Archives for November 2010

Speaking of brilliant stage performers who aren’t spring chickens anymore and yet hardly ready to screw the lids on their pots of greasepaint — as I recently did on this blog of Chita Rivera — Placido Domingo, who will shortly turn 70, shows very few signs of letting up.

As the title character in Franco Alfano’s Cyrano de Bergerac, which is currently being produced at the San Francisco Opera, the great Spanish singer holds the audience in thrall. His voice is full fills the sizable War Memorial auditorium effortlessly. He is as comfortable bellowing war cries at the bottom of his register as he is hitting the high notes while singing about romance. Even under the weight of his floppy, feathered hat and prosthetic nose, Domingo manages to exude a virile presence. At 69, he is equally capable of embodying youth in the throes of ecstasy, as he is a sick, old man lamenting lost love at the end of the story.

Domingo doesn’t move around a great deal on stage. During the sword fights, other people move around him but he stays fairly still. This conceit works quite well from the point of you of conveying a sense of the character’s effortless power over his enemies. But it also gives the game away slightly: Domingo has a great deal of energy. But he’s perhaps not going to dart around the stage with a sword as much today as he might have done in years past.

If only the opera itself were more worthy of its star. There’s a reason why Alfano’s Cyrano isn’t performed very often: Musically, it’s fairly inert, with few remarkable instrumental passages and no memorable arias. It takes a performer of the caliber and reputation of Domingo to bring it to the stage and keep us glued to our seats.

On another completely unrelated note: The School of the Arts in San Francisco, a fabulous and terribly under-funded public school which produces many fine young performers, is planning to undertake a tour with its choral ensemble to Chicago in 2011. The choir will be participating in master classes with renowned choral conductors and professional singers as well as presenting several free public concert collaborations with celebrated Chicago choirs. To raise the $75,000 necessary to send the students to the mid-west, SOTA is undertaking a big fundraising campaign. The school is selling CDs and greetings cards online. To find out how to donate to a worthy cause, please click here. “It’s a fantastic educational opportunity to build our repertoire and grow as artists,” says the head of SOTA’s choral program, Todd Wedge, about the upcoming tour. “Please help us realize our dreams.”

Journalists love interviewing people who don’t toe the party line, but give an opposing view on a subject. A detractor’s opinions provide that all-important bit of tension in a story that makes it more fully rounded and readable. This opposing viewpoint is particularly important (but hard to come by) in arts journalism, where most interviewees — not to mention the reporters themselves — tend to spend their time talking about how great an artist’s work is and how excited they are about it. This is why so much arts journalism is bland and expendable.

But what happens when you’re lucky enough to stumble on a person willing to state an unorthodox viewpoint on a subject but that person ends up making points that seem worthless, petty and ultimately unusable? Disappointment prevails.

This is the feeling I got yesterday while collecting insights on the work of a famous artist whom I am writing about this week for the New York Times. In preparation for the story, I talked to a number of people yesterday on the phone ranging from one of the artist’s project managers to curators at local museums who have worked with the artist on commissions in recent years.

With the exception of the detractor in question, everyone I have spoken with so far provided at least a few interesting insights.

Sadly, the one commentator who has an opposing view on the artist’s output said very little that is usable. A reputed expert in the particular field of art in which the subject of my article operates, the interviewee launched into a negative tirade about the artist’s work, but was completely unable to substantiate her feelings from an aesthetic standpoint. All I could glean from talking to her was that she objects to the artist on account of his fame and ability to command large fees for major commissions. She thinks that the money and commissions should be spread around and not automatically given to this particular artist.

Duh! Frankly, I would expect an expert of her caliber to provide me with insights that go beyond the blindingly obvious. That a few famous artists swallow up the lion’s share of the limelight and the corresponding accolades and monetary gains isn’t remotely interesting grounds upon which to base a critique of their work.

Oh well. On this occasion, I’ll be hard-pressed to use this detractor’s comments in my story.

The newly-reopened Venetian Room at the Fairmont Hotel was completely packed for Friday evening’s one-night-only performance by Broadway icon Chita Rivera. Bay Area Cabaret, the organization under whose umbrella the concert was taking place, was forced to turn people away.

And understandably so: The triple-threat stage diva displayed heart-palpitating emotional range in a show whose musical offerings ranged from songs from Westside Story to Bye Bye Birdie to the Kiss of the Spider Woman. Rivera moved like someone a fraction of her age. And her voice, if not quite as melodious as it once was, delivered the messages of the songs with a throaty and rich lyricism that made them even more meaningful than they might have otherwise been.

If I have even a fraction of the energy and joie de vivre that this consummate performer possesses at the age of 77 when I’m approaching her years, I’ll count myself exceedingly lucky.

It’s always exciting when a new cultural space opens up in a city, especially in tough economic times.

Holly’s, a new comedy club located in the same building that houses the multiplex movie theatre at 1000 Van Ness Avenue, launched last night with a lineup of comedians that included the San Francisco stalwart Michael Capozzola (who served as MC for the evening), a British ex-pat by the name of George Corrigan and headliner David Crowe (pictured) who hails from Seattle.

The space itself, which is a good, intimate size for comedy but lacks any individualizing details and feels a little bland with its non-descript cafeteria-style formica-topped rectangular tables and chairs, needs to be full of people to make it glow. The atmosphere in the room last night was lively and warm by the time the show started.

What I tasted of the menu, which offers shrimp cocktails, turkey and beef sliders, grilled cheese sandwiches, tomato soup, fish & chips and other simple comfort foods, was delicious, despite the to-be-expected sluggish and erratic opening-night service standards. (I’m sure Holly’s will have no trouble ironing out this kink in time.)

I enjoyed parts of the show itself immensely: David Crowe is a comedian of quirky intelligence: His first appearance on stage came before Corrigan’s warm-up act as a “visiting” comedian and last-minute addition to the program named Lloyd Althauser. Lloyd, an efete and nerdy coin collector from the South, turned out to be an alter ego of David Crowe and a very funny one at that. The comedian’s characterization of the coin collector remains a highlight of the evening for me. I also loved the freewheeling nature of his humor during the main set. The comedian found refreshing ways to approach very familiar subjects such as pregnancy and online dating.

I was much less impressed with Corrigan, whose comedy revolved almost entirely around tired jokes about being a British person in America and the Anglo-American divide in general. And Capozzola, a comedian who is usually intelligent and daring, wasn’t very much of either last night. Perhaps he doesn’t enjoy playing the MC for these types of occasions.

If I have any criticism of Holly’s programming, it’s that there is not a single female comedian on the lineup between now and the end of the year. I hope that the club will rectify this issue in 2011.

P.S. Holly’s has a heartwarming story behind it which I’d like to relay by way of postscript: Holly Horn, the namesake of the club and a former salesperson at the luxury car dealership across the street from the new venue on Van Ness Avenue, had a long-time dream of opening a nightspot for comedians. Her boss, a 91-year-old luxury car salesman by the name of Kjell Qvale, was so impressed with Holly, whom he met in 1997 when she came to work for his company, that he decided to open a club with her. Qvale, who was holding court at a ringside table last night and even got up to do a sweet little standup routine himself, became the owner of Holly’s and Holly, the club’s proprietor. The rest, as they say, is history. Let’s hope that the club has a long a distinguished future.

I hate parades. Always have. I’ve avoided the Notting Hill Carnival back home in England and have been to Gay Pride, though of all the street parties in town, I imagine this must be the most culturally captivating and socially relevant. And I’d rather attend an insurance seminar than get behind Macy’s at Thanksgiving.

My bah-humbug aversion came to the fore yesterday when I was forced to battle the lunchtime baseball crowds at Civic Center on my way to teach a class in Berkeley. The train system (BART) was a mess. I ended up grabbing light rail (MUNI) to the Embarcadero and then hopping on BART across the water from there. Only too happy to escape to the sanity of the East Bay.

I am excited that the SF Giants won the world series. It was great to see so much euphoria in the city, especially since the elections had produced such lackluster results.

Yet the marauding, drunken crowds with their drunken shouts of “Go Giants!” and “Fock Yeah!” rang dull to my ears. The celebration spilled into trouble at various points with stories of people being beaten up and store windows smashed.

I don’t mean to be a killjoy, but all those people dressed in orange — the smell if not the full-on color of danger — make me feel nervous. There must be better ways to show civic pride than this.

Is it a good thing or a bad thing that normal concert etiquette goes out of the window for lunchtime and commuter hour concerts?

I kind of think it’s a shame that the format allows people to wander in and out at will and read a book or take care of some work while having the live music on as “background” to their activities.

On the other hand, there’s something very special about being able to come in off the street for an hour and forget the crazy world outside while immersing yourself in gorgeous live music in a casual setting.

Though some people around me were only half paying attention to the music (they appeared to be working) I spent a wonderful 45 minutes or so in the company of the Cypress String Quartet yesterday as the group played at Old St Mary’s Cathedral in downtown San Francisco as part of the church’s “Noontime Concert” series.

But I broke etiquette rules in that I was very late in getting to the venue.

The roomy church was pretty full of people. The part of the program which I managed to catch, Stravinsky’s spiky Concertino and Elena Ruehr’s playful and kinetic String Quartet No. 3 (2001), a new discovery for me, lifted my heart. The Cypress Quartet played elegantly and with a pristine sense of ensemble. The articulation in the Ruehr was especially delicate and precise. The players seemed very serious though. Their mood seemed not to go with the laid-back atmosphere in the church.

As I slipped my suggested donation of $5 into a box on my way out, I made myself promise to seek out more of these lunchtime events. I’m sure they’re happening all over the city. I just don’t get away from my desk enough in the middle of the day.

And as for the debate about whether people should treat such events with the same reverence as they do evening concerts or eat their sandwiches throughout, I think there’s a case to be made on both fronts. By their very nature, these concerts are meant to be less formal. But there are limits. Audiences should at least have respect for the performers. Cell phone conversations should be banned. And in cases where tickets are not sold, everyone in the room should feel obliged to leave a donation.

It’s been hard to avoid baseball in San Francisco lately. Last night in particular was a symphony of blaring car horns and shrieking, gimme-five-slapping pedestrians as citizens made their excitement about the home team’s victory over the Texas Rangers strongly felt.

One of the things that’s kept me in a state of semi-attention in recent weeks has been the mid-game singing of “God Bless America.” Some of the performances have been tuneful (such as the wife of a soldier who sang the song last night in Dallas with soulful tones). Others have had the opposite effect (the actress Martha Plimpton’s rendition lacked basic intonation accuracy a few days ago.)

But good or bad, all the versions I have heard this year have one detail in common: An obsession with being melismatic.

The florid embellishments of R&B divas have a lot of show-off appeal and they help to spin out lines and make them sound fuller and more wave-like. But they sound horrible when they’re not done properly. And even if such ornamentation is handled skillfully, it’s kind of boring to hear this approach used constantly in all of the games.

There is more than one way to approach a patriotic song. Sounding like Whitney Houston isn’t a prerequisite for putting “God Bless America” across in a sports stadium. Next world series, should I choose to pay attention, I’d like to hear singers give the song a different spin. They might consider taking out all the curlicues and simply sing it straight like a shaker hymn or shape note tune. This might not help the teams to hit more home runes, but it’ll certainly make the song stand out.

There are few better ways to spend Halloween, culturally-speaking, than exploring ruins. But to get the most out of the experience, you ideally need to visit ruins that aren’t really designated as such. Because to feel a proper chill down your spine, it’s better to be alone than surrounded by hundreds of other thrill-seekers. 

A wander around the ghostly remains of Ponderosa Ranch above Incline Village near Lake Tahoe, Nevada, yesterday afternoon proved to be the perfect Halloween experience, particularly because it’s a forbidden one: The place, which was once a bustling tourist attraction, has been bereft of activity since it closed down in 2004.

Between 1967 and 2004, Ponderosa Ranch was a theme park based on the 1960s television western Bonanza. It was the home of the affluent Cartwright family in the series. Portions of the last five seasons of the TV series and three TV movies were filmed at the location.

Today, the shuttered theme park isn’t the sort of place that welcomes snoopers. Forbidding chain-link fences and signs at the entrance just off the freeway keep curious passersby out. But if you hike a trail around the back of the site up the mountainside, you can sneak in another way easily enough.

In the late October sunlight, Ponderosa Ranch was completely still and ever so slightly spooky. The skeletal forms of rusty old farm equipment resembled the remains of dinosaurs. Stacked picnic tables and benches appeared to be coffins in the lengthening afternoon shadows. Exploring the dusty barns and unswept trailers revealed a wealth of dormant treasures such as old wooden signs advertising horse rides and $2 cowboy breakfasts, defunct movie cameras and lights, heavy wooden wagon wheels and creaking ferris wheel horses and camels, their once-brightly painted coats peeling off.

I kept thinking that we’d come across a corpse amidst all that debris and quietude. Thankfully we didn’t. All in all, the clandestine visit still made for the ultimate off-the-beaten-track Halloween scare.