student blog

Alpin Hong: King Among Piano Men /Kery

There are many things to consider when assessing Alpin Hong’s performance, much of it being when he’s off stage. But I’ll get to that later.

He’s a great player with fantastic technique. He can rip through a crazy run, ooze out a slow moment, bang out a fantastically loud melody, and trickle through the essence of a soft whisper. He certainly wowed the audience Friday night, and not just with his technique; he was also incredibly funny and personable. He told some great stories and played some great pieces. I think the audience was ready to either marry or adopt him by the end of the show.

The die-hard classical musician, however, may not be so swayed. The program read like a “Greatest Hits” of classical music, which may seem a little cheesy to the most discriminating of music critics. There were a few hiccups throughout, notably a memory lapse on Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in g minor. But honestly, it happens to all of us - - even when memorization comes easy, it’s no phenomenon when our brains decide to work against us (I personally believe that my brain is out to get me most of the time).

But mostly, I think what keeps Alpin Hong outside of the “greatest ever amazing pianists” club is his interpretation. As I explained to a friend, in my attempt to articulate just what was floating around in my head, “When he played Clair de Lune, I know I heard the essence of awesome. But I’m not sure I heard the essence of Debussy.” I would also like to note that Clair de Lune is the only Debussy piece that 98% of the population knows. We might as well say “As heard in the remake of Ocean’s 12.” Or was it 13? Anyway, I think that pretty much sums up the way he plays music. He was obviously born to play the piano. I can’t fault him for anything technically or talent-wise. He was great, but I kept thinking to myself, “Is he really feeling it?” I heard Beethoven, but I didn’t feel it. The music didn’t sink into me, taking hold of my soul and stealing my breath. Granted, that’s an extremely romantic depiction of what music does to us, but it’s honestly the reason why we all do it.

However, looking at the bigger picture, I, as a thinker on a more general/social level, and a trumpet player who hacked through ten years of piano lessons, am willing to forgive the interpretation issue and the memory lapses. You pianists out there can stick to your guns - - you owe it to your art form to be as stringent as you like in your criticism. But what I saw was something truly amazing. I saw in Alpin Hong his ability to be a good musician and a good person. These two things don’t always coincide, but they did here.

I was impressed by what he does when he’s not on stage: his involvement in the community, his educational outreach. When he’s not putting on recitals or practicing, he’s infusing his love for classical music into the next generation. He plays the “Mario Brothers” theme (inviting three middle schoolers, two cellists and a bass, to join him on the second half) and goes into schools to preach the good music word, that Beethoven is inevitably tied to the background noises we hear every day. Mozart can be just as beloved as movie music, and we can learn that through Alpin Hong.

Educational outreach is so important. Bringing the joy of what some are calling a dying art to our young generations is what will keep this beautiful art form alive. We can’t convince our generation to switch out Beyonce for Borodin, but we can speak to the future of music. Given his “extra-curriculars,” if Alpin Hong needs to play Chopin a little too fast to spur on the future of classical music, so be it.

Puppies, Flowers, and Smiling Babies,

Kery Lawson

ridiculously good / Kery

The Brandenburgs:  An Evening of Bach Bliss

In this instance, there is no room for critique. With other blogging experiences, I’ve written constantly, frantically, but with this one, I didn’t feel the need. I could just absorb it. It deserves, almost demands this treatment, because Bach needs more time and thought to be put into words.

There’s a kind of spell, a trance that I sink into when I listen to Bach, especially with people who know how to play it (excepting the slight oboe biff, but we always forgive them, don’t we?). I’m here, but not. I hear every note, and yet my mind wanders from the depths to the very edges of my soul. There’s a lush core to the music, a never-ending cascade of notes, sounds, and ideas. When I’m there, I don’t just listen to Bach. I breathe Bach.

Last Wednesday night, The Academy of Ancient Music was in town, and they mastered the six Brandenburg concertos beautifully, on “original” instruments (or at least reproductions of what we believe ancient instruments to have been like). To me, it was an educational as well as entertaining experience. It was like stepping into my Music History I classroom again, to a special hands-on lecture. Everything I’d been told in the past while I was half asleep in class came alive before me; I was no longer looking at photos uploaded from the internet: “This is an old oboe, this is a lute, this is a traverso,” blah, blah, blah. It was nice to see people playing the goofy old-school version of oboes and bassoons (as if they weren’t goofy enough now).

All the players were great, especially the harpsichordist/director, Richard Egarr. My pianist companion made it a point to tell me how great he was. The harpsichord is one of the precursors to the piano, and is much more difficult to play.  The tone is lighter, maybe even tinnier - - and there’s no sustain, like on piano (the pedal that the right foot holds down, and if you play a whole bunch of notes, it sounds like a muddy mess). It requires a special touch and exceptionally clean playing. He certainly had that, while simultaneously directing the rest of the ensemble. We were sure that he had much of it memorized. He was enthusiastic, excited, and not stuffy like you would think. I even caught him head banging sometimes. Now that is commitment.

Most of us (myself certainly included) look slightly comatose on stage, but they were always moving and communicating with each other, infusing more and more energy into every phrase. As stiff and boring as Bach may seem, listening to the concertos in person opened my eyes to how much work and energy has to go into the performance. I watched as they interacted, waiting, nodding; it really opened my eyes to how music is a communication, on so many levels.

And now on to the best part: Concerto no. 2, featuring some massive trumpet work, my bread and butter (although I’m actually allergic to both). It was great. The majority of the time, the Brandenburg is played on a piccolo trumpet. And I’ll let you in on a secret: most people think that “piccolo” means “small” or “tiny,” but in the trumpet world, piccolo (or “picc” for short) actually means “death.” Yes, it looks cute, but it’ll rip your face off. Anyway, since they were playing on “period” instruments, the trumpeter played it on natural trumpet. It’s bigger and longer (google your heart away on this one). There are most likely endless debates about which one is more difficult to play, but to me, it served as an endless geek-out session. The playing was fabulous, and he ripped off some of the hardest stuff we trumpets have to play like nothing. And I was happy.

From a music major standpoint, I left saying: “They are really ridiculously good.” The performance was fabulous, the music was fabulous, and Richard Egarr’s hilarious intros to each concerto (in a British accent, which every American immediately adores) just wrapped the entire package. It was an evening well-spent. Most people scoff at Bach, but just as the period of time when the earth was still forming is important to where we are now, Bach is equally important to where we are now in music.

Kery

buried bluegrass background /Kery

Time For Three: They Think They Can Swing

Arbitrary Fun Fact About Kery # 348:  I have a genetically inherited background in bluegrass.

If classical music is my lover, then bluegrass is that crazy uncle that I only see at family reunions. Although I have pledged my undying love to Brahms, Mahler, Beethoven, and other such greats, I keep returning to the fact that I grew up listening to the sounds of bluegrass: my dad’s strumming his guitar on a Saturday night, tossing out a walking bass line at gigs, and giving those dreaded banjo lessons in our living room (while Mom and I huddled in the back room whimpering “Make it stop….”). Through middle and high school, he conned me into playing for some of his bluegrass/blues jam sessions, reminiscent of the get-togethers he’d have with his family growing up.  And as I sat in the decidedly colonial City High School auditorium, I drew from my childhood experiences and those emotionally buried memories of Dad’s bluegrass music.

I can split up their performance into two distinct elements: the audio and the visual. Usually, this wouldn’t be such a big deal - - honestly, this is an arbitrary distinction, and one that is probably only interesting or pertinent in some kind of “collision of mediums and arts!!!” theory class setting. But because they found themselves on the “entertainer” side of the spectrum for me, I am forced to consider them on these two separate levels - - because just listening to them was definitely not enough.

I’ll cover the audio first. They’re fabulous. Good technique, good tuning (the bass player was always checking - - I wrote in my notes “good man”), great musicianship. It’s bluegrass, but you know they practiced their Bach beforehand. Granted, this ego-boosting droning is unsurprising knowing that they found each other (it must have been fate) at a conservatory, the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia. As far as individual songs and the entire performance are concerned, things were always changing - - it was a never-ending exercise in color, texture, and style. A combination of beautiful, sweeping melodies, fast, virtuosic phrases, some jazz influence, a little gaelic, some “swung” classical (I’ll get to that later) and overall “fun stuff” made for a constantly entertaining show. They even used extended techniques - - basically, this is stuff the original instrument makers didn’t intend for players to do to their beautiful work, but they do it anyway. This includes such things as using their instruments (or bows) for percussive purposes, harmonics, making “weird” noises only heard in Penderecki’s “Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima,” etc. I can even say that I have now survived “two guys, one violin.” Regardless of personal taste, you have to admit that they were prepared, clean, and talented, especially considering that the entire show was memorized.

However, the visual was just a little distracting. Just a little. I don’t know if it was the constant, endless eye-lock going on between he whom I termed “bass boy” and the first violin (or so I would assume - - the other violinist, equally as virtuosic, was often stuck in what we call the “utility player” spot), the changing light colors for every song, or bass boy’s unending attempt to impregnate his instrument. You think a French concerto is hard? No, no, you try to grind with your instrument while playing. Now that is talent.

They also brought some humor to the performance. I termed them “loveable goofballs,” cracking jokes, telling stories, and some physical humor, most notably when bass boy decided to lay his bass on his lap and play it like a guitar (copying the “2nd” violin). Their entertainment value was off the charts, as evidenced by the screaming fangirls at the end of their performance. Who knew a couple violins and a bass could be veritable rock stars?

I have one major point, however, that I must make known. I was highly disappointed, okay, incredibly insulted, when our stringed friends deigned to claim that their rendition of Bach was “swung.” As far as I knew, swing came about from jazz, you know, those guys who can make playing just one note over and over again so cool you’ll melt into the basement (not to be confused with the minimalists, whose repeated notes will merely make you transcend existence and at the same time make you feel so hopped up on caffeine that not even the world can contain you). The basis of swing, or so my six years of jazz experience tell me, is that each beat is divided into three, a triplet. Thus, eighth notes become uneven and cool, risqué. I don’t think I detected one triplet in their entire performance. Every beat was still split up into sixteenth notes (four notes per beat). I did, however, detect hemiolas (they’re super cool!) and syncopation (when it’s just a little off from the basic beat). I’m sorry, gentlemen, but that is not swing. That’s just playing with your sixteenths in a cool fashion that’ll make the 15-year-olds swoon. (I’d also like to note that syncopation and hemiola were popular with Beethoven and Brahms, to name a few, and if Brahms had the opportunity to turn your brain upside down, he would).

In review, they were great. They were talented, entertaining, funny, a good show all around. It was a good way to spend my Thursday night, and I’m glad I went. If only they could fix that fundamental “swing” problem…

Your guest correspondent,

Kery Lawson

melted heart /Kery

The Chiara Quartet:  Strings From a Brass Perspective

Granted, a brass player’s reaction to a string quartet is likely akin to a democrat reacting to a conservative, or an apple reacting to an orange (I love them both equally. I’m also single and love dark chocolate). But I believe in the power of music, really great music, to transcend the instrument and become part of the great above-and-beyond universe devoid of labels, jargon, and contextual muddling. And that’s what I’m here to measure. Whether a string quartet can move a cynical brass player whose only loves are Mahler and Strauss, for the sheer fact that they actually wrote for us, to forget the scoring and remember the music.

To lay some ground rules: the quartet was great. Each player was solid, lovely; I tried and tried but just couldn’t find a weak point. They’d done their homework. If nothing else, I can tell you that they knew the pieces up and down, top to bottom, and I’m sure in retrograde. You could feel the intelligent thought they’d put into the performance, their constant awareness of the contours, dynamics, the textures on the page and in the air. Three members of the quartet even introduced the pieces (the cello was definitely my favorite. What a post-intermission delight he was) - - not only can they play their instruments, but they can put a sentence together. Impressive. Onto the rep:

I’d like to rename Brahms’ 3rd String Quartet (in Bb major, op. 67, just to alienate all who don’t care) “Survival of the Musically Fittest.” I never thought that my first great orchestral love could be used as a tool for natural selection, but as the unwitting children of the University of Iowa sprang from their seats after the first movement, the second, one after the third, and still two more (right in front of me, thank God) after the fourth and final movement, I realized just how trying it can be for mere mortals to endure “classical” music. And yet somehow, I felt like leaving, too.

I love the turkey stuffing out of Brahms, but this was not my greatest experience. Having adored his symphonies and chamber music in the past, I thought this would be no different. I entered the church, shivering, wiping the rain spit from my face, thinking that I would find comfort in more than just the heating. But that was just not so. It wasn’t my favourite (yes, let’s go British for this one) Brahms piece, and there was just something about the performance that didn’t click with me. In some moments, the time seemed to float away; or entire beats felt silent, even though they were still playing. I found myself grasping for something to hold onto as I listened. Rhythm? Time? Anybody? Maybe it was too romantic? Too dramatic? After all, Brahms was a romanticist who ate classical for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. When Berlioz, Liszt, and others were going crazy living, feeling, being, enduring the greatest limits of romanticism, Brahms was all like, “Whoa, slow down, guys. Put your clothes back on.” But bear in mind: I am beyond cruel in judging Brahms. Grain of salt, here I come.

Next up was Bartók’s 6th String Quartet (Sz. 114 - - he didn’t give us a key. Wonder why…). The violist introduced this one (I was already impressed by his playing), mentioning that Bartók wrote this as his last piece, assuming the world was going to end thereafter. Insufferable gravity fell upon me as a listener, knowing this very fact. And I began to wonder. What would I write, either literature or music, if it were my last work before the death of the world? My own ridiculous musings aside, they did a great job with this piece. He isn’t the easiest composer, and I appreciate anyone who can make it sound like it’s supposed to sound. Crisp, measured, a little strange and uneven, but connected and thought-provoking overall. He may not adhere to the usual pop progressions to which our ears are accustomed, but when I hear it, my breath leaves my lungs; it’s as if I’m hearing the underlying current of my soul. The style was impeccable, the (extended) technique was sparkling, and the cognition involved was nearly palpable. They moved in and out of thick textures seamlessly, breathtakingly. Each player got a chance at the spotlight, and none squandered it.

Intermission. One thumb up, and one down. The third piece would be the tie breaker. I explored the balcony at this time, a good decision on my part.

The third and final piece was a string quartet by a composer to whom I was new, Erich Wolfgang Korngold (the piece was his third string quartet, in D major, op. 34). And if I thought I liked the Bartók, then I really loved the Korngold. Still, more twentieth century; still, a triumph on their part. Just as the audience found its niche after disposing of the children, I think the quartet found its niche in the twentieth century.

Excepting the ever-classic imposing sounds of the watch alarm, the truck backing up outside, and the lovely roar of drunks down the street, it was spotless. The cellist’s introduction was relaxing, refreshing, hilarious. I always knew I liked the cello the best. The second movement featured a “ridiculous theme,” I think he described it, while the violin played a “melody,” as he made air quotes with his hands. Oh, air quotes. One moment was especially great to me, when the two violins traded the same “lick,” as a jazzer might say, back and forth. It wasn’t until I looked at them (my eyes do enjoy wandering as I listen) that I realized that they were trading it back and forth. Flawless. The third movement was a “walk through D major,” I think he said. It was wonderful, a beacon of hope, seemingly, and yet it still had its dark moments. I wrote “heartbreaking. I think it’s part of my soul now.” This doesn’t happen often, and I’m still puzzled as to how such a reaction could be provoked in me. The octave at the end was impeccable. The fourth movement was just as great; I remarked to myself on how it all just clicked together, fit perfectly. It was like looking through a diamond (or maybe it was the giant advertisement next to the program that prompted this thought).

Two thumbs up, one down. Good overcomes bad, and love conquers all. They managed to melt this little empty heart for a few moments in time, and that is no easy task.

Hugs, kisses, and heartlessness.

Your Classical Guest Correspondent,
Kery Lawson