. . ..
That is, until a stupid frenetic squirrel ran right into my path and abruptly brought me out of my nostalgic revelry.
09 August 2008
Olympic tidbits
Thanks to my friends who have actual TVs, I got to watch the opening ceremonies of the Olympics last night at Betlan's house. She also has couches. Occasionally, it's nice to sit on real furniture, too. So we had the opening ceremonies, replete with running commentary throughout the entire night.
(In Kurtagian style, this is homage à Yv, from whom I've borrowed this style of irreverent conversation snippets)
(announcer at some point makes a comment about the Olympics never being held in South America.)
Betlan: Is that right?
Bon: I guess so.
Anzu: It's probably b/c the summers and winters are reversed in the southern hemisphere. But didn't they hold them once in Sydney?
Betlan: Yeah, I think so. Maybe the summer games?
Bon or Ala: Though that means they held it during our winter, which means the summer and winter games had to happen at the same time?
Betlan: That can't be right.
Anzu: Wow. That means the Olympics are northern-hemisphere-o-centric.
(In Kurtagian style, this is homage à Yv, from whom I've borrowed this style of irreverent conversation snippets)
(announcer at some point makes a comment about the Olympics never being held in South America.)
Betlan: Is that right?
Bon: I guess so.
Anzu: It's probably b/c the summers and winters are reversed in the southern hemisphere. But didn't they hold them once in Sydney?
Betlan: Yeah, I think so. Maybe the summer games?
Bon or Ala: Though that means they held it during our winter, which means the summer and winter games had to happen at the same time?
Betlan: That can't be right.
Anzu: Wow. That means the Olympics are northern-hemisphere-o-centric.
* * * *
During the parade of athletes by country:
(announcer announces name of obscure country that most of us have never heard of):
A: is that a country? For real?
B: I think every few real countries, they make up another country and insert it in for filler.
C: There's another one. Oh, with a population of 14,000. And a total of 1.6 square miles.
D: Well, that's less than the population of Stanford. A fraction of the size, too.
A: Oh and that country is smaller than the population of Facebook.
B: Ugh. And why are they all chewing gum? It drives me NUTS to see these people constantly chewing gum.
C: like violet beauregard.
(more obscure countries are mentioned)
A: Gosh. I feel geographically illiterate. Maybe I have no right to make fun of people who don't know that Hungary is a country.
(Brazil enters the track)
Anzu: Wow. I see blacks. I didn't know they had blacks in Brazil.
(Bon looks at me incredulously)
Anzu: that's what Bush said to the Brazilian president when he visited Brazil.
Bon: Shut up.
Anzu: actually, it is so ridiculous, I refuse to believe it. It must be an urban myth.
Ala: Actually, I'm sorry to say it's not, b/c I read about it in Spanish newspapers the day it happened.
Anzu: It was in Der Spiegel, too, but I still don't believe it. He can't be that stupid.
(Now Ala gives me an incredulous look)
Ala: Oh, honey, you have no idea.
Anzu: Surely someone that stupid wouldn't lead a country. I mean, Brazil only has the largest black population outside of Africa (I think).
Ala: Yeah, it turns out the Portuguese were big slave traders.
Anzu: Well, they're sauntering. We're going to be here all night. If they walked the way I walked, this parade would take 1/4 of the time.
Bon: maybe they should run.
Betlan: and they're still chewing that damn gum!
(final section when the final flame-bearer is being hoisted by wires and is "running" in air.)
Ala: OMG. I can't believe what he has to do. He must be so tired from holding that big flame.
Anzu: Wow. I can't believe he has to hold that thing out and go around the whole dome. I can't hold out my arm for that long, even with nothing in my hand. If I were him, I'd be whining right about now.
Betlan: Um, you are whining right about now.
(announcer announces name of obscure country that most of us have never heard of):
A: is that a country? For real?
B: I think every few real countries, they make up another country and insert it in for filler.
C: There's another one. Oh, with a population of 14,000. And a total of 1.6 square miles.
D: Well, that's less than the population of Stanford. A fraction of the size, too.
A: Oh and that country is smaller than the population of Facebook.
B: Ugh. And why are they all chewing gum? It drives me NUTS to see these people constantly chewing gum.
C: like violet beauregard.
* * *
(more obscure countries are mentioned)
A: Gosh. I feel geographically illiterate. Maybe I have no right to make fun of people who don't know that Hungary is a country.
* * *
(Brazil enters the track)
Anzu: Wow. I see blacks. I didn't know they had blacks in Brazil.
(Bon looks at me incredulously)
Anzu: that's what Bush said to the Brazilian president when he visited Brazil.
Bon: Shut up.
Anzu: actually, it is so ridiculous, I refuse to believe it. It must be an urban myth.
Ala: Actually, I'm sorry to say it's not, b/c I read about it in Spanish newspapers the day it happened.
Anzu: It was in Der Spiegel, too, but I still don't believe it. He can't be that stupid.
(Now Ala gives me an incredulous look)
Ala: Oh, honey, you have no idea.
Anzu: Surely someone that stupid wouldn't lead a country. I mean, Brazil only has the largest black population outside of Africa (I think).
Ala: Yeah, it turns out the Portuguese were big slave traders.
* * *
Ala: Geez, it's still going on.Bon: They've now cycled through that mariachi music 3 or 4 times.
Ala: You would think that given this great opportunity, they could've featured different singing traditions--you know--Balkan singing, throat music, a didgeridoo here and there. . .
Betlan: They orchestrated everything else so perfectly. This was one area where they slacked off.
Ala: You would think that given this great opportunity, they could've featured different singing traditions--you know--Balkan singing, throat music, a didgeridoo here and there. . .
Betlan: They orchestrated everything else so perfectly. This was one area where they slacked off.
* * *
(Taiwan walks on)
A: Wait. I thought the Chinese thought Taiwan was part of China. How come they get to walk out by themselves.
B: Wow. That is progress. Oh. They're not waving their flag. (Announcer explains why.)
(HK follows on shortly afterwards)
C: Wtf. I thought HK was part of China. How come they get to walk out on their own?
C: Sorry, Betlan, I just uttered an obscenity. I don't know if that's allowed in your house.
D: I run with Anzu, so I'm used to hearing Anzu's sailor-esque language.
B: Is Tibet represented?
A: Yeah, if they walk with the Chinese.
C: Well, how come these other non-sort-of countries get to march as a separate country, but not Tibet?
* * *A: Wait. I thought the Chinese thought Taiwan was part of China. How come they get to walk out by themselves.
B: Wow. That is progress. Oh. They're not waving their flag. (Announcer explains why.)
(HK follows on shortly afterwards)
C: Wtf. I thought HK was part of China. How come they get to walk out on their own?
C: Sorry, Betlan, I just uttered an obscenity. I don't know if that's allowed in your house.
D: I run with Anzu, so I'm used to hearing Anzu's sailor-esque language.
B: Is Tibet represented?
A: Yeah, if they walk with the Chinese.
C: Well, how come these other non-sort-of countries get to march as a separate country, but not Tibet?
(2 hours later)
Anzu: Well, they're sauntering. We're going to be here all night. If they walked the way I walked, this parade would take 1/4 of the time.
Bon: maybe they should run.
Betlan: and they're still chewing that damn gum!
* * * *
(final section when the final flame-bearer is being hoisted by wires and is "running" in air.)
Ala: OMG. I can't believe what he has to do. He must be so tired from holding that big flame.
Anzu: Wow. I can't believe he has to hold that thing out and go around the whole dome. I can't hold out my arm for that long, even with nothing in my hand. If I were him, I'd be whining right about now.
Betlan: Um, you are whining right about now.
Utterly helpless "helpful" tip of the day
From an unnamed test prep booklet, this little gem, at the end of the math review section that I just (begrudgingly) finished doing, b/c my math skills have atrophied to the point that my math scores would be an embarrassment, were I to take this test right now:
"If you are scoring above 700 on the GRE Math, you may get some hard questions involving concepts that we haven't reviewed in this chapter including:
-blah
-blah
etc."
(essentially a list of most of my problem areas, that I need review on, like standard dev.)
I thought these test prep things catered to people who want to get top scores.
Um, I can already get well above a 700 without any math review, but I need an 800 to have a fair shot at getting into a decent program, if I decide to apply. I bought the book hoping it would help me get an 800, not pat me on the back and tell me to go off and fend for myself if I'm scoring above 700.
Ugh. I now lost motivation to listen to anything this book says about test prep.
"If you are scoring above 700 on the GRE Math, you may get some hard questions involving concepts that we haven't reviewed in this chapter including:
-blah
-blah
etc."
(essentially a list of most of my problem areas, that I need review on, like standard dev.)
I thought these test prep things catered to people who want to get top scores.
Um, I can already get well above a 700 without any math review, but I need an 800 to have a fair shot at getting into a decent program, if I decide to apply. I bought the book hoping it would help me get an 800, not pat me on the back and tell me to go off and fend for myself if I'm scoring above 700.
Ugh. I now lost motivation to listen to anything this book says about test prep.
07 August 2008
Voice checks
Ok, I'm fretting, among other things, over a voice check/evaluation that we are supposed to have in a week or two. I think the last time I've done one of these was shortly after I joined. It has probably been around 4 years since my last one--enough time for him to forget that I'm a dismal sight reader--if he knows this at all.
Sometimes, if a piece is in the right key (=keys with sharps in the key signature), then I can sort of fake it, b/c if the piece is straightforward enough, I can mentally finger the notes and imagine the pitch, etc., which is what I did when I auditioned. He gave me a piece in the key of d (major), and all of the notes fell on the a or d string, and the rhythm was straightforward, the intervals were straightforward (fifths, fourths, thirds), so I kindof fudged my way through it, and I saw him write down on my notes "excellent" under sight reading. Ha! If only he knew. . ..
This isn't false modesty or anything, but I seriously cannot sight read to save my life. I blame it on my former Suzuki training, which I wouldn't necessarily change; it's just that I resisted learning to read music for the longest time, since I was far more efficient at picking things up by ear, and now wish that I started the whole sight-reading thing earlier. Or heck, wished that I had learned to play the piano instead, since pianists are fabulous sight readers.
Anyway, if my director decides to pick a piece with 5 flats, I'm screwed. If he picks a minor key w/ 5 flats, I'm doubly screwed, though truth be told, I'm less fretting about the probability of him picking a piece with 4 or more flats as our sight-reading piece, than I am about him hearing me and finding out that I'm a fluke. (Sigh.)
I mean, my singing is ok. Not solo-singing material, and sure, I can sing (I think/hope) in tune, for the most part. In fact, the one thing I am good at (I think) is intonation. I suppose I did get into this choir once, but unlike many of the people in my choir, I don't have formal training in music and I haven't taken private voice lessons (except a handful of lessons here and there a few years back) to know whether I'm breathing, singing, properly, etc.
So while I guess it's a good thing that he's making sure our singing doesn't go to hell (and I haven't been in the choir long enough to know whether this is used as a potential weeder or just a formality), I'm still nervous, since he's also extremely nitpicky and demanding, which are normally traits I admire--just not when listening to me singing solo.
Sometimes, if a piece is in the right key (=keys with sharps in the key signature), then I can sort of fake it, b/c if the piece is straightforward enough, I can mentally finger the notes and imagine the pitch, etc., which is what I did when I auditioned. He gave me a piece in the key of d (major), and all of the notes fell on the a or d string, and the rhythm was straightforward, the intervals were straightforward (fifths, fourths, thirds), so I kindof fudged my way through it, and I saw him write down on my notes "excellent" under sight reading. Ha! If only he knew. . ..
This isn't false modesty or anything, but I seriously cannot sight read to save my life. I blame it on my former Suzuki training, which I wouldn't necessarily change; it's just that I resisted learning to read music for the longest time, since I was far more efficient at picking things up by ear, and now wish that I started the whole sight-reading thing earlier. Or heck, wished that I had learned to play the piano instead, since pianists are fabulous sight readers.
Anyway, if my director decides to pick a piece with 5 flats, I'm screwed. If he picks a minor key w/ 5 flats, I'm doubly screwed, though truth be told, I'm less fretting about the probability of him picking a piece with 4 or more flats as our sight-reading piece, than I am about him hearing me and finding out that I'm a fluke. (Sigh.)
I mean, my singing is ok. Not solo-singing material, and sure, I can sing (I think/hope) in tune, for the most part. In fact, the one thing I am good at (I think) is intonation. I suppose I did get into this choir once, but unlike many of the people in my choir, I don't have formal training in music and I haven't taken private voice lessons (except a handful of lessons here and there a few years back) to know whether I'm breathing, singing, properly, etc.
So while I guess it's a good thing that he's making sure our singing doesn't go to hell (and I haven't been in the choir long enough to know whether this is used as a potential weeder or just a formality), I'm still nervous, since he's also extremely nitpicky and demanding, which are normally traits I admire--just not when listening to me singing solo.
* * * * * * *
Well, I guess I don't have to worry about "flunking" my voice check, since I emailed my director and told him that I was afraid he might find out that I'm a fluke, and he just wrote back ":) no way jose." Awww. Isn't that terribly sweet? (Not that this lessens my anxiety.)
05 August 2008
Note to audiences and others
This applies mainly to the audience for the concert I just attended last weekend. At the risk of sounding like a curmudgeon. . .
1. To the guy in front of me who was peeved about being "cut off" in line and yelled at the poor usher and held up the line: it was a free concert. Stop complaining and just go enjoy the free music.
2. To the guy who was siting diagonally across from me: I don't know what you could've possibly found in the program that was more enthralling than the actual performance going on in front of you, nor do I care, but please do not keep noisily flipping your pages during a sonata where there are only two instruments playing. If you want to do this in Davies Symphony Hall, which seats thousands, during a loud Tchaikovsky passage, when the horns are braying away, no one will notice, and I won't care (so long as you don't do this during an English horn solo). But it's a bad idea to do it during chamber music concerts. I mean, there was nothing in the programs, except for the names of the pieces (which at this point of the concert, numbered only one), and the names of players, which I don't see how reading this in the middle of their playing really adds to your experience, or to ours, for that matter. If you absolutely must turn pages, that is fine, but please do it quietly, especially when there are so few instruments playing and the space is small enough that you can hear the players breathing. Also, three minutes of page-turning is annoying, but tolerable, if one is being generous. However, an entire first movement, when your page-turns are as loud as someone shuffling a deck of cards, was a bit much. I know it was a free concert and all, but the performers had to work just as hard, regardless of whether the concert is free or not.
3. To whoever made the loudish noise right when the cellist was playing harmonics: not that there is really any good time to make a loud noise, but if you absolutely must, please not when she is playing harmonics, or it kills the effect. I mean, this sonata was rife with such lovely harmonics.
Actually, other than these few people, the audience was otherwise mostly attentive and appreciative. No cellphones going off and minimal coughing. Yes, there was some occasional fidgeting, and people seemed to be really restless during the Janacek quartet, but otherwise, they were fine. While I'm on a roll. . .
4. To one of the performers (I don't remember which): I'm not sure if this is acceptable practice among instrumentalists, though given how my private instructors used to hammer me ad nauseum on this point, I'm assuming it's not--FYI, if you want to quietly check the pitch of the opening note of a movement, I probably won't notice, but when you lightly pizzicatoed an entire measure between movements, I kindof noticed. It didn't bother me one bit, so if this is accepted practice among instrumentalists, then go ahead and do this, but just thought I'd let you know, in case it's like humming pitches during a choral concert, which we're not supposed to do. Of course, for someone who is paranoid of missing pitches, it is quite a challenge to refrain from humming pitches to check them. But theoretically, we're not supposed to do this during concerts.
And while we're harping on performers,
4. To a certain quartet that is in residence at my university and periodically offers free noontime concerts: According to the way I tell time, noon is 12:00 p.m. If we are doing "Broadway" time, a noontime concert should start, at latest, at 12:08. But starting a noontime concert at 12:29 is really frustrating, particularly for those of us who have no more than an hour lunch break (which btw, is at least 50 percent of your audience, since I imagine most students are not around during the summer), especially since most of us had to leave our offices at 11:30 to get there early enough to get aisle seats (or seats at all, since these tend to fill up) so we can leave--ten minutes into your playing--causing as little disruption as possible. I know the concert is free, and you are popular enough that the hall fills anyway, but starting a concert 29 minutes after the listed start time is slightly obnoxious, especially since this seems more habit than a one-time occurrence.
1. To the guy in front of me who was peeved about being "cut off" in line and yelled at the poor usher and held up the line: it was a free concert. Stop complaining and just go enjoy the free music.
2. To the guy who was siting diagonally across from me: I don't know what you could've possibly found in the program that was more enthralling than the actual performance going on in front of you, nor do I care, but please do not keep noisily flipping your pages during a sonata where there are only two instruments playing. If you want to do this in Davies Symphony Hall, which seats thousands, during a loud Tchaikovsky passage, when the horns are braying away, no one will notice, and I won't care (so long as you don't do this during an English horn solo). But it's a bad idea to do it during chamber music concerts. I mean, there was nothing in the programs, except for the names of the pieces (which at this point of the concert, numbered only one), and the names of players, which I don't see how reading this in the middle of their playing really adds to your experience, or to ours, for that matter. If you absolutely must turn pages, that is fine, but please do it quietly, especially when there are so few instruments playing and the space is small enough that you can hear the players breathing. Also, three minutes of page-turning is annoying, but tolerable, if one is being generous. However, an entire first movement, when your page-turns are as loud as someone shuffling a deck of cards, was a bit much. I know it was a free concert and all, but the performers had to work just as hard, regardless of whether the concert is free or not.
3. To whoever made the loudish noise right when the cellist was playing harmonics: not that there is really any good time to make a loud noise, but if you absolutely must, please not when she is playing harmonics, or it kills the effect. I mean, this sonata was rife with such lovely harmonics.
Actually, other than these few people, the audience was otherwise mostly attentive and appreciative. No cellphones going off and minimal coughing. Yes, there was some occasional fidgeting, and people seemed to be really restless during the Janacek quartet, but otherwise, they were fine. While I'm on a roll. . .
4. To one of the performers (I don't remember which): I'm not sure if this is acceptable practice among instrumentalists, though given how my private instructors used to hammer me ad nauseum on this point, I'm assuming it's not--FYI, if you want to quietly check the pitch of the opening note of a movement, I probably won't notice, but when you lightly pizzicatoed an entire measure between movements, I kindof noticed. It didn't bother me one bit, so if this is accepted practice among instrumentalists, then go ahead and do this, but just thought I'd let you know, in case it's like humming pitches during a choral concert, which we're not supposed to do. Of course, for someone who is paranoid of missing pitches, it is quite a challenge to refrain from humming pitches to check them. But theoretically, we're not supposed to do this during concerts.
And while we're harping on performers,
4. To a certain quartet that is in residence at my university and periodically offers free noontime concerts: According to the way I tell time, noon is 12:00 p.m. If we are doing "Broadway" time, a noontime concert should start, at latest, at 12:08. But starting a noontime concert at 12:29 is really frustrating, particularly for those of us who have no more than an hour lunch break (which btw, is at least 50 percent of your audience, since I imagine most students are not around during the summer), especially since most of us had to leave our offices at 11:30 to get there early enough to get aisle seats (or seats at all, since these tend to fill up) so we can leave--ten minutes into your playing--causing as little disruption as possible. I know the concert is free, and you are popular enough that the hall fills anyway, but starting a concert 29 minutes after the listed start time is slightly obnoxious, especially since this seems more habit than a one-time occurrence.
03 August 2008
Shostakovich=?
I went to a chamber concert (more on this later. er, maybe.) that featured works by Janacek and Shostakovich. Good stuff. Before performing Shostakovich's piano quintet, the cellist said that Shostakovich's works were like "Tchaikovsky with Stalin sitting atop of him". Hmm. Very interesting imagery.
However, to me, parts of this particular piece sound more like a modern (subversive?) twist on Bach.
However, to me, parts of this particular piece sound more like a modern (subversive?) twist on Bach.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
