To Their Maker, Impeccably Shaved

From the Music Vault Dept.: I noted last week that I seize upon anniversaries as excuses for these postings, and today is no exception. Twenty-five years ago, my review of a then-new recording of “Sweeney Todd” graced the pages of Metroland Magazine, the Albany-area alternative newsweekly at which I held a far-too-long sinecure. But I got away with writing things I never would have sold as easily anywhere else.

                                                                           

WITH MANY OF THE MAJOR ORCHESTRAS cut loose from their decades-old contracts with recording companies, there’s a scramble to achieve a presence in the CD stores. Self-publishing is an option being mined successfully by a few, chief among them the New York Philharmonic. Their latest release skirts the over-recorded symphonic repertory to present a fresh look at Stephen Sondheim’s almost-operatic masterpiece “Sweeney Todd,” giving a depth and perspective to the piece that wasn’t achieved by the otherwise admirable original cast recording.

It’s a project that might have been perfect had baritone Bryn Terfel not been sidelined from the recording; as it was, George Hearn, in good voice and well-versed in the role, stepped into the title role and did well by the part, although he tends to resort to yelling when the going gets exciting. Although Angela Lansbury left an indelible stamp on the role of Mrs. Lovett, here Patti LuPone does an exquisite job with the bloodthirsty part. 

In fact, it’s a triumph all around, the handpicked cast working together splendidly. Met Opera bass Paul Plishka is a standout as Judge Turpin, but that puts him only slightly ahead of the rest. If you’ve only heard the original cast recording, you’re in for another treat: That set was the victim of the LP’s limits; the two CDs of this set contain practically the whole show, dialogue and incidental music included. Even material that was cut from the original Broadway run.

Fifteen Years

I’M SHOCKED TO REALIZE that I’ve been maintaining this blog for fifteen years (not to the day, but close). Its original purpose was to help me get work, because I allowed me to point editors (or whomever) to stuff I’d written in order to back up my claims of being able to write fairly well.

Although I began ambitiously posting a piece per day, taking Saturdays off, so to speak, by posting photos of mine, that ambition slackened over time. I cut down to two posts per week and now, one. It feels as if I’ve mined everything in my files worth exhuming, although I know that there’s much, much more. Restaurant reviews alone seem endless, although they’re of lessening value as prices rise and eateries close. I dashed off any number of concert and theater advances – pieces to promote an upcoming event – which means that, unless there’s a compelling interview attached, those too have grown obsolete.

Looking over those early postings, which I dread, I see that it took a while to find my footing in this realm. I had thought of concentrating on food, given the thirty years I spent reviewing restaurants and my own phagomaniacal leanings, but I was dismayed to discover a plethora of food bloggers, each mirroring the last, each with a grinning self-portrait and chirrupy bio, each forcing you to slog through a megillah of adjective-laden crooning larded with photos of ingredients, procedures (don’t those sauté pans glisten?), and wondrous finished products before finally dropping you onto the recipe itself. I can’t compete with that level of self-promotion.

The Fable of the Visitor Who Got a Lot for Three Dollars

George Ade Dept.: I’ve heard no reports of an uptick in sales of George Ade’s Fables in Slang despite my promotion of those wonderful works in this column. Of course, you can download an e-book from Gutenberg or get a print-on-demand copy through that online behemoth – but I’m happy to keep supplying you. Newspaperman Ade hit pay dirt when he dreamed up these fables, and once his first collection of them was published, he was able to take a lot of that pay dirt to the bank. llustrations by Clyde J. Newman

                                                                          

THE LEARNED PHRENOLOGIST sat in his Office surrounded by his Whiskers.

Now and then he put a Forefinger to his Brow and glanced at the Mirror to make sure that he still resembled William Cullen Bryant.

Near him, on a Table, was a Pallid Head made of Plaster-of-Paris and stickily ornamented with small Labels. On the wall was a Chart showing that the Orangoutang does not have Daniel Webster's facial angle.

“Is the Graft played out?” asked the Learned Phrenologist, as he waited. “Is Science up against it or What?”

Then he heard the fall of Heavy Feet and resumed his Imitation. The Door opened and there came into the Room a tall, rangy Person with a Head in the shape of a Rocky Ford Cantaloupe.

Aroused from his Meditation, the Learned Phrenologist looked up at the Stranger as through a Glass, darkly, and pointed to a Red Plush Chair.

The Easy Mark collapsed into the Boarding-House Chair and the Man with more Whiskers than Darwin ever saw stood behind Him and ran his Fingers over his Head, Tarantula-Wise.

Moscow on the Mohawk, or Hooked on Russia

From the Food Vault Dept.: This review, which I'd wanted to share much earlier, turned out to be hiding in a computer directory where it shouldn’t have been, another example of glasnost gone wrong. The night of this visit was more memorable than the piece suggests. True, we eschewed dancing to the loud, bad disco music played by two loud instruments and a rhythm box, but the party of twenty that filled up the room became increasingly boisterous, insisting that we join their table (we didn’t) or at least join them in a vodka toast – which we did, but only because they convinced us that their friends in the kitchen were not going to send out our food until we did so. Not surprisingly, the restaurant closed not long after this review appeared, but that closure surely was in the works already.

                                                                                            

LATER, TRYING TO RECONSTRUCT THE EVENING, my wife and I had trouble ascertaining just what it was that pushed it all over the top. The big birthday party, to be sure, and the Russian disco band. The mini-skirted, satin-bloused waitresses added an entertaining touch (and the worry that Schenectady’s fleshaphobic mayor might try to close down this place). Then there was the formidable menu, sporting such unusual items as schti, which our waitress wouldn’t describe because the kitchen was out of it, so why bother?

The current occupant at this address.

Troika – the name refers to the team of three horses that pulls a traditional Russian carriage – occupies a building that went through a few incarnations as Indian restaurants, interrupted by a stint serving Korean food. To put a Russian restaurant there is a delightful idea. The location does seem to be a kiss of death, though.

So my first question would have been about that location. Unfortunately, my follow-up phone calls to manager Ella were unsuccessful. She was too busy with customers to talk one day, which is a good sign; but she couldn’t honor our phone appointment the next day, however, because “she’s having some trouble with the boss,” the phone-answerer whispered, explaining, “I’m just a friend who stopped by to visit today.”

The Old Song and Dance

From the Theater Vault Dept.: Despite my lifelong Lloyd Webber antipathy, I felt inclined to like this show just on the basis of its unusual concept. And I’m a great fan of good dance. But this one turned out to be yet another Lloyd Webber show, and reading my review of it again after all these years (the piece dates back to 1987), I now understand the root of that antipathy. It was a high-school trip to see “Jesus Christ Superstar” on Broadway. I was a senior, and at last had a girlfriend – or so I thought. We sat together on the bus heading into Manhattan, and were adjacent in the theater. But I was by then picking up this-ain’t-gonna-last vibes, and, sure enough, it didn’t. I couldn’t blame it on her – I loved her, with what must have been terrifying first-relationship fervor. I was too self-centered at that point to blame myself, so I had to blame someone. I blamed Lloyd Webber.

                                                                                                 

Melissa Manchester

“SONG AND DANCE,” the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical that began a week’s run at Proctor’s Theatre Tuesday night, presents us with a dilemma that is all too characteristic of the contemporary musical-theater stage: Bimbo comes to the city, is too stupid to maintain a successful social relationship, gets mean, regrets it, and acts stupid again. Curtain.

The two acts are divided according to the title: the first is sung; the second, danced. Emma is a Brit who comes to New York to make a success as a hat designer. But, until she gets her green card, she makes time with a succession of mercurial men, culminating in a short-lived affair with a married man from Westport who wants to leave his wife and kids for her. So she dumps him.

Cooking with the Beekman Boys

From the Library Dept.: Here’s a ten-year-old book review of mine that I never thought then to post on this blog – so here it is, still, I hope, timely, as the recipes and cooking tips in the book described below aren’t likely to go out of date. The piece originally ran on the now-defunct website knowwhereyourfoodcomesfrom.com. 

                                                                                   

IT’S NOT SURPRISING that a cookbook from the Beekman Boys would be a classy, useful tome: everything they present they present with commendable style. The Beekman 1802 Heirloom Cookbook collects over a hundred recipes, nicely described and beautifully photographed (by Paulette Tavormina), arranged by season and encouraging you to make the most of what’s available nearby.

Brent Ridge and Josh Kilmer-Purcell fled (more or less) the wilds of Manhattan to live in the wilds of rural Sharon Springs, NY, on a two-centuries-old farm where they quickly began raising goats and tomatoes, an effort chronicled in a television series that helped establish their renown. Kilmer-Purcell has written best-selling memoirs; husband Ridge is a physician who spent a few years as Vice President for Healthy Living for Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia. It’s no surprise that their Beekman 1802 brand has become synonymous with good taste. And the food products taste good. Quite good.

Can you achieve a similar result with their recipes? The book, co-written with Sandy Gluck (former food editor for Martha Stewart’s Everyday Food magazine), is quartered into seasons, with each season further divided into courses. Spring’s starters, for example, include a dandelion salad and asparagus torte, with a main dish of lamb burgers with cucumber-yogurt sauce. There’s a starter of a cucumber cooler for summer, whose main dishes include stuffed peppers with fresh corn and a grilled summer squash pizza. And jumble berry pie (with blueberries, raspberries, and blackberries) for dessert.

Sitting on the Dock of the Boggs

 From the Recordings Vault Dept.: Every so often, while browsing through my files, I find a piece that I wrote on spec, or possible, as I suspect is the case with this one, for Metroland. That publication liked to stockpile a cluster of CD reviews and run them some weeks later. If this one ever ran, I have no idea. But the recording it describes is a foundational set for a collection of true American roots music.

                                                                           

EVERY NOW AND THEN a small, seminal stream of music bubbles up amidst the roar of the pop machinery. Thanks to a recent Smithsonian-Folkways re-release, we can again hear the voice and banjo of Virginia-born Dock Boggs, who recorded a series of LPs for Folkways in the mid-60s after working in obscurity in Kentucky coal mines for 44 years.

His repertory comprised songs learned from relatives and recordings, typically old songs that already had transformed in the re-singing, transformed again by Boggs during his early years of playing and singing, and changed once more when he prepared them for these recordings. Old songs like “John Henry,” “Pretty Polly” and even “Turkey in the Straw,” along with many tunes that Boggs assembled from bits of verse and music.

They’re played in a deceptively simple style – typically, Boggs accompanies himself by playing the melody against a style called up-picking, only rarely using the more boisterous clawhammer style. And his singing voice is reedy and strident, wailing with nasal intensity through one mournful ballad after another.

Caribbean Flavor in the Neighborhood

From the Food Vault Dept.: Here’s a review I wrote 29 years ago about a Jamiacan restaurant in downtown Albany, NY. At the time, it was fairly unique in offering this cuisine, but now you’ll find a number of Jamaican and other Caribbean-cuisine eateries in the area. As for Clayton’s itself, it closed many years ago, but I’m happy to note that the address is now home to Hot Spot Jamaican-American Cuisine.

                                                                                        

MY FIRST PRIORITY when traveling is to find the native cuisine. A couple of years ago I poked around Nassau, in the Bahamas, in search of something other than the crappy tourist fare offered anywhere near the hotels. Finally, we learned that you had to go “over the hill,” to the part of town not recommended by the brochures. My wife and I cabbed to a place called The Three Queens and had the best meal of our stay, not to mention a fun time among friendly people.

Stew beef - borrowed from
another source

That’s sort of the feeling you get in downtown Albany, at least when you’re dining at Clayton’s. Formerly a restaurant called Caribeño, Clayton’s has been open for about a year, maintaining its predecessor’s balance of Spanish and Caribbean cooking. You get good food very inexpensively, and you get it at all hours.

You may also have known the location as Calsolaro’s, its name for many years. Located a little west of where Washington Avenue vees off of Central, the restaurant still has two entrances, one of which leads right to the bar. Unlike its immediate predecessor, Clayton’s sells alcohol--wine and beer--and has a list of wine specials posted on the back wall of the dining room. The front part of the dining room is a single aisle flanked by tables and booths; beyond it is a larger room that wasn’t being used the afternoon we visited.

A Pride of Musical Lions

A BIG CLUE TO UNDERSTANDING THIS BAND lies in the fact that Bob Crosby isn’t on the box set’s cover. It’s the first artist-centered Mosaic set I’ve seen where the named talent isn’t pictured, and there’s an excellent reason. Bob Crosby was taken on only as the nominal leader of this group. He couldn’t read music, couldn’t wield a baton, and couldn’t sing as well as his brother Bing. But he was a radio presence with an easygoing stage presence, and the bandmembers figured he wouldn’t get in their way. They were right. Incredibly, most remained happy with this arrangement.

The well-known backstory bears repeating due to its comic improbability. Ben Pollack led a hugely successful band through the 1920s, launching the careers of players like Benny Goodman and Glenn Miller. In the early 1930s, Pollack fell in love, and his inamorata was a second-string singer named Doris Robbins. He wanted her name to become famous. It did, but only in the context of this story.

His bandmembers resented the attention he gave her and the awful performances she perpetrated, and late in 1934 they staged a mass walkout. They were dubbed “Pollack’s Orphans” in the music press. Many of them moved to Jackson Heights in Queens, to a building where they were able to commandeer the basement as a rehearsal space. They styled themselves as a coöperative and elected reedman Gil Rodin as their leader.

Hop on the Local!

As my ability to walk and even stand continues to deteriorate, I dreaded the process of putting together this year's Thanksgiving meal. And I didn't have to, because my daughter took over in order to implement her wish to keep as much of the component ingredients local as possible (revisiting a concept I used for our 2006 dinner). The resultant menu is below, and here's a link to the menus from our previous 24 years at this address.

Cascading into the End of Time

From the Musical Vault Dept.: The Cascade Soloists, as a group, is no more, but clarinetist David Shifrin continues a distinguished career on the faculty of Yale (among other schools) and as a longtime part of the Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center. Violinist Ik-Hwan Bae was an enthusiastic chamber-music performer as well as concertmaster of South Korea’s Hwaum Chamber Orchestra, while pianist William Doppmann was a composer as well, winning two Guggenheim Fellowships in that capacity; both died over a decade ago. I can find no recent internet trail of cellist Warren Lash. But we’re going back 40 years now (as we did last week) to revisit a wonderful concert performed by the four of them in Schenectady.

                                                                                       

Cascade Soloists is a charming name for a chamber music ensemble, and their performance at Union College’s Memorial Chapel on Friday night was a charming concert. The music was well chosen and received the kind of sensitive ensemble playing that is usually the result of many more years of collaboration than the few the Cascade Soloists have racked up.

The quartet comprises David Shifrin, William Doppmann, Ik-Hwan Bae, and Warren Lash playing, respectively, clarinet, piano, violin, and cello. That makes Olivier Messiaen’s “Quartet for the End of Time” a natural selection, and it concluded Friday’s concert.

First performed in 1941 while the composer was held prisoner in Germany, it combines a bleak sense of those surroundings with a bold tribute to the tenth chapter of the Book of Revelation.

There is a pastoral aspect to the piece in two senses of the term: the religious underpinnings are topped with a setting of birdsong, and this awareness of nature informs much of the work.

An Andean Flavor at a Mexican Restaurant

From the Vault Dept.: Tahuantinsuyo, a trio or quartet of musicians specializing in indigenous music of South America, was founded in the 1970s and endured at least until 2012. Their website no longer exists, however, but their recording “Tahuantinsuyo: Music of the Andes” is available at various online music sites. After reading the review below, which I wrote 40 years ago, I just might buy one.

                                                                                                  

BOB PHANEAUF, soon-to-be former chef of El Loco Mexican Café, is offering the Albany area a nightspot with good food and an impressive lineup of musicians, all in a comfortable atmosphere reminiscent of the folk clubs that proliferated in Greenwich Village 25 years ago. The question is: Will the area support such a place?

Based on the performance by Tahuantinsuyo, a quartet of South American musicians which appeared at the club Sunday night, there is an audience that appreciates such fine (if eclectic) music. The house (performances are given at the eba Chapter House at the comer of Lark and Hudson Streets) seats about 200 and most of the seats were taken.

Spokesman for most of the musical numbers was Pepe Santana, from Ecuador. Like the other three (who are from Bolivia and Peru), be plays guitar, mandolin, pan pipes, pennywhistle and drums, and sings. He explained that “Tahuantinsuyo” refers to the area that was once the Inca empire; it literally translates as “four corners of the world,” and refers to an area that now covers most of Bolivia, Peru, and Ecuador, and parts of Colombia, Argentina, and Chile.

The House of Pharoah Heard

YOU’RE PROBABLY NOT GOING TO like this set. But I don’t want to underestimate you. To make the critical balancing act worse, I don’t want to oversell you, either. I do this all the time in my house, praising to the skies a movie or a recording that my family then confesses didn’t at all live up to my encomium. 

Pharoah Sanders took the tenor sax out of the hands of John Coltrane, so to speak, and proved that its previously understood limiting factors could be stretched unimaginably further. He got all manner of sound out of its bell, many of them not immediately pleasing to humans and probably harmful to pets. 

While in his early 20s, Sanders and his horn settled in New York City, where he went from occasional homelessness – often crashing with Sun Ra – to gigs with the likes of Don Cherry. By 1965, he was part of John Coltrane’s ensemble. You’ll hear his early work on the Coltrane albums “Ascension” and “Meditations.” But if Coltrane was playing “anti-jazz,” as downbeat opined in 1961, Sanders had further to go.

Post-Coltrane, he continued releasing albums on the Impulse! label, with a few side-trips to Arista and Strata-East, but in 1980 he signed with the young Theresa label, beginning an eight-album association that lasted through 1986. 

"Good Luck"

Guest Blogger Dept.: Robert Benchley takes a gamble here to write about luck, our conceptions of which we can safely characterize as superstitions. If we’re lucky. Benchley portrait by Gluyas Williams.

                                                                                   

AND NOW they are trying to take away our superstitions from us. First they tax us until it is cheaper not to earn any money at all, then they force us to drink beer, and now they come along and tell us that we mustn't believe that if your nose itches you are going to have company.

I am not a superstitious man myself, but no Columbia University professor is going to sit there and tell me that if an actor (or anybody) whistles in a dressing room it doesn't mean bad luck for the person nearest the door. That's a scientific fact.

Neither will I be told that I must throw out all the little odds and ends of clothing and currency that I have accumulated during the past quarter of a century, each one of which has been certified by the United States Bureau of Standards as a definite good luck piece. I have proved their worth time after time (chiefly by not having had them with me when I had bad luck). I have an old green tie which I have worn so much that it now looks as if I were being led out to be lynched, and has that ever failed me? Never! I may not have always had good luck with it on, but it was because I forgot to wrap this long end around twice while tying it, or because I didn't have the ends even. The tie itself is sure-fire good luck, and I'll let no crack-brained theorist tell me different.

Backing Up, No Beeping

From the Tech Vault Dept.: Another of those mystery pieces that leap into my lap from time to time, in this case as I searched for something else in the depths of my computer archives. I would say this dates from about 2002, but I’m not going to go nuts finding out if it ever was published or not and if so, where. It’s about a technology that had its day, and caused a bunch of those oddball backup tapes to accumulate until the hardware went bad and orphaned my data.

                                                                                     

THE CENTURY TURNED, the lights stayed on. Your computer shrugged off the date change and you’re going to be sipping bottled water for a long, long time. How about backing up your data now?

What an unsexy subject! With all the inventive, colorful and just plain silly stuff out there competing for our time and money, backing up computer data is boredom itself. Unless you thought to shell out for the proper hardware when you bought your system (and it’s not a popular option), you have to pony up extra bucks for equipment that takes up space, requires costly media, gets in your way when you’re up late finishing a project, and then does nothing.

Until you lose a hard drive.

The question, as one backup software developer once put it, isn’t if your hard drive is going to fail – it’s when. You don’t get much warning, if any. And when it happens, you’ll enjoy an unbelievably sickening feeling as you realize just how much data – data you need! – was sitting on that hard drive. 

The Music Comes Round and Round

YOU WILL COME AWAY from this book with no doubt about Alex M. Stein’s love for his favored music. In fact, no matter how fervent a music-lover you may think yourself, the 40 essays contained herein may cause you to question your own depth of passion.

Stein’s talent has been realized and honed through years of professional writing and theater-making. He often performs his stories before an audience, and I’m guessing it’s this that gives his prose appealing contours of rhythm and an engaging mellifluousness. He uses judicious repetition of words and phrases which, along with such tools as assonance and alliteration, reveal the poetry lurking within these pieces.

There’s a commonality among those who obsess early on about music. At least those of, as we say, a certain age. Physical possession was important. If your obsession began in the LP days, you stockpiled records, both latest releases and elusive antiques. Your ears, ever-alert to nuance, treasured the differences a single song could display across a number of performances, even (or especially) by the same ensemble.

But most profound are the emotional associations created by the confluence of song and event. Stein’s musical universe, inadequately defined as “rock ‘n’ roll,” is far enough away from mine that I feared I’d have no commonality with his book. Until I read, in the Introduction, “If you’ve ever been dumped by someone and found you can no longer stand the music you associate with them, you’re definitely my people,” and realized that, no matter the music, we have grounds for bonding.

Speaking in Tongues

AS A LIFELONG CAT PERSON, I am most comfortable when my beast of the moment is snoozing on the nearby chair or prowling the house and yard for snacks, or just sitting nearby, staring into the middle distance. Whenever I catch her at that (and my cats, over the sixty-some years I’ve had them, almost always were female), she doesn’t even acknowledge my gaze by meeting my eye but busily commences grooming, often comically sitting on her haunches and bending into positions that cause my back to ache merely through looking. A few swipes of tongue over fur and then she glances my way, asking, “And what’s the big deal, Sparky?”

We fare well together, these cats and I. I make no big deal of this pet preference, having long believed it speaks for itself. Evidently, however, it hasn’t spoken to my daughter. 

Two years ago, Lily decided she needed a dog. Another dog, to put it correctly. The one that had been in residence for several year, a black Lab, had health-declined so badly so quickly that we had to pull the plug. A process I hate, yet one in which I’ve participated at the end of the life of nearly every pet I’ve had for the past forty-or-so years. 

“I’ve had enough of it,” I declared. “I’ve played Charon to too many of our four-legged friends.” Undermining my cause a little, I fear, because my daughter interprets any flowery language to mean that I’m out of my mind (or more so than usual) and not to be taken seriously. Seeing her skeptical moue, I reiterated: “No more dogs!”

Dinner at the Family Manse

From the Food Vault Dept.: It’s the 25th anniversary of the review posted below, a review of a restaurant in Amsterdam, NY, that had been in business in its current incarnation for 17 years, and has surpassed that by remaining in business today. I’m sad to report that Vittorio Valentino died in August, but the family continues to operate the restaurant, and re-reading the review has me excited to visit the place again. The hours given are the current ones; as always, don’t expect current pricing to be anywhere near what’s reported below.

                                                                                      

VITTORIO AND ESTER VALENTINO struck me as about the sweetest couple I’ve ever come across in this business. When we dined at their restaurant on a recent Friday night, they and one of their sons were running the whole show, as far as I could see, and Ester seemed to know everybody else who was dining there. By the time we were through, she knew all about us, too, and we’d had a tour of the place from Vittorio.

In many respects, this could typify your friendly neighborhood Italian restaurant. But there are a couple of major differences. First is the location: It’s in a mansion, with a striking-looking tower that gave earlier restaurants their names. Second is Vittorio’s training, which includes a stint at the Cordon Bleu in Paris, which he attended while working for a diplomat’s family. 

Difference number two is more subtle in the context of the menu, which is classically Italian-American. A few French specials once graced the menu but, as Vittorio explains, his wife was still learning English at the time and the task of explaining them was too daunting. Now they have a following solidly grounded in the Italian food that’s featured, so I suspect they won’t be straying much from that menu. But I may ask for something French the next time I visit.

A Gamut of the Emotions

EUGENE YSAŸE was one of last of the virtuoso violinist-composers who dominated the late 19th century, but unlike Wieniawski and Vieuxtemps, he didn’t produce much in the way of the tuneful, show-offish morceaux that typically ended the concert recitals of the era. His works were thornier, more in keeping with the changes in the compositional atmosphere wrought by post-Wagnerians. Ysaÿe lived from 1858 to 1931 and began his concert career at the age of 27. A year later, César Franck wrote for him, as a wedding present, his renowned Violin Sonata. 

A recital by Joseph Szigeti that featured Bach’s Sonata No. 1 in G Minor for solo violin (one of six such pieces by Bach) inspired Ysaÿe to write his own set of six solo sonatas, which he finished in July 1923. They are comparatively short works, each of them dedicated to a different violinist of Ysaÿe’s acquaintance. While they aren’t aggressively tuneful, they reveal masterful writing, using the violin’s technical resources to the fullest. They probably are best appreciated by violinists, especially those courageous enough to take on the virtuosic demands. 

The sonatas usually are recorded as a set, which only makes sense, and there are over fifty such recordings. One of the latest features Roman Simovic, a visiting professor of violin at the Royal Academy of Music in London whose resume includes appearances with all the top orchestras in Europe as well as distinguished festivals galore. He directed the London Symphony String Orchestra on four albums for the LSO Live label, for which he also recorded Paganini’s 24 Caprices.

Have Another Look

Art Isn’t Easy Dept.: Just when you thought that the late John Updike had once and for all dropped his pen, along comes yet another weighty tome – this time a collection of Updike letters. But don’t be fooled by my glib nonsense: I’m looking forward to reading it, confident I’ll enjoy it, just as I’ve enjoyed every one of his previous books, all of which are on a nearby shelf in my house. Meanwhile, let’s revisit my review of one of his more unexpected literary ventures, that of art critic. The piece below explains the rest.

                                                                             

THE RANKS OF WELL-KNOWN cartoonist-writers include James Thurber and Lou Myers, but unlike Robert Hughes, who moved from cartooning to art criticism, or Ad Reinhardt, whose cartoons were criticism, John Updike never professionally pursued his own drawing ability. In that regard, he’s like the early-20th-century writer Booth Tarkington, whose sketches livened the horrible penmanship of his letters.

Both of them wrote about art late in their respective careers. Tarkington’s Some Old Portraits (1939) paid gossipy but insightful tribute to a selection of 18th-century works; the 23 essays in Updike’s first collection, Just Looking (1989), introduced us to a novelist unafraid to summon beautiful language to examine his relationship with the pre-Abstractionist world. From Vermeer in the 17th century to the still-living Richard Estes, the collection also gave a nod to cartoonists like Ralph Barton and fellow writer-cartoonists like Goethe, Poe, Oscar Wilde and Flannery O’Connor.

Another collection, Still Looking, followed in 2005, focusing on American art and covering such painters as Copley, Homer, Whistler, Hopper, Pollock and Warhol as well as photographer Alfred Stieglitz. After Updike died in 2009, enough uncollected essays remained for a final celebration. As a title, Always Looking tops the first two with its comforting, if Olympian, declaration of continuity; as an essay collection, it’s broader-based, but also solidifies the range of Updike’s favorites.