I Don’t Have to Do That

AS EACH FLEETING WEEK swipes another physical ability and leaves a fresh pain in its wake, I’m comforted by the mantra I summon: I don’t have to do that. It’s not belligerent. It’s a gentle reminder, obedience to which keeps me free of ache and frustration.

For example. I’m six feet four inches tall, a height offset, particularly when viewed from a distance, by the bulges I wear in a horizontal direction. And I probably would measure up now as an inch or two shorter, thanks to spinal collapse and my general crouch, but I haven’t measured my height in years. I don’t have to do that.

That height, combined with what I assume was a pleasantly accessible mien, often inspired shorter fellow-shoppers to ask me to reach items down from high shelves. I happily obliged. Now my shoulders are shot – I blew out both rotator cuffs by hammering a stage platform into being – and I can barely reach to the height of my head. Should someone ask that favor now – well, you know where I’m going. Of course, they don’t ask, because that accessible mien has also gone away.

Which means I’m merely a grumpy old man – I’m 68 as I write this – who becomes one of many trudging a grocery cart through a checkout line reminiscent of Cold War-era photos of GUM store queues. This makes me a target for the complainers which, despite my infirmities, I am not. “How long are they gonna make us wait here?” might go the opener, or “Can you believe that parking lot?” (Are we questioning its existence?) or “Whoever heard of paying five bucks for a carton of eggs?” My tactic is to first pretend I’ve been startled out of a reverie and ask the questioner to repeat the query. Then I shrug – a shrug can be a focus-grabbing gesture – and respond, respectively, “I’m in no hurry,” “It’s a beautiful thing,” and “I wouldn’t know. I have hens.”

Sonny Days

IN THE END, it comes down to your Moldy Fig quotient. If, like me, you rooted yourself in a jazz era that barely stretched into the Second World War, making friends with bebop has been too much of a challenge to pursue. Sure, I’ve been tempted by Bird and Diz, but never enough for a lasting commitment. At least at first. My horizons eventually broadened thanks to the same vehicle that got me interested in non-mainstream music in the first place: friends who insisted I listen to something that was new to me.

I wish I’d had this Sonny Clark set back then. Mosaic Records has just released The Complete Sonny Clark Blue Note Sessions, which captures the recordings made under the pianist’s name between 1957 and 1961, resulting in nine LP releases. Clark is remembered as an inventive exponent of the “hard bop” movement, a label I find too ill-defined—but there’s a lot of hard-driving, angular music in these grooves.

And then there’s something else, to which I now wish to point you. Acquire this set (and do so soon, because you know how quickly these limited-edition Mosaic sets tend to sell out) and head to Disc Five. That’s the “Singles Session,” recorded November 15, 1958, with bassist Jymie Merritt and drummer Wes Landers. The idea was to create recordings for jukebox play. From the first notes of Don Redman’s “Gee Baby, Ain’t I Good to You,” we’re on very accessible ground. Clark had a history of solo-piano work, and it shows. It’ll lure you on in, your fig condition notwithstanding.

Trumping the Tramp

HE WAS FAR FROM A SAINT. We want to forgive him because he was funny as hell, a process that grows less and less difficult as the misbehaviors of others in the public eye grow (or are revealed to be) more heinous. Charlie Chaplin’s biggest sin was that he liked women, liked them young, and liked them to satisfy a prodigious sexual appetite. Chaplin’s biggest crime was his outspoken political stance, which was misinterpreted vigorously enough to win him a fat FBI file and eventual banishment from the U.S.

Scott Eyman’s meticulous study places the comedian’s film career against a rising tide of manufactured disapproval, culminating in the horrific kangaroo trials to which Chaplin was subjected and deftly (but not at all overtly) paralleling them to the kind of ideological nonsense we’re sprayed with in the age of MAGA. You think Trump is a dangerous idiot? Wait’ll you get to know J. Edgar Hoover.

Chaplin’s early years are sketched with sympathetic precision, covering the important points of his career and examining a fraught relationship with his show-biz parents: a father, famed for his music-hall turns, who was mostly absent and soon dead, and a soubrette mother who lost her mind. Although Eyman doesn’t indulge in too much psychological speculation, he sees this a stage-setting the relationships Chaplin eventually with the friends, co-workers, and, especially, women in his life.

He started as a boy performer in England, eventually landing a berth in the Fred Karno troupe, which toured knockabout sketches throughout the U.K. and, ultimately, across the U.S. In 1914, when Charlie was 24, he was invited to make films for Mack Sennett. In breathtakingly short order he created the character of the Tramp and placed him 36 one-reelers, all in the space of a year. Skyrocketing popularity led him to set his own terms for his subsequent 25 films, now two-reelers, that he wrote and directed for two different companies through the end of 1917.

Tooning In

THERE HAS BECOME A TRADITION for symphony orchestras to devote an evening to serving as accompaniment to a feature-length movie. In nearby Saratoga Springs this summer, the Philadelphia Orchestra will be pandering to the masses by playing to a Harry Potter movie. Silent movies invite accompaniment even more, typically with a single performer at the keyboard.

Turns out there’s a middle ground, a place where six virtuoso musicians serve as the soundtrack to a eclectic selection of cartoons. The music is high-spirited, in the tradition of the John Kirby Sextet and the Raymond Scott Quintet (also a sextet, but don’t worry about it. Scott didn’t).

The Queen's Cartoonists

The Queen’s Cartoonists derive their royal appellation not from the late sovereign but from their New York City borough of residency. They are impossibly talented. Joel Pierson is the pianist and leader, providing commentary throughout the show. Greg Hammontree generally plays trumpet, but picks up other instruments or percussion items as needed. Mark Phillips plays clarinet and/or (curved) soprano sax, while Drew Pitcher is usually playing tenor sax but switches out to any number of other instruments and noisemakers. Bass-player Sam Minaie plucks, snaps, and slaps his instrument like a madman, although he can turn around a bow a charming melody as well. And Rossen Nedelchev, behind the drum kit, not only provides a solid drive for this ensemble but also manages the video portions of the program.

The Hour Has Come

THE WORLD THAT JAMES JOYCE presents in his writing is unique. It’s Dublin, of course, portrayed in prose and verse by a master of language. But it’s a city he knew in staggering detail, peopled by those he also knew well, given life in a few deft strokes of his pen. Joyce also loved music. He sometimes seemed as likely to sing as to write, and music threads throughout his writing, with mentions of song after song, popular and obscure.

Richard Wargo, Michael Pavese,
and Dorothy Danner

So it’s no surprise that Joyce’s words lend themselves to music. Better still, the characters he describes think and act with the intimate characteristics of chamber music. Dubliners, a collection of fifteen stories finished in 1905, offers a view of the city through the lives of a number of seemingly unremarkable residents.

Two of them figure in the story “A Painful Case,” which is the subject of a new opera by Richard Wargo. It premiered as part of this summer’s music festival at the Sembrich Museum in Bolton Landing, New York, and it’s so new that only the first act (of two) was presented.

It was envisioned as a one-act but, as Wargo writes in the program notes, he didn’t anticipate “over the course of writing the libretto and developing one evolving relationship between the two characters in this intimate story, that the opera would double in size.”

“Bicycling,” the New Craze

Guest Blogger Dept.: We haven’t heard from Robert Benchley since January, at which time he was addressing a very seasonal topic - a mid-winter sport carnival, to be exact. Wishing to assert himself as a man for all seasons, or at least the current temperate one, he offers this disquisition on bicycling.

                                                                                        

THERE is a new sport this season which bids fair to have great popularity among the younger sets, a sport imported, as are so many of our outdoor games, from England, where it has had a great vogue for several years now. This sport is called “bicycling,” and derives its name from the instrument on which it is practiced—the “bicycle.” You will see that this word is made up of two words: “bi,” meaning “two,” and “cycle,” meaning wheel—“two wheels.” And such indeed it is, a veritable two-wheeled contraption, on which the rider sits and balances himself until he is able, by pushing two pedals arranged for the purpose, to propel the whole thing along the roadway at a great rate. And what a lark it is, too!

Drawing by Gluyas Williams

We show a picture of a bicycle here, and you may figure out for yourself just how it works. You will see that the pedals are so fixed that when one foot is up the other is down, thus giving the feet an equal chance at the rousing exercise and doing away with any chance of the rider’s becoming one-sided, as might well result from a position where one foot was up all the time and one foot down.

You will also observe that the saddle is placed at just the right height from the pedals, so that the rider sits on it easily without having to stretch his legs out beyond their natural length—or, on the other hand, without having to contract them. When experiments were being made on the first bicycle by the inventor, it was thought that it would be necessary for anyone who was going to ride one of the things to stretch his legs out anywhere from one to four feet beyond their natural length in order to reach the pedals. The inventor was very much discouraged when he realized this, “for,” as he said to his partner, “there won’t be enough people in the world who can stretch their legs out from one to four feet to make any decent kind of sale for my machine at all.”

Grin and Berlioz It

DURING A Q&A SESSION at the Bard Music Festival, the question was posed: “Do you ever fall asleep when you’re conducting?” The question was aimed at Leon Botstein, president of Bard College and conductor of the orchestral portions of the festival programs. “Do you ever get bored up there?” This took place during a panel discussion titled “A Revolutionary Life in a Revolutionary Era,” and the subject – the subject of two weekends’ worth of programming, in fact – was Hector Berlioz.

The question was inspired by Berlioz’s “Lélio,” a work for narrator, vocal soloists, chorus, and orchestra, performed at the festival the evening before. It’s a formidable work (not that you expect anything less from this composer) that resists categorization. It is rarely performed, which is a major reason it was part of the festival’s opening concert, paired with Berlioz’s most famous work, the “Symphonie fantastique,”to which it is intended as a sequel.

Dr. Botstein has an impressively elegant way of suffering fools. His reply was measured, with just a whiff of archness. In the days before media saturation, before recordings were available, he explained, concert pieces were constructed to give listeners some musical signposts. And those listeners (I’m not quoting exactly) had actual attention spans. They didn’t have phones in front of their faces. In other words, it’s not the music that’s the problem. It’s the distracted listener.

Yet if ever there was a composer for the distracted listener, it’s Berlioz. Not for him, generally, the intimate gesture. “Lélio” just happens to be one of his least-accessible works. I wasn’t there for that performance, but I spent the entirety of the following day soaking in the variety of events that characterizes each day of this festival.

Metamorphosis on the Lake

CLASSICAL MUSIC, as far as mainstream listeners are concerned, has become remote and intimidating. Probably because it has faded from pop-culture contexts. It used to permeate cartoons (saluted recently by an appearance at Caroga Arts by The Queen’s Cartoonists), not to mention mainstream movies and TV commercials, but my understanding is that such is now rarely the case.

Garrett Hudson, Jason Kutz, and Kara LaMoure

What’s needed is a community-based approach in which the music is performed in a welcoming space with a track record of presenting enjoyable stuff, and this is exactly the forum presented each summer for the past baker’s-dozen years by the Caroga Arts Collective. The group offers an ambitious program that takes place on the grounds of a former amusement park next to a still-popular but somewhat obscure lake in New York’s Fulton County, a damp dot on the map between Utica and Albany. It remains a popular summer resort, so the concerts have a built-in local draw, but the series has gained a reputation that summons an audience from beyond as well.

They take a two-pronged approach to programming, nesting the classical-music concerts amidst a schedule of pop-music events. And the classical music is performed by an ensemble comprising players drawn from throughout the country who participate in a summer-long program of training and performance, players who are immensely skilled when they get there and are no doubt even better when they leave.

Which brings me to the concert I attended on August 2, held in the venerable Sherman’s Park Dance Hall building. It’s a large space with a flexible layout, largely defined by the placement of chairs. The concert was titled “Metamorphosis: Where Nature Meets Music,” and the presence of four large TV screens portended what was to come.

Splendid Vibes

ON THE FIRST TRACK of his first album as a leader, Bobby Hutcherson doesn’t solo until four minutes into the song. It’s “If Ever I Would Leave You,” from the then-recent Broadway show “Camelot,” and we start out with the domineering inventiveness of Joe Henderson on tenor sax. Recorded at the very end of 1963, this album, titled “The Kicker” after a Henderson original, wasn’t released until Mosaic’s Michael Cuscuna oversaw its issue in 1999.

And it seems to be a Henderson showcase throughout, although when Hutcherson brings his vibes to the fore, it’s always arresting. As in a Joe Chambers ballad, “Mirrors,” that puts Hutcherson squarely in the forefront and doesn’t welcome Henderson in until the four-minute mark.

Hutcherson was a performer steeped in the swing-era language of the vibraphone but with the innovations of Milt Jackson intruding to push Hutcherson’s creativity even beyond as he leaped into the world of hard bop. In that regard, he’s well-matched on this recording by pianist Duke Pearson. Listen to the piano on “For Duke P.,” a Hutcherson original, where Pearson tears through the up-tempo piece with the fleetest of fingers. And there are some surprises squirreled away throughout. Hutcherson’s “Step Lightly” finds Pearson slyly quoting “I’m Beginning to See the Light.” Perhaps in retaliation, guitarist Grant Green finds a moment in “Bedouin” to quote, of all things, “And the Angels Sing.”

Even Though Your Heart Is Breaking

Glimmerglass Festival 2024 Dept.: The fourth and final opera of my Glimmerglass season was that perennial, “Pagliacci.” Often paired with “Cavalleria rusticana,” another verismo one-act opera, it was here given a delightfully different performance context, as described below.

                                                                                      

COMEDY AND DEATH GO HAND-IN-HAND. When you fail onstage, you complain that you “died.” And comedy loosens audience emotions, making us more susceptible to the effects of tragedy. I offer the finale of Chaplin’s “City Lights” as proof.

Robert Stahley as Canio.
Photo by Brent DeLanoy/The Glimmerglass Festival

Ruggero Leoncavallo’s 1892 opera “Pagliacci” is the mother ship from which many a “laugh, clown, laugh” story emerged (including Lon Chaney’s 1928 movie “Laugh, Clown, Laugh”). The aria that ends Act One, “Vesti la giubba,” has been a favorite since the dawn of recordings, with artists as diverse as Enrico Caruso, Freddie Mercury, and Spike Jones waxing distinctive versions.

This summer’s Glimmerglass approach deconstructs the piece. First, with the festivities that precede the opera proper. Weather permitting, there’s a performance on lawn. It’s a loose-limbed commedia dell’arte show, reminding us what the onstage “Pagliacci” audience had assembled to see. And would have seen, had jealous passion not intervened. Next, with an eerie approach to the opera’s Prologue, in which Tonio (Troy Cook) wanders through a gloomy warehouse, uncovering the props and set he remembers from an ill-fated performance.

Murder and the Music Hall

Glimmerglass Festival 2024 Dept.: Our third opera this summer was a recent work, “Elizabeth Cree,” commissioned by Opera Philadelphia in 2017 and here making its Glimmerglass debut. My review is below.

                                                                                 

A SERIAL KILLER IS STALKING LONDON. It’s 1880, just a few years before Jack the Ripper cuts his own swath through the city. Dan Leno is a rising star in the music halls, and has been the salvation of young Lambeth Marsh Lizzie, lately escaped from an abusive mother, now a stage star in her own right. How these stories intersect is the marvel at the heart of the Glimmerglass Festival’s brilliant presentation of “Elizabeth Cree,” a recent opera by Kevin Puts and Mark Campbell.

Rear: John Chest, Tara Erraught, and Elizabeth Sutphen.
Front:  Tristan Tournaud, Evan Lazdowski, and Geoffrey
Schmelzer. Photo: Brent DeLanoy/The Glimmerglass Festival

Glimmerglass last presented the work of composer Puts and librettist Campbell in 2018, with their Pulitzer Prize-winning opera “Silent Night,” which you can read about here. Their new piece is every bit as captivating as that one.

Theater, by definition, is an unreliable medium. We’re asked to believe in the memorized words of actors placed in an artificial location presenting some manner of heightened reality. Yet we’ll respond with more emotional intensity than we give to the outside world. Add music and the pipeline to the emotions is even more intense, which is why opera is the most satisfying of the performing arts.

But it’s still unreliable. We don’t usually question that aspect, because it’s part of the pact we make with ourselves before we take our seats. But “Elizabeth Cree” will put paid to that pact.

Landed Gentry, Humble Berths

Glimmerglass Festival 2024 Dept.: Here’s my review of the second of the four productions I’m seeing at the Glimmerglass Festival this summer.

                                                                               

BEFORE SONDHEIM, THERE WAS GILBERT – W.S. Gilbert, that is, he finest English-language lyricist of his era, and a dab hand at concocting the books to go with them. He was, of course, a product of his time, and the libretto he devised for the 1879 “Pirates of Penzance” overflows with the misdirections and other zany plot devices that Gilbert & Sullivan audiences adored.

Elizabeth Sutphen and Christian Mark Gibbs
as Mabel and Frederic.
Photo by Brent DeLanoy

And still adore. Familiar as the operettas may have become, Sullivan’s scores have a freshness that rewards repeated listening. So it’s a treat to see that the Glimmerglass Festival is offering its first G&S production in 20 years, and doing so with appropriate talent and energy. (If you’re interested, here’s my review of that 1994 “Patience.”)

“Things are seldom what they seem,” sings a character in a different G&S, but that observation rings true here, too. The crew of pirates we meet at the top of the show is a bunch of softies. The policemen we meet in the second act aren’t at all courageous, while the virginal maidens who egg them on turn out to be rather bloodthirsty.

Keeping in mind the Victorian-era sensibilities this story played against, there was plenty of room for social satire, in which Gilbert always gloried. Director-choreographer Seán Curran, reviving his 2013 Opera Theatre of St. Louis production, offers a dazzling festival of movement that pauses long enough to let the plot elements go by, but rarely otherwise slackening the pace.

But there is a meditative Act Two duet – “Stay, Fred'ric, stay,” “Ah, leave me not to pine” – between the sweethearts Mabel and Frederic that is the emotional heart of the piece, rendered by Elizabeth Sutphen and Christian Mark Gibbs with tug-at-your-heartstrings intensity.

For the Love of Gods

Glimmerglass Festival 2024 Dept.: We have four productions to consider in the coming days as the Glimmerglass Festival presents its 2024 season. The operas, in the order in which I’ll be seeing and reviewing them, are Cavalli’s “La Calisto,” Gilbert & Sullivan’s “Pirates of Penzance,” Kevin Puts’s “Elizabeth Cree,” and Leoncavallo’s “Pagliacci.”

                                                                                          

WE PREFER to space out our big emotional moments. The frenzy of infatuation, the despair over marital betrayal, the death of a loved one – too many of them in quick succession become a waking nightmare. But what if it’s all happening to someone else? You might be inclined to enjoy the schadenfreude aspect – or, if you’re in the land of Italian opera, gioia per il male altrui. Because that’s what Francesco Cavalli’s “La Calisto” is offering: heightened passions, from unrequited love to jealous despair, from egotistical aggression to that peculiar feeling you get when you realize you weren’t actually planning to lose your virginity but, well, there it went.

Emilie Kealani (Calisto) and Craig Irvin (Jove).
Photo by Sofia Negron

The work premiered in 1651, helping define, a generation after Monteverdi, the recitative-aria form of opera that has persisted ever since. Three love triangles anchor the plot of Giovanni Faustini’s libretto, drawing from Ovid’s “Metamorphosis,” among other sources. And a triangle outlined by color-changing light defines the stage on which this excellent Glimmerglass Festival production plays out.

For a piece like this to be effective, it needs top-notch voices. That’s pretty much par for the course where Glimmerglass is concerned, but Baroque opera also demands an ability to explore the nuances of those vocal demands through varied tone production, ornamentation, and other period techniques. And a commanding presence doesn’t hurt – after all, you’re probably playing a god. Thus it was that Eve Gigliotti, as Juno, dominated the stage, catching her errant spouse in an unfaithful act and punishing the victim. Yet, “Mogli mie sconsolate,” she sings in a virtuoso moment – “My disconsolate women,” noting that even when married, a woman ends up beside a man who’s irritable or exhausted.

No Power, Some Glory

TUESDAY AFTERNOON the sky darkened and the wind picked up, falling right in line with the tornado warning that caused my cellphone to buzz into life. Tornado skies are different from any other, adding a feral green to the shades of grey and black. I’ve seen it a couple of times since relocating to Montgomery County, NY, 34 years ago. The view from my porch looks downhill to the Mohawk River, which is four miles away, and the river invites weather phenomena like fog and rain and, when conditions are right, twisters.

Not long after moving to this area, I drove in the wake of a small tornado (not that size really matters when the winds are that strong), foolishly piloting a VW camper-bus across the river and on into a little town called Sammonsville. I wanted an ice cream, and Sammonsville hosts a 1897-vintage general store that has specialized in home-made ice cream since long before I got here. Which is only to plead my sugar addiction as an excuse for such reckless behavior. I had heard no tornado warning, but there’s no mistaking that sky.

I was still a few miles from the store when the wind grew so malevolent that horizontal rain and blusting leaves and branches blocked my view. I pulled over. Actually, I just stopped. No road-shoulder was visible. The sounds – wind, rain, branches, leaves – were bad enough, but there also seemed to be a pressure differential that caused the walls of my van to vibrate. I was scared.

Recital by the Lake

SOPRANO MARCELLA SEMBRICH, born in Poland in 1858, made her debut in Athens at 19, singing in five demanding operas; the following year she made her Dresden debut in “Lucia di Lammermoor,” which led to a five-year contract at Covent Garden. She debuted in 1883 at the brand-new Metropolitan Opera in New York, where she created roles as the Queen of the Night in “The Magic Flute,” Gilda in “Rigoletto,” Rosina in “Barber of Seville,” and many others. In all, she sang over 450 performances during her eleven seasons at the Met. After she retired in 1917, she created the vocal programs at the Curtis Institute and the Juilliard School, as well as building a vocal studio near her summer home in Bolton Landing. That studio is now the Marcella Sembrich Opera Museum, an elegant tribute to the singer-teacher’s legacy.

Rubén Rengel and Ahmed Alom

Part of its mission is to present music, and this season’s series opened with a recital by violinist Rubén Rengel and pianist Ahmed Alom, performing in what’s essentially a large salon, a perfect venue for this kind of program. As the museum’s artistic director, Richard Wargo, explained, Sembrich knew many contemporaneous composers, among them Liszt, Brahms, and Kreisler, each of whom was represented in the programming.

Beginning with Liszt’s “Paraphrase de concert sur ‘Rigoletto,’” composed in the late 1850s. Opera arias were the pop songs of their day, and this piece followed a popular tradition of incorporating those arias into virtuoso showcases for instrumentalists.

Gone with the Moon

From the Food Vault Dept.: By the time I wrote the review of Luna 61 you see below, that restaurant had only another two years left. Chef-owners Debra and Peter Maisel moved to Burlington, VT, where they opened Revolution Kitchen – their third vegetarian restaurant together – which they ran for nine years before easing into semi-retirement. Where Luna 61 once prevailed in Tivoli, NY, you’ll find an ice-cream shop. Not quite the vegetarian cuisine I seek for nourishment.

                                                                                               

A CROWD FILLED THE SIDEWALK in front of the restaurant, a crowd that spilled into the street and seemed intent on a vintage yellow VW convertible that puttered nearby. It was an odd sight in this sleepy little town at 4:30 on a Saturday afternoon, but revealed itself as we walked closer to be a film crew. The shot was set, following an attractive fair-haired woman who piloted the car from its parking space.

“They’re filming something for German television,” said a woman who stood in front of the restaurant Luna 61. “Doesn’t look like she knows how to drive a stick.”

The VW lurched from its spot, stalled, was re-started and lurched again. I looked at the restaurant hours, posted on the door. “We open in about half an hour,” the woman said. “But you’re welcome to sit out here and have a drink.”

A half-dozen wooden tables sit in front of the restaurant. Although the buildings on this stretch of street are close together, the sense, as we sat, was of pleasant intimacy. Even with all those film-crew people hanging around, conversing in a mix of German and English.

Ulysses: A Glorious Voyage

THE MORE IN TOUCH YOU ARE with your inner monologues, the easier it is to read James Joyce’s “Ulysses.” Easier, but still not easy. An autonomic ease informs those fragmented thoughts and abrupt subject changes, but putting them into written words reveals a terrifying jumble. Song lyrics and other quotations; the distraction of a passerby; guilt, anger, hope, regret – each of us is the sum of a culture absorbed. Make that the culture of Dublin in 1904, add more characters whose heads we inhabit, follow them through that city over the course of a single day. That’s “Ulysses.”

Scott Shepherd and Cast
Photo by Maria Baranova

A high-school teacher advised me simply to launch into the book and not allow myself to be dismayed. A half-century later I took that advice, although I had the massive Cambridge Centenary edition in hand. It reproduces the 1922 text and surrounds it with essays and annotations. I was inspired to take on this task in anticipation of seeing a version of the story on stage. By the time I was in my theater seat, I’d gotten halfway through.

New York-based Elevator Repair Service has won an excellent reputation for adapting classic works of literature for the stage. I saw “Gatz,” their version of “The Great Gatsby,” at EMPAC in Troy, NY, in 2008, two years before its acclaimed debut at New York’s Public Theater. Improbably set in a shabby office building, it opened with Scott Shepherd as a frustrated office worker who finds a paperback copy of “Gatsby” in a desk and begins reading it aloud, thus taking on the character of narrator Nick Carraway and soon drawing his fellow-workers into performing the story. Including every word of the book, “he said”s and “she said”s included.

The Rockwell goes MAD

I DON’T REMEMBER when I discovered MAD, but I know which piece of theirs first shook me out of my suburban complacency. Titled “The National Safety Council's Holiday-Weekend Telethon,” written by Dee Caruso and Bill Levine, drawn by Mort Drucker (one of his earliest pieces), it presented a TV telethon in the Jerry Lewis tradition, although with a Dean Martin caricature instead, and it begged viewers to drive recklessly in order to add fatality numbers to the tote board in order to meet the Safety Council’s quota. The piece ran in the January 1959 issue, when I was not yet three, so I must have discovered it in one of the endless reprints that MAD issued over the years. Laughing at the macabre proved liberating.

Parody Triple Portrait
by Richard Williams

“What, Me Worry? The Art and Humor of MAD Magazine” is an unprecedented exhibition now running (through October 27, 2024) at the Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge, Mass., bringing together original artwork and other related items chronicling the history of our most influential satire magazine.

MAD was created in 1952 when writer-artist Harvey Kurtzman persuaded EC Comics publisher William M. Gaines to launch a humor book – giving Kurtzman a break from the highly popular “Two-Fisted Tales” series he’d been exhausting himself creating. MAD was a four-color comic at first, where talented artists like Wallace Wood, Jack Davis, and, especially, Will Elder were given the liberty to be as crazy as they wished. It worked.

Five rooms at the Rockwell Museum are devoted to the magazine’s artists and pages, which also means that it’s capturing over 60 years of American cultural history. But how odd it is to see those pages – some of which I recognize quite well – enshrined, as it were, as oversized wall displays with careful lighting and dignified info cards. Somebody thinks this is art!

The American Way

DRUM CRASHES OPEN THE PIECE, giving way to the low brass and a rising figure then picked up by the strings. It seems to dissipate in some filigree from the winds, but almost immediately the brass is back with another portentous figure. Orchestral texture is a key to this piece, titled “1920/2019" and written by Joan Tower. She has a long history with the Albany Symphony Orchestra, which means that we know her work through this local connection and welcome each new example of what she’s writing.

The Albany Symphony has been championing music by American composers – and new music in general – for far longer than I’ve been writing about them, which itself takes us back some 40 years. May we therefore conclude that it’s not some kind of gimmick? In fact, it’s what should be the mission of every classical-music performing group. It’s easy, both as listener and performing entity, to get mired in the popular repertory, but the purpose of this kind of music has long been both to entertain and challenge the listener. And this is what the ASO accomplished nicely in the pair of concerts I attended during their annual American Music Festival.

The Albany Symphony Orchestra with
flutist Brandon Patrick George.
Photo by Gary Gold

The full orchestra performed on Saturday, June 8, offering a well-contrasted array of works in the acoustically benevolent EMPAC Concert Hall. Tower explained, in a pre-concert intro, that the title of her work salutes the year in which women got the right to vote and the year the saw the height of the #MeToo movement. “But the title really has nothing to do with the piece,” she concluded in a characteristically humorous way.

Don’t take her joke seriously. There is a vigorous sense of empowerment as the piece builds to its finish. The big moments are gloriously big, the small – as when a solo violin muses over the throb of some winds, or a clarinet is mocked by a trumpet – have a nervous intimacy. But each of these episodes flows into the next with a sense of inevitability, a sense that builds to a satisfying finish.

What Is So Rare?

AN APPOINTMENT BOOK sits open on my desk, its two overview pages for the month of June staring back at me with pencilled appointments filling many of the squares. “Many,” in this case, being a vague term, as vague, in its way, as “most,” but my gut feeling is that the latter term might even more appropriately apply.

I’m pushing 70, “pushing,” in this case, being a vague term that nevertheless feels entirely apt, and because I’m also fat and sedentary, many of those appointment-book squares are filled with medical appointments. There turns out to be a fractal quality about elder health care, as each specialist I consult tends to send me to a sub-specialist to deal with an aspect of my condition I didn’t know was there yet which will demand a blood test and/or MRI and add yet another medication to the daily pile I swallow.

A handful of social events fill other squares; rarely now are there rehearsals and performances, but they do occur and even those can seem burdensome when nestled on those pages.

It’s only the start of June, yet the month already feels oppressive. I’m well familiar with the phenomenon that can make the anticipation of an event more annoying than the event itself – it’s the curse of many a nine-to-fiver – but even with that in mind, I can’t shake this sense of dread. Why?

Let’s try a little exercise. (This is me talking to myself. You don’t actually have to do this.) Imagine that all those appointment squares are blank. Is there a particular event you’d prefer to see listed?