Ben and Van

I finally got around to seeing Argo today, four days after it won the Oscar for Best Picture. It’s brilliant, no doubt about it; more in a minute.

I read in the paper that Van Cliburn died yesterday. While not necessarily a great fan, I was aware of him most of my life; I can’t claim to specifically remember his winning the Tchaikovsky Competition in in 1958 but I do remember all the buzz surrounding him. And the piece with which he won, the Tchaikovsky Piano Concerto No. 1 was the first piece of classical music I ever knew well; I of course have Cliburn’s recording of it, though the rendition I knew better was by Claudio Arrau with the Philharmonia Orchestra.

Cliburn played the Rachmaninoff third piano concerto at the Moscow competition as well. I don’t have that recording, though his death will likely prompt me to get it. Like the Tchaikovsky, it is a staple of the classical repertory and a fantastic piece I have long loved.

Great artists and their work live for the ages; these performances are as exciting today as when they were recorded all those years ago.

Which brings me back to Ben Affleck and his film Argo. I liked it; I liked it a lot. But is it best picture material? Will we be watching it and talking about it in fifty years as we do with Casablanca, Gone with the Wind and West Side Story? No way to know yet.

The old-fashioned part of me thinks that Oscar-winning films should be grand, or important, or sweeping. Is Argo? Grand and sweeping, I think not; important, yes, for sure.

The more liberal, willing-to-try-new stuff side of me disagrees totally with the grand and sweeping concept. Look at Chariots of Fire, perhaps still my favorite film of all time. Small, intimate and quiet – and yet it too was a Best Picture.

When Cliburn won in Moscow, New York welcomed him with a ticker-tape period. Imagine! A ticker-tape parade for a classical musician! First time ever. Last too.

We need more cultural heroes who play classical music.

Cheap Seats

If you’d like to hear Verdi’s Don Carlo at the Met this week you can get a seat for only $25. It’s two rows from the very last row, all the way at the top of the house in the Family Circle, but it’s pretty much center and it’s an aisle seat. There’s even a cheaper seat, also on the aisle but further stage right, for $20. Or you could get an excellent orchestra seat, also on the aisle, for $340! And no, that’s not the most expensive seat; that would be front row, center Parterre, at $440 for this performance.

If your tastes run to the Vienna Philharmonic, you could hear them at Carnegie Hall this weekend. The cheapest seats, at the top of the balcony, are all sold out; they went for $34. But there are great orchestra seats available for a mere $202.

Or maybe you’re a theatre lover and you’d like to hear the New York Philharmonic’s 100+ players rip though Rodger’s and Hammerstein’s Carousel. The most economical seats are available at a steep $95 in the third tier; orchestra seats will set you back $245.

Do you know what all the cheap seats in these three halls have in common? Aside from saving you some bucks, they offer the best sound you can get.

Don’t believe me? Well take a look at these two pictures. I shot these on my phone at Monday night’s Yale Percussion Group concert in Morse Recital Hall. This is a largely School of Music audience, so they know a thing or two about sound. The first shot is of the balcony; note that there are very few empty seats. The second photo is of the nearly deserted orchestra level. This was a free concert; people could sit wherever they wanted. This savvy crowd knew where the best sound was.

 It’s largely simple physics: acoustically, most halls’ sweet spot is up in the nosebleed section.

I was at a Met performance of Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte several years ago and wasn’t liking it very much. I wanted to leave at intermission, but I also wanted to hear the famed Queen of the Night aria at the top of the second act.  (“Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen" – listen to it here). So I left my front row balcony seat, climbed all the way up to the highest spot in the house, Standing Room in the Family Circle, and listened. When her highness finished, I applauded and left quietly through the door at the top of the house. The aria was good; the sound was extraordinary.

And speaking of extraordinary, that percussion concert was exactly that. OMG! Bartók’s incredibly exciting Sonata for Two Pianos and Percussion opened the concert, followed by two pieces from contemporary composers John Supko (b. 1980) and Alejandro Viñao (b. 1951). But the highlight was the absolutely astounding Cloud Polyphonies by James Wood, seen below taking his bow. It was 40 minutes of exotic, exquisite, sometime mind-blowing, always fascinating, occasionally too loud percussive music. Every instrument on that crowded stage was used in this contemporary masterpiece and the standing ovation was for once totally deserved. Alas, there is not a recording I can point you to but you can listen to the first movement here.

Stop the Presses!

I have another post ready to "print" but I'm going with this instead. It is so shocking that I want to make sure everyone sees it. The country is truly changing.

Republicans Sign Brief in Support of Gay Marriage

Read the whole article here.

“This is Walter, Ransom’s husband.”

Ransom’s class gave a group recital last Monday night and, being the good faculty spouse I am, I was there. It was thoroughly enjoyable: flute and piano mostly, two flutes and piano a couple of times. The pianist was the brilliant Tim Hester, a long time friend up from Houston, who stayed with us. After the concert everyone went out for pizza, but there are limits – I went straight home.

On the way in – to Sudler Hall in W. L. Harkness Hall, the space where Ransom and I were first married, 16 years ago – I ran into Jake, one of Ransom’s students. He was chatting with his folks, up from New Jersey for the event, and introduced me to them, using the line above. We visited for a few minutes and then went in to hear the music.

That introduction grabbed me. The ease with which Jake, a straight young man in his twenties, referred to me as Ransom’s husband was noteworthy. Not to him maybe; he likely would say “of course he’s his husband, what else would he be?” But to gay folks of my age, that simple introduction encompasses a breathtaking history of struggle and change.

At another university in another state at a different time gay students were not even allowed to meet as a group to discuss our common experiences. Virginia Commonwealth University (VCU) in the 1970s was a radically different place from Yale University in the 2010s. America today is a radically different place than it was in the 1970s.

Young people tend to take their current experience for granted, assuming things have always been this way. We on the far side of our youth remember all the steps it took to get us here. It’s been a long, strange trip indeed, but a very satisfying one.

Ransom and Jake, flutes; Tim, piano; John, page turner

Why do I go to opera?

I made it to work this morning on time – well, Southern time anyway. That’s saying something since at midnight I was still on the train home from New York, returning from the Brooklyn Academy of Music and New York City Opera’s new production of Powder Her Face by Thomas Adès. Going to the opera midweek ain't easy – and to Brooklyn?! So why do I do it?

Some people go for the spectacle. It can be the most spectacular art form we know; check out the images from the Met’s over-the-top productions of Aida and Turandot. I can appreciate excess, but that’s never WHY I go.

For the plot? Well, no, I don’t think anyone ever goes for the story, since they are so often silly, stilted and unbelievable.

For the music? Definitely! Der Ring des Nibelungen, Wagner’s magnificent four-opera cycle, features arguably the greatest Western music ever written and can be enjoyed eyes open or shut. It’s simply glorious.

How about going to the opera for the singing? Well, yes, certainly. Listen to Renata Tabaldi singing “Un bel di vedremo” from Madama Butterfly or Kiri te Kanawa’s shimmering version of “O mio babbino caro” from Gianni Schicchi. Who wouldn’t want to be in the house to hear those sung live?

The Metropolitan Opera boasts arguably the best orchestra in America, so I go to the Met to enjoy them and in hopes of hearing a wonderful singer. At City Opera, on the other hand, I’m looking for something new to me, and for the chance to see more cutting edge productions.

Last night I went for the naked men.

I had been only mildly interested in Powder Her Face, for modern opera does not have a great track record with me. I usually find it strange and non-lyrical, screechy rather than pretty. The staging is often interesting and the music sometimes compelling, but the vocal lines almost always leave me wishing I had simply bought the Opera Without Words edition.

I had decided against the Adès piece, but then read this in the New York Times: “While the Duchess, the opera’s main character, reflects upon her circumstances as the promiscuous wife of the Duke of Argyll, 25 fully naked men amble out of her bed, bathtub and armoire, stretching and lolling like drowsy cats.”

THAT certainly caught my eye and made me rethink the plan. I’m not embarrassed to admit it: I like looking at naked men. The idea of over twenty of them on BAM’s not terribly huge stage intrigued the hell out of me. Not enough to pay full price for a seat ($100 where I sat) but TDF was offering tickets for $44 – that’s about two bucks per nude dude. A bargain!

So how was it? Well, it was both more than what I expected and exactly what I expected. The music was strange: the pit contained very few strings and lots of winds, brass and percussion playing this odd, sometimes-jazz, sometimes-show tune score. The NY Post said it was a “nerve-jangling score, which sounds like Stravinsky, Ravel and Alban Berg run through a Cuisinart..” The vocal lines were as weird as I expected.

But the naked men were amazing. I had assumed they’d mostly have their backs to us and, since I had read that many of them were simply watching a video on stage, I figured there’d be little to see. WRONG! There was a lot to see and it was clear what these non-singing actors had to do to measure up.

Was it great opera? Hell no. But a bit of voyeurism now and then is not a bad thing.

Full disclosure: lots of reviewers loved Powder Your Face. The Times called it an “astonishing, precocious masterpiece.” You can read the complete review here.

There was a LOT more than this on display at BAM last night.

Nemo + 4

Most of you know that the name Chris is very special to me; Chris Shepherd was a boyfriend who died of AIDS back in the 90s. Even before I knew him I always loved that name. Back in the days when I thought I might have children to name I had settled on Sean Patrick, Michael Brendan and Christopher Scott – and Kelly Elizabeth if there were a girl.

The name Chris has now, alas, a new meaning. Villain. Liar. Breaker of Promises. Chris Ted has plowed snow for us for over three years. He’s been reliable, though it’s often been late in the day when he gets to us. I have never hassled him and I have paid our bills on time.

Chris Ted abandoned us this week. I waited all day Saturday for him to show up and when he didn’t I accepted the fact that this was an extraordinary storm and that he was doing the best he could. Sunday morning and afternoon came and went but he didn't. Then Sunday night he and his crew were next door, plowing our neighbor’s driveway. I was so happy I called Don in Richmond to tell him we were about to be delivered.

Those eggs didn’t hatch. After finishing next door the crew drove away. I texted Chris, very politely, and asked if we could expect him the next day. He replied, “yes.”

That was a lie. He did not come yesterday or last night. After waiting and waiting, and believing his promises, we were left high and dry. Or, more accurately, buried and stranded.

Some of you may know that my first boyhood friend was named Ricky. I am happy to say that we are still in touch occasionally and that that name still brings a smile to my face, for it was another Ricky who finally delivered us this morning. This Ricky works for Wrecking Eck of Mt. Airy, Maryland (!) and drove up here Saturday to help dig people out. (Special thanks to Ransom for finding these guys on Craigslist). I’m sure it was a business decision, and he charged us $250, but more to the point, he said he would be here, and he was. ($250, believe it or not, is not an exceptional amount; I don’t know what our guy would have charged us, but it may well have been as much).

So thanks to Ricky and his coworker, Ransom made it out of here today to teach at Purchase. Yale canceled classes again, so I am at home, but finally able to go to the store this afternoon.

Probably more than any human characteristic I value honesty above all else. Say what you mean, and mean what you say. Thank you, Ricky, for helping me learn that 56 years ago, and thank you, Ricky, for showing me today that it still matters.

Saved by the men from Maryland!

Somewhere in that snow is my mailbox; may not find it til Spring

Nemo + 2

For the second day in a row the sun is shining here in Connecticut, but there aren’t a whole lot of people outside enjoying it. It’s eerily quiet, with far less traffic than normal; events have been canceled all over the state and, like our neighbors -- and many, many more -- we have an unplowed driveway and no hope of getting out. The pictures below show my progress in digging out the cars, but until that wall of snow is moved out of the way even the best four-wheel drive vehicle aint [sic] going nowhere.

So it’s day three of reading, relaxing, watching videos and trying to coax the dogs to poop with three feet of snow brushing against their butts. I’m calling it three feet, but it’s very possibly more. The official read for the nearest town, Milford, was 38 inches. We’re further inland than they are, and higher up, so its very likely we got 40 inches – or more.

I’ve written all our student workers and told them to stay home today; the tutors in the residential colleges are likewise homebound, though many of them will work via Skype or telephone. Yale will make the call on Monday’s classes around 4pm today. It’s highly unusual for Yale to cancel classes, but the report from New Haven (34 inches) is that there are mountains of snow yet to be removed and some major roads that haven’t been touched.

A tutor in Hamden (40 inches) wrote to tell me that the snow is too high for a lot of the plows so they’ve had to call in front-loaders, which of course makes the job much slower.

It’s winter in New England, so all this is to be expected, but I’m not the first to note that storms seem to be getting more intense and seem to wreak more havoc. Are there really people out there who still believe that humanity is not affecting the planet’s climate? What will it take to convince them?

Maybe I should invite them to shovel off my driveway, or to remove all the trees that have fallen in this winter’s three storms.

Making progress on digging the cars out

Voila! Now if there was only a driveway to drive them on.

My friend Suzanne took this shot of her husband Michael in North Haven. Look at that snow! And those are NOT drifts.

Finding Nemo, just outside our door

Looking down our front stairs; those racks on the left hold firewood; they are four feet tall.

Our back porch

There's a Prius under that first mound; the RAV4 sits beyond

How we die

The death we want

Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall reportedly said, “I expect to die at 110, shot by a jealous husband." Most of us expect a far more prosaic death and we want to die at home. That might be want we want but it’s far too often not what we get. What we get is a slow, wasting death in a cold, florescent-lit hospital room, often hooked up to machines and monitors, sometime unable to eat or talk.

We don’t want that, we recoil at the idea of that, but that’s what we get. Why?

Hold on to that question for a moment while I tell you about Joseph Gallo M.D., a professor at Johns Hopkins.  Back in the late 90s he started interviewing doctors who had been participating for years in the Johns Hopkins Precursors Study; he asked these aging medical men about death. Before we hear their answers, let’s do a bit of man-on-the-street sampling.

Scenario: you have an incurable brain disease which leaves you unable to recognize people or speak; in other words, you have severe dementia. In that situation, would you want the following done for you? Typical person-on-the-street answers were as follows:

CPR – “yes, sure”
Mechanical ventilation (breathing machine) – “yes, ok”
Dialysis – yes
Feeding tube – yes
Antibiotics – yes
IV Fluids - yes

Far and away most people say yes to all the above (and more).

Ask the doctors the same questions and their answers are shockingly different:

CPR - 90% say no
Ventilation or dialysis – almost 90% say no
Surgery – 80% say no
Feeding tube – 80 % no
IV hydration – 60% say no

Ask the docs about pain meds and 80% of them say “yes, relieve my pain.”

Why this huge difference? Because doctors know the truth. The rest of us have been lied to by popular culture. A 1996 study showed that 75% of people survived CPR intervention on television’s ER, Chicago Hope and Rescue 911. The actual number?

The ACTUAL number?

8%!

8% survive for at least a month.

And that’s a rosy exaggeration. In fact, a 2010 study looking at ninety-five thousand cases, 3% of patients who received CPR returned to a normal life. Another 3% ended up in a chronic vegetative state; the remaining 2% of that 8% fell somewhere between.

The other 92%?

Dead.

Doctors know this. They are therefore making informed judgments. The rest of us are flying blind, saying yes to almost everything hospitals offer – and charge us for.

In the strongest possible words I URGE you to listen to this Radio Lab piece. It’ll take twenty minutes of your time, but may be incredibly valuable to you at the end of your life.

How too many of us shuffle off this mortal coil