Beethoven and Respighi at Severance

Saturday night’s concert with the Cleveland Orchestra led by Franz Welser-Möst offered an unusual program that will linger in the mind’s ear for a long  time to come.

Saturday night’s concert was preceded by a brief tribute to recently retired principle viola Robert Vernon, who offered his modest, soft spoken thanks.

The concert began with Beethoven’s Symphony No. 8 in F major, the shortest – and arguably, lightest – of his nine symphonies. Welser-Möst’s approach was a model of interpretative rectitude.  The performance was a model of structural clarity, well-gauged tempos, sensible phrasing, and the balance between sections one expects from the Clevelanders. 

I was a bit surprised that the Beethoven was immediately followed by the intermission.  This meant that all three works in Respighi’s Roman triptych (Pines of Rome, Fountains of Rome, and Roman Festivals) were played back to back, adding to a second half that lasted well over an hour.  But far from being overlong, time flew during the second half of the program.

Respighi pulled out all the stops in his orchestration of these works – particularly Festivals which included organ and off-stage brass.  Since the dawn of stereo recording, Respighi’s Roman poems have often been used as “hi-fi” spectaculars.  Some recordings, notably Maazel’s recordings of Festivals and Pines with the Cleveland Orchestra, have succeeded better than most.   But hearing the works in concert brought to light the limitations of even the finest recordings: none can match the huge dynamic range of the orchestra – from the gossamer pianissimo string arpeggios at the beginning of Fountains (a passage which James Horner adapted in his score for Star Trek III) to the nearly deafening final pages of Festivals and Pines.  Even the finest playback equipment is subject to distortion in the louder sections.  But while Welser-Möst pushed the orchestra to the limits at the end of Festivals, the sound remained pure and balanced – every strand of orchestration was heard in proper proportion.  Throughout the triptych, Welser-Möst’s tempos were well judged – they were not merely suited for each individual portrait, but also within the context of the whole work - and his use of rubato was unerring.  Welser-Möst was particularly masterful in the coda of Festivals, where there is a tricky accelerando that most conductors are unable to convincingly execute.

Welser-Möst has been Cleveland’s musical director for nearly a decade and a half now.  If anyone had told me in 2002 that Welser-Möst would lead the orchestra in thrilling performances of Respighi’s most famous works, I wouldn’t have believed it.  His predecessor, Christoph von Dohnányi, would have turned his kapellmeister’s nose up at such stuff.  For those who have deigned to conduct the Respighi, the temptation has been to rattle through them as showpieces and nothing more.  Welser-Möst demonstrated that there was more to this music than mere bluster, while sacrificing nothing in visceral excitement.  For that, he deserves the audience’s thanks – and I believe Respighi, who conducted the Cleveland Orchestra in the 1920s, would have been appreciative as well.    

My review of Murray Perahia's new Deutsche Grammophon recording

Murray Perahia has jumped the Sony ship and is now recording exclusively for Deutsche Grammophon.  The first project is dedicated to J. S. Bach's French Suites.  Lovely performance and recording.  Click here to read my review.   

My review of Emil Gilels' complete RCA & Columbia recordings

Sony has reissued their complete RCA and Columbia recordings of Emil Gilels.  This collection is a must for pianophiles.  Click here to read my review. 

Trump and the End Times

Why are so many evangelical Christians supporting the twice divorced, thrice married Donald Trump, despite a history of womanizing that makes Bill Clinton look like a rank amateur in comparison?  Why are so many evangelical Christians supporting Trump, despite his glorification of his own greed in a manner that runs counter to what Jesus preached?

It’s quite simple.  Many evangelicals believe we are living in the End Times.  They also believe that, at the advent of the Apocalypse, they will magically rise to heaven in their physical form – while the rest of us heathens are left on Earth to endure the terror.  (Personally, I believe if all religious extremists of every faith were to disappear, the world would probably become a quieter, more tranquil place, and a new era of human progress would unfold.)   The fixation of evangelicals on the Apocalypse leads to the conclusion that if an evangelical was elected President, he or she could well bring about a real End Times scenario  - the very definition of a self-fulfilling prophecy.  I don’t believe for a New York minute that Trump himself is either an evangelical or even particularly religious.  But he’s the candidate who’s doing their bidding, and they may even believe that they have some form of control over him.  This is a delusion.  Nobody, but nobody, controls Donald Trump.  He’s the little boy who does what he wants, never faces reprimand when he hurts someone else, and has never faced consequences.  Not from his parents, not from his wives, not from betrayed vendors, and not from the law other than the minor financial slap on the wrist.  In other words, Trump is a walking Id who knows nothing of boundaries.

Trump’s bombastic statements, which have already ratcheted up religious tensions in the United States, would lead to even more danger – worldwide - if he was actually elected President. That may be what religious extremists, craving for the Apocalypse want.  That’s not what sensible people the world over desire.   

34, 11/22, 9/11

One day when my father was 34 years old, he left work early to surprise my mother on their seventh wedding anniversary.  On his way home, he stopped at a florist and purchased a dozen roses.  After leaving the florist, he switched on the radio of his 1963 Ford Galaxie and shortly thereafter heard a news flash from Dallas announcing that President Kennedy had been shot and seriously wounded.  He hit the gas pedal and raced home.  My mother greeted my father with a tearful embrace as Walter Cronkite announced that the President had died.  My parents and my sisters sat in front of the television for much of that weekend – never leaving the house.  The flowers my father bought had been left in the passenger seat – where they withered and died over the course of the weekend.  The date was November 22, 1963 - a day my parents would never forget.     

One morning when I was 34 years old, I left my home to head for work.  I switched on the radio of my 1997 Saturn SL2 and heard an ongoing news report that a plane had crashed into one of the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York.  As my car merged into traffic on I-480, I heard that another plane had struck the other tower.  As I arrived at work, I raced past my coworkers, shouting the news to them as I headed to my office and switched on the TV.  My colleagues gathered in front of the TV as updates came in: multiple hijackings; a third plane had crashed into the Pentagon; the FAA suspended all takeoffs; the South Tower collapsed; a fourth plane crashed into a field in Pennsylvania; then the North Tower fell.  Driving past Hopkins airport that night, the usual line of planes approaching to land was gone, replaced with eerie stillness.  The date was September 11, 2001 - a day my friends and I would never forget.

My Mother's Final Gift

23 years ago today, my mother died.  Truly the pain of losing a loved one never really goes away.  But one adjusts to it – it’s either that or a life spent in sadness.  There have been many times, particularly in the last decade, when I’ve wished I could tell my mother how happy I finally am - with my career, my place in society, and especially my husband.  But if all wishes were granted we’d have nothing to strive for, and as C. S. Lewis wrote, “The pain now is part of the happiness then; that’s the deal”.

I was at a difficult point of my life in August of 1993: broke, unemployed, unsure of where I wanted to live, a relationship recently fizzled out – one of many up to that point.  After eight years living and struggling in Haverhill, Massachusetts, I opted to move to Florida with my sister Sarah and her family – with hopes of a brighter future.

But my troubles were nothing compared to my mother’s, someone to whom life was cruel.   After 23 years with a husband she didn’t understand, and who was unable to understand her, my mother found herself abandoned for a younger, more compatible woman.  She tried to pick herself up, tried to hold down a job – but a combination of mild Cerebral Palsy and increasing  mental illness impaired her ability to do so.  During her final years, she was intermittently hospitalized, homeless, and hopeless.  Her decline over those years was chronicled in a series of letters she wrote to me – each less coherent than the last.  In her last letter to me, she complained of abdominal pains and intestinal bleeding.  I advised her that she needed to see a doctor immediately.  When she did, she claimed she was being poisoned, and was placed the mental ward.  Her pains were written off as psychosomatic, and in a health care system which put profit above providing care, there was no examination of her physical symptoms – not even a stool sample.  It wasn’t until my mother fell and broke her hip that she was taken to the emergency room and physically examined.  By that point, her belly had distended and the doctor decided to perform exploratory surgery.  The results were heartbreaking: her small intestine and part of her stomach were gangrenous and beyond repair – a result of vascular disease caused by a lifetime of smoking.

On the evening of August 15^th, my sister Sarah and I received a phone call from our sister, Pixie, telling us of the results of surgery and advising we needed to get ourselves to Cleveland immediately.  We flew to Cleveland the next morning – the first time I’d been in Cleveland in over five years.  My mother was in the intensive care unit – but she really wasn’t there.  She was on morphine with a Demerol drip due to the pain in her intestines.  Despite her belly’s distension, she weighed only 88 pounds.  I held her hand and whispered into her ear – but her hand was unresponsive and her eyes, despite being partially opened, showed no signs of life. 

Shortly afterward, my grandmother arrived with my uncle, who she had been visiting in Atlanta.  While my uncle spent time with my mother – his older sister – he and the rest of us advised  my grandmother not to go into the ICU.  At 84, we felt it best for my grandmother to be spared the shock of seeing her daughter’s condition.   As evening approached, it was mutually decided that my sisters would stay with my mother to the end, and I would accompany my uncle and grandmother to her house.  I don’t recall the rest of that evening, except that my emotions were torn between grieving my mother’s imminent death and a sense of relief that her pain would soon be at an end. 

I am not a believer in the supernatural, but as I lay fitfully sleeping on the sofa bed in my grandmother’s family room, I had a vivid dream of her seeming to ascend heavenward, while waving goodbye, broadly smiling.  She looked very much as she did in the photo below, which I took in 1977.  As she disappeared from sight, I was jolted awake by the telephone ringing, with the news my mother had died at 2:30am.  My grandmother and I sat on the sofa in the living room, quietly talking through the night – waiting for my sisters to come home.  She held herself together like the trooper she was, and it was only after my sisters arrived that she broke down in sobs – the likes of which I’d never heard from her. 

Over the next few days, funeral plans were made, the service took place (led by a pastor who didn't know my mother from Eve), and my mother was buried under the shade of a tree at Lake View Cemetery.  

But it was what happened 24 hours earlier that reminded me of my mother’s ceaseless, undying love, which endures to this day.  As related to me, while my mother lay in intensive care, her vital signs crashed, her heartbeat flatlined – my mother died.  My eldest sister Pixie, who had been with my mother in her final days and sat vigil over my mother while Sarah and I prepared to fly to Cleveland, began weeping, telling my mother that we were on our way to see her – and begged her to hold on for a while longer.

And my mother’s heart began faintly beating again, her vitals stabilized.   It would have been easier for my mother to die at that point, but whatever conscious thought that remained with my mother in those moments ordered her heart to start again, willed herself to go on.  It was my mother’s last gift – which allowed me to be able to hold her hand, tell her how much she meant to me, and that it was alright for her to let go.    

Just over a year later, in September, 1994, I returned to Cleveland, to take care of my grandmother in her advancing years.  At one time, our whole family was here.  Now, it was just my grandmother and me.  I’ve often written that I’ve never regretted my decision to return to Cleveland after nine years of living elsewhere – and I’ve extolled all our area has to offer.  But, with my grandmother now gone, I’m the last of our family still here.  So, in addition to the many reasons I stay, there is another, hitherto unmentioned reason: my mother’s remains are here.  She is the only family member buried in Cleveland.  And, when my time comes, half of my ashes will be placed on top of her grave (the other half will be buried with my husband, when our time has come), and I will be able to, symbolically at least, keep her company.  I owe it to my mother, who gave me life.

A few days in Toronto

I can’t help wondering how many Americans have visited Toronto.  For those in Northeast Ohio, it’s a mere five hours drive – give or take traffic. But it’s like a different world.

Toronto is a lovely city, well planned and executed, with a nice, balanced energy.  In a way, it’s a larger version of the city that Cleveland could be - if city, county, and state leaders would work together and execute long term plans to properly develop the lakefront, downtown, and revive the neighborhoods.  Wouldn’t it be great if Cleveland had a lakeside landmark like Toronto’s CN Tower?  To do that, Cleveland would have to close Burke Lakefront Airport– Hopkins could easily accommodate Burke’s traffic.  Closing Burke would free up a massive slice of lakefront property that could be developed into Condos/Apartments, Retail, and other beachfront amenities.  But, enough about Cleveland for now.  

Toronto skyline, with the CN Tower

Toronto is very clean, well maintained, and boasts excellent public transport.  We did not avail ourselves of any of the public transport options, but used the PATH – an ingenious network of underground and elevated walkways – for getting around during hotter periods.  But we did get outside enough to see the variety of architecture – from preserved old homes and other buildings, to new skyscrapers – a good many still under construction.

A Toronto Streetcar - built in Cleveland

The Royal Ontario Museum is sort of a mix of the Cleveland Art Museum and Natural History Museum.  The collection of dinosaur skeletons there is the most impressive I’ve ever seen.  There’s also an excellent section on the First People of Canada.  The only issue I had with the ROM is that there wasn’t a clear flow from room to room.  Further, the ROM consists of two interconnecting buildings which makes navigation confusing – even with a map.  We also visited the Bata Shoe Museum – a specialist place that appealed to Daniel more than I.

Outside of London, Toronto is the most ethnically diverse city I’ve ever seen, with particularly large numbers of Asians.  The diversity extends to religions, and we in the United States could learn a few things from our northern neighbors.  In a previous post I pointed out that Muslims can be found in every corner of the world.  Toronto is a case in point.  I saw Muslim men and women in every area of the city I visited, from Eaton Centre mall to Church & Wellesley.  Muslims are an integral part of the social fabric of Toronto, yet I saw no sign of social tension as one would see in the United States.

Despite the effects both the mainstreaming of LGBT people and the Internet/App culture have had on gay neighborhoods, Toronto has a vibrant LGBT scene, with the Church-Wellesley area being the most notable gayborhood.  There is a generous selection of gay clubs and bars there, catering to every taste.  We were particularly fond of Woody’s (famous from Queer as Folk), and the Statler.  Daniel & I were moved to see a memorial to those slain in Orlando earlier this month, as well as the names and ages of every victim stenciled on the ground.   We have never felt safer as a gay couple than our days in Toronto, not even in Provincetown or in the Soho neighborhood of London.  We were able to walk through most of the city holding hands, with no one batting an eye – and we were far from the only same sex couple doing so.  Even at Eaton Centre, Toronto’s largest mall, there were teenaged same sex couples, holding hands, embracing, and looking at each other the way only people in love do – what a difference from when I was their age!  Canada is therefore far ahead of the United States in social tolerance and public safety.  Of course, when you’re in a country where guns are sensibly regulated, safety is a reality, not just a feeling. 

Church & Wellesley

As we were only there for a few days, Daniel & I did not have time to take a “deep dive” into the culinary scene.  Highlights were the ChurchMouse, and Smiths (both on Church street), and Elephant & Castle, on Yonge Street.  Smiths had the most perfectly balanced salads imaginable.  While ChurchMouse and Elephant & Castle were traditional British pubs - with the latter also being sports oriented.  We were there enjoying a late dinner during game 7 of the NBA Finals – and happy to learn most of the crowd was pro-Cleveland, judging by the reactions.

On the flip side, there were a large number of homeless people, on practically every block we walked on - more than I’ve seen in any American city or in London.  This was a surprise, given Canada’s strong reputation for social welfare.

Daniel and I stayed at the Chelsea Eaton, which proved to be both convenient and well appointed.  We can recommend it for anyone looking for a comfortable place to set their heads down at night – with the added bonus of an excellent fitness centre, several restaurants, and central location.