SLN is pleased to welcome awesome violinist Lisa Liu as a guest blogger. Last month, Mobtown Modern was fortunate to have Lisa play on our final concert of the season. But she almost didn’t make it—something she was quick to attribute to ‘the curse of Nico Muhly.’ I’ll let her explain. . .
Sitting on the sticky floor at Penn Station, with a glazed look on my face, waiting for the gate number to appear on the board… I’m supposed to be placated by an announcement every fifteen minutes of, “please wait for further announcements.” followed by, “please be patient.” It makes me violent. My 2:00 p.m. train never arrived to get me into Baltimore by 4:30 p.m. to rehearse with the musicians at Mobtown Modern . . . lovely people, I’m sure, but I never got to speak with all of them. I was lucky enough to elbow my way to the front of the Amtrak line to get the last spot on a 5:00 p.m. express train that ended up being 40 minutes late. The mission was to get to the hall by 7:45 p.m. for an 8:00 p.m. show. The large man next to me on the crowded train kept insisting that we discuss the life works of Sylvester Stallone for the entire ride. Somehow, I decided, this whole thing was Nico Muhly’s fault.
Violinist Lisa Liu is considering having an exorcism performed on Nico Muhly’s piece.
Our friendship grew out of Juilliard, and revolved around an absurd consumption of dumplings and coffee. He wrote Honest Music for me in 2005, and we recorded it in my kitchen, catching the silences between the grumbling of the refrigerator and the other unidentifiable murmurings of kitchen appliances. A year later, Nico pulled together a budget, and collaborated with Valgeir Sigurdsson to record Honest Music and a handful of his works for Speaks Volumes, his debut album.
Minneapolis
In the fall of 2007, a group of old friends from Juilliard, including Nico, myself, Nadia Sirota and Sam Solomon, along with Sigga Sunna from Iceland, traveled to Minneapolis to perform a collection of works by Nico and Valgeir Sigurdsson. Valgeir was to fly in from Iceland and meet us there to rehearse the night before the concert. Armed with all his audio equipment in suspicious looking bags, he was treated like a terrorist at the infamous Minneapolis Airport and was immediately deported back to Iceland. Valgeir and all his gear were replaced by a few pre-recorded tracks of his music, and we were forced to make last minute revisions and arrangements that could be done without him. There was a lot of tension throughout the rehearsals leading up to the concert, and much of it was comically dumped onto me, with random contests of who could be more racially offensive. In the end, it was definitely between Sam’s and Nadia’s Beijing opera mimicking and Nico’s bombarding of me with erhu sounds off his keyboard every time I’d pick up my violin.
We were running through the program up to an hour and a half before the doors were to open, when I placed my violin on a stool and fumbled around to take off my jacket, too frenzied to remember that my clip-on mic was still attached to the violin. The mic was also accidentally hooked onto a button of my jacket, and as I swung around to throw my jacket down, my violin came crashing to the floor, face down, along with it. Nadia made the most horrific sounding, “Liiiiiisssssaaaa!†roar that still haunts me whenever she says my name. The entire fingerboard popped out of the violin and slid across the floor. As I ran in circles screaming for Krazy glue, Nico calmly dialed the first number that appeared under ‘violin repair’ in the directory and sent me out in a panic to find another instrument. The beautiful people from Claire Givens Violin Shop had two violins waiting for me to choose from, and I made it back to the hall right in time for the show. My violin was thankfully pieced together for the following concert only a week later.
New York
This Honest Music show date was by far the most traumatic-all unrelated to Nico, but I’ll for sure find a way to make it his responsibility. Valgeir was able to fly into New York, and my violin had been returned to me in perfect condition, all just in time for the concert. A huge project I had been undertaking was to help develop a singer whom I truly believed in. I introduced her to all sorts of musicians, producers and songwriters so that, eventually, her own relationships would evolve that would further her career. Looking back, I probably should’ve mentioned that sleeping with everyone along the way would probably be a bad idea. Her husband, fondly nicknamed, “The Android” by our colleagues, finally realized that he didn’t like sharing her with everyone, and threatened to walk away if she didn’t drop out of the band, in which one of her multiple sordid relationships was spiraling out of control. After investing a couple years of hard work into creating an act for her, she broke up the band, and our friendship, the night before the Wordless Music Concert. I was in no shape to perform, but I poured my heart out into Honest Music. Afterwards, I tried to remain somber for A Long Line, also a solo violin worked backed by tape, while Nico, with his demented sense of humor, crashed gongs behind me and cleverly inserted koto, erhu and other ’sounds of Asia’ into my performance. Jackass.
Baltimore
It was 7:45 p.m. and the audience was already seated as I ran in, disoriented and frantic. I hid out in a small room in the side of the performance space where I could change and do a little yoga to calm myself down. Before walking out to perform Honest Music, with no sound check, and then Terry Riley’s In C, without having met any of the musicians or had any rehearsal, I actually felt comforted knowing that this experience couldn’t possibly nearly as stressful as the last two. Despite the hellish commute, nobody was deported, nobody broke-up, and my violin was intact. Although I could never ultimately say, ‘no’ to Nico, there’s going to have to be a lot of begging involved to convince me to perform, Honest Music again.
For me, Michael Brecker was the epitome of every musical value I embrace and have spent my life as a musician working to cultivate. He played with an amazing and unique sound that was consistent throughout the entire range of the saxophone. His technique was flawless. He constantly evolved and pushed the limits of his abilities. And he played with absolute unbridled passion.
The first time I heard Michael Brecker I was in 9th grade or so. A friend turned me on to the new Brecker Brothers album. I remember being simply blown away by the sound that he played with. And he didn’t play the saxophone like a saxophone. I mean, he was doing some very saxophonistic things, but he was completely beyond the instrument itself. When I listened to Brecker, I heard more than just the saxophone playing. There was something in there, which was a feeling I’d had with only a couple of other musicians—John Coltrane and Bill Evans (the pianist). And sometimes it sounded like he was playing the saxophone like an electric guitar, and that was way cool. I got way into Brecker and discovered that he played with pretty much everybody in every style imaginable, from folkies to pop groups. And he sounded absolutely amazing and convincing in whatever context he played.
About 6 months ago, I wrote about Michael Brecker’s condition, understanding the seriousness of it, but not fully comprehending the rapidity with which it consumed him. So like many, I was stunned by the news that he had passed away. I feel fortunate that I had the opportunity to see him perform live several times. Michael Brecker was a true innovator and a consumate musician. He will be missed.
“You can only live in music, as it were, if you have other interests, if you see the parallels with literature, if you see the parallels with painting, if you see the parallel with the development of political process, and if you have an interest, and then you have the ability to deduce, then all this becomes part of your innermost being; and this comes out in the music; and therefore, music really becomes your life.”
Daniel Barenboim, Parallels and Paradoxes: Explorations in Music and Society
Every time I clip into my pedals and set off on my bike, I am acutely aware of the danger involved in what I am doing. Despite the fact that I pay close attention to my surroundings while I’m in the saddle, it only takes one person juggling their cell phone and Starbucks latte in their SUV to make a mistake that could bear serious consequences for me. Screaming down the side of a mountain at 40+mph, one twitch, a little bit of gravel in the wrong place, some uneven pavement, it all has the power to end more than just the race or the day’s training. But here’s the thing: I am in control of riding my bike. It is a choice that I make on a daily basis. I choose to ride.
Yet some things are completely beyond our control. I think immediately of my colleague and predecessor at the University of Arizona, Kelland Thomas. In the late 1990s, Kelland emerged as a major force in the saxophone world. And when at 24 years of age he landed a teaching position at the U of A, it seemed a foregone conclusion that he would ascend to the greatest heights of our discipline, both as an artist and a teacher. However, in 1999, Kelland began to notice that he was having trouble playing like he used to. He couldn’t hold a note for very long without it starting to quiver. He later learned that he had developed focal dystonia, a condition in which involuntary muscle spasms lead to the inability to carry out a movement pertaining to a specific task–in this case, playing the saxophone. Sadly, Kelland’s illness derailed what was certain to be a brilliant career.
About a month ago, I, along with hundreds of other saxophonists, received an email from Michael Brecker’s wife pleading for someone that might be able to help her husband–one of the most innovative, influential, and most emulated saxophonists on the face of the earth–who was battling a very serious life-threatening illness. To be honest, I didn’t think much of this email at the time. I wrote it off as another scam in which someone was trying to take advantage of innocent people by using a celebrity as bait. What I didn’t know until today, was that Michael Brecker’s wife really did write that email. She must have spent an incredible amount of time compiling all those saxophonists’ email addresses with the hope that maybe one of them just might possibly be the one who could save Michael’s life.
I knew that the email was not a hoax today when Michael Brecker’s condition, in all its dire seriousness, was reported in The New York Times. The article’s title–”His Saxophone Is Silent, His Life Is in the Balance”–frightened me when I read it. Brecker, who is 56 years old, is suffering from myelodysplastic syndrome, a form of cancer which prevents bone marrow from producing ample healthy blood cells. His only hope for survival rests on a blood stem cell and bone marrow transplant, a dangerous procedure that is only possible if a stem cell donor with a close enough genetic match to his tissue type is identified. So far, no satisfactory donors have emerged.
How could this happen? Did Kelland Thomas do anything to deserve having a promising career as a concert saxophonist cut incredibly short? Did Michael Brecker do anything to deserve being torn away from his instrument–his passion, his voice, his identity–by an illness that threatens his life? The answer is no, they didn’t. And neither of them had any say, any choice, in the matter whatsoever. It is a poignant reminder of life’s fragility.
Yes. I saw it last Thursday when I ventured out to Joe’s Pub in the East Village to catch the pianist Christopher O’Riley playing Radiohead. I have to confess with slight embarrassment that I am completely unfamiliar with Radiohead’s music, but know they’re popular among many classical musicians. At any rate, I was a bit skeptical about the concert from the beginning. Rock music transcribed for piano? (Well, Matt Haimovitz made a version of Jimi Hendrix’s rendering of the “Star Spangled Banner,” so maybe it’ll work.) As I sat and waited for the show to start, I began wondering why people were here. Were they Radiohead fans? Christopher O’Riley fans? Or classical music fans interested in how a fellow artist is reaching out to new audiences? I belonged to the latter category, while the rest of the crowd seemed to be in the first.
When O’Riley began his set–the second of two for the night–I retained my initial skepticism. After the third tune he began to talk to the audience about the music, about transcribing it for the piano, about esoteric Radiohead knowledge (he asked for hands in the crowd for who was the biggest Radiohead nerd, which O’Riley himself ended up being proudly), and his love for the music. O’Riley simply loves Radiohead. So much so that he transcribes all their music for piano. And his love for the music comes out in his playing of it. The next few tunes, actually, the rest of the set, sounded a lot different to me than the first few tunes. Maybe he wasn’t warmed up. Or maybe I began to understand what he was doing. My friend Evan told me that timbre is a big part of Radiohead’s music and that he was curious about how this would translate to the piano. There’s color in O’Riley’s playing. I didn’t once miss the drums on any tune (well, since I didn’t know them, how could I miss them?). There were moments when I was completely transfixed by the music and by O’Riley’s delivery of it.
I think I was a bit cold to O’Riley’s idea at first because I had already made some assumptions before the show. O’Riley is a concert pianist so he’d probably make the arrangements piano-y, like with lots of arpeggiations, virtuosic flourishes, and so on, right? Wrong. There’s no fancy piano stuff in these arrangements–just the music. And honestly, I was relieved when I realized that this wasn’t going to be a show-off-my-piano-chops kind of event. The truth is that this kind of playing requires its own kind of virtuosity and intamacy with the music that not every artist could pull off. (Kind of like a classical musician who thinks jazz is easy trying to swing.) But Christopher O’Riley pullls it off convincingly.
While you won’t catch me playing the complete The Clash at CBGB anytime soon, I think O’Riley is on to something in terms of bringing his art to a larger audience in a pretty cool venue. Gone were the traditional concert conventions and I think people might have been a little happier because of it. In this setting, people were free to chat if they felt like it, sneeze and not be glared at, eat tiramisu out of a martini glass, and go to the bathroom in the middle of a piece. That’s cool and this kind of looseness in no way implies that the artist on stage is compromising his artistic integrity. I don’t know if a crowd like this would be hip to a Milton Babbitt, Charles Wuorinen, or Iannis Xenakis joint, but I wouldn’t put it past them. It could work. I can think of one or two ways. (Coming soon . . . Hybrid Groove Project.)
A few days ago Scott Spiegelberg had an interesting post on the use of Inderal, or beta-blockers, by musicians. For those not familiar with the drug, Inderal blocks the action of adrenaline and other substances, effecively muting the sympathetic nervous system, which produces fear or anxiety. Some musicians use the drug to overcome stage fright or performance anxiety. The New York Times had an article about the topic not too long ago. Even some of the greatest players the world has known–Pablo Casals, for example–suffered debilitating bouts of performance anxiety–something that’s hard to believe when you hear artists like that perform either live or on recording.
I first met people who used Inderal when I played with a group in Washington, D.C. from 1999-2002. Musicians in this group used the drug for various reasons–one player used it when he played a solo in front of the ensemble; another used it when taking auditions; and another used it when he had a small solo part in the context of a large ensemble work. Of the three musicians, I could understand why the first two might feel the “need” to use it–maybe they always get extremely nervous, to the point of almost being incapacitated, when they are put in high pressure situations–but I have a really hard time justifying why the third musician would use the drug. It seems to me that musicians need to learn how to cope with a certain amount of pressure. Personally, I think that the last musician mentioned probably became “addicted” to the feeling (or no feeling) he experiences and gradually became unable to trust his own musical instincts. If it gets to that point, I think you’re using it for the wrong reasons.
I don’t use Inderal and the thought of using it never crossed my mind. Part of what I love about performing is the rush that I experience before, during, and after a performance. I live for that adrenaline rush. I feed off of it as a player. It gives me an edge and intensity that I experience nowhere else in my life. Why on earth would I want to quell that intensity? I’ve heard some people call Inderal, “End-it-all” for that very reason.
In what might be famous last words, I said “not all jazz saxophonists can play classical.” Well, some of them can. And I had the great fortune to be in the room with such an artist yesterday–the saxophonist Tim Ries. Tim’s done it all–jazz gigs, weddings, big band, studied classical saxophone with Donald Sinta (which is different than taking a couple of lessons with a famous classical saxophonist before recording an album of classical music), Broadway shows, played the soprano saxophone chair in the PRISM Saxophone Quartet for ten years, and toured around the world with the Rolling Stones for fifteen months, among other things. During his masterclass, he played two tunes, including a Bach flute piece with piano accompaniment. He played it on soprano saxophone, in a Baroque style (whatever that is), and improvised over the “changes” in a Baroque style (i.e. no swung eigth-notes). It was convincing, and true, and beautiful. The timbre was right. The intonation was near flawless. And as he played I thought, “I bet J. S. Bach would really be digging his stuff if he were here right now.” The fact that Tim’s primarily a jazz artist didn’t matter at all. He’s simply an extraordinary musician.
For some, being dubbed a crossover artist might carry just as much baggage as being branded a sellout. And whether she likes it or not, British harpist Catrin Finch bears that burden. How could she not be considered a crossover artist after performing on television with Bryn Terfel and recording arrangements of pop tunes for Sony? But unlike other artists who’ve done similar things, Ms. Finch can still win praise from critics and other harpists (at least that’s what I gather after reading Anne Midgette’s review of her YCA debut concert at Weill Recital Hall).
Crossing over isn’t that uncommon–Yo-Yo Ma has several such albums; the double-bassist Edgar Meyer has a new CD with Bela Fleck; the flutist James Galway plays the penny-whistle; the pianist Jean-Yves Thibaudet has an Ellington album as well as a CD of tunes by jazz pianist Bill Evans; and the soprano Dawn Upshaw routinely sings songs that aren’t in German or French or Italian.
So why do I bring this up? Reading Helen Radice’s comments about Ms. Finch–she acknowledges both the respect and jealousy that harpists feel towards her–got me thinking about the issue on my own instrument. The saxophone is a versatile instrument and is comfortable in many different musical settings. It’s not uncommon to find a saxophonist who plays concert music (yes, there are people that do that sort of thing) as well as jazz or experimental improvisation or salsa, and so on. Well, there is a kind of crossover that happens sometimes in the saxophone world that really ruffles some feathers–the jazz artist who gets a big gig playing a standard saxophone concerto with a world famous orchestra. If you haven’t guessed yet, I’m talking about the saxophonist that saxophonists love to hate (no, not Kenny G): Branford Marsalis.
Last December Branford played Glazounov’s saxophone concerto with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra conducted by Andrey Boreyko. Branford’s no stranger to the concert saxophone world, having cut two CDs of classical music–Romances, a potpourri of short works; and most recently Creation, which includes Milhaud’s Scaramouche and La Creation du monde, as well as Jacques Ibert’s Concertino da Camera, all recorded with the Orpheus Chamber Ensemble as his back-up band. To some, this was an outrage–”Hey! That’s our music!”–while others embraced him as a player who was helping the concert saxophone’s cause by bringing repertoire to a wider audience, even if he is a jazz artist. The discussion over at the North American Saxophone Alliance (yes, go ahead and make your jokes, it’s NASA), got pretty passionate over the issue.
So what’s the big deal? Contrary to popular belief not all saxophonists play jazz. There’s a sizeable portion of the saxophone community that plays concert music–and only concert music. As a result, some folks get a bit territorial when an “outsider” plays on their turf. It’s understandable. A jazz saxophonist would probably snicker if a concert saxophonist (not one who also plays jazz) booked a gig at the Blue Note and attempted to play changes. But concert saxophonists–some of them–weren’t snickering at Branford on stage with the CSO, they were fuming.
Where do I come down w/r/t this issue? Well, I see it from both angles. The CSO wants to sell tickets and Branford is a big-name saxophonist. (The question would be, why would they program the Glazounov concerto anyway?) Yet Branford brings a different set of values to saxophone tone, technique, and interpretation than most concert saxophonists. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. However, at this point in the instrument’s history, I believe that concert saxophone playing stands as a viable–albeit, less lucrative or recognized–mode of music making vis-a-vis jazz.
Catrin Finch can cross over because she’s able to cross back over and not lose any of her musical intergrity in the process. And her crossover stuff displays the same stunning playing that she brings to the concert hall. Ok, so what do I think? Here it is: Not all classical saxophonists can play jazz. And not all jazz saxophonists can play classical.
Great article in today’s New York Times. An interview by Daniel Wakin with James Levine, John Harbison, and Charles Wuorinen. It’s a polite conversation despite Wakin’s attempt to provoke an argument between Harbison and Wuorinen over the latter’s statement in 1979 that tonality has been replaced by the 12-tone system and that no serious composer would write in the tonal idiom. (Alex Ross has more on that exchange.)
In an article filled with lots of great opinions and ideas, James Levine has one of the best:
The best I can do for an audience is give them what I’m sincerely passionate about. If I try to give them something I think they want that I don’t want, we just have a sterile result.
Wiser words could not have been spoken. I firmly believe that you can "sell" any kind of music to any kind of audience. That doesn’t necessarily mean they’re going to like it, but they’ll be able to tell that you certainly do and that means something. It might even effect their perception of the work. One of the nicest comments I’ve received about a performance was from the sometimes controversial David Salvage, who in his review of my New York recital said, "to find a performer who gives both Glass and Wuorinen everything he’s got, is just sensational." David can be a hard man to please and I’d like to think that my passion for those works helped him enjoy them both–even if he might have been inclined to enjoy one less than the other.
The interview gives you a pretty clear sense of each man’s personality and one thing is clear–Mr. Harbison sees the world through rose-colored glasses:
We both went through times where we might have come into a big orchestra, and there’d be quite a chill blowing through the room. Going to any orchestra now, you’re not going to be greeted by that kind of thing.
I heard two concerts last week–one by the clarinetist Karl Leister and another by Sir James Galway, the consumate entertainer. Two legendary player and two very different concerts. Mr. Leister, the former principal clarinetist of the Berlin Philharmonic, played an exquisite recital that included Brahms’ F minor Sonata, op. 120, no. 1. His tone is pure and stays consistent throughout the entire range of the clarinet. And his intonation was immaculate. These two factors helped me overlook his somewhat conservative music making.
In stark contrast, Sir James was sheer flamboyance. He played a concert of French music to a sold-out Hill Auditorium. Some of my flute friends write off Sir James for one thing or another about his playing, but I went into the concert with an open mind, wanting simply to be moved by a consumate artist. Unfortunately, there was nothing special about the concert, including the music–two Paris Conservatory concours pieces on the same program? In addition, Sir James played severely sharp through the entire concert despite tuning before each work. He sures knows how to work a crowd though.
We were running through the program up to an hour and a half before the doors were to open, when I placed my violin on a stool and fumbled around to take off my jacket, too frenzied to remember that my clip-on mic was still attached to the violin. The mic was also accidentally hooked onto a button of my jacket, and as I swung around to throw my jacket down, my violin came crashing to the floor, face down, along with it. Nadia made the most horrific sounding, “Liiiiiisssssaaaa!†roar that still haunts me whenever she says my name. The entire fingerboard popped out of the violin and slid across the floor. As I ran in circles screaming for Krazy glue, Nico calmly dialed the first number that appeared under ‘violin repair’ in the directory and sent me out in a panic to find another instrument. The beautiful people from Claire Givens Violin Shop had two violins waiting for me to choose from, and I made it back to the hall right in time for the show. My violin was thankfully pieced together for the following concert only a week later. 
Every time I clip into my pedals and set off on my bike, I am acutely aware of the danger involved in what I am doing. Despite the fact that I pay close attention to my surroundings while I’m in the saddle, it only takes one person juggling their cell phone and Starbucks latte in their SUV to make a mistake that could bear serious consequences for me. Screaming down the side of a mountain at 40+mph, one twitch, a little bit of gravel in the wrong place, some uneven pavement, it all has the power to end more than just the race or the day’s training. But here’s the thing: I am in control of riding my bike. It is a choice that I make on a daily basis. I choose to ride. 
