KFUO-FM, Classic 99 and Jim Althoff will be playing (or “spinning” in DJ parlance) my new Violin Concerto this Saturday at 10:00 AM and I couldn’t be happier. These days, with all the trials and tribulations facing classical music, --dwindling and aging audiences, the record companies’ uncertain future,--many composers (meaning me) have learned to accept the sad reality that actual live performances of their compositions will be rarer than a C chord in a Schoenberg symphony. A major label release will be even more atypical. These days composers (meaning me, again) have come to expect most performances will take place in the concert all of their (my) mind.
Luckily, my new piece, THE RUNAWAY BUNNY, a Violin Concerto for Reader, Violin and Orchestra, has been an exception. It was recorded by SONY/BMG (a big deal), performed by the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, (a bigger deal) and narrated by the divine Brooke Shields, (a mega-watt deal.) I even conducted it at Carnegie Hall in April, with Glenn Close as the narrator and the American Symphony Orchestra. Plus, it’s been played by over thirty classical stations all over the country, KFUO being the latest.
Why is this piece different than all the rest? I’m very proud of my score but I’m also very sober about what has opened the doors: three words, The Runaway Bunny.
As every four year old in American knows, Margaret Wise Brown’s book is one of the most popular children’s books of all time. It annually sells almost a million copies and has been known to bring grown men to tears. In fact, when Brooke recorded the piece, she said to me she couldn’t get through it without crying. DJ’s and the usually heartless, stone-cold concert promoters turn to mush when they remember the book and their curiosity is peaked. Open-sesame, I get a consideration.
Plus, it doesn’t hurt to have Brooke’s name attached. (And Glenn certainly helped the sales at Carnegie Hall.)
This is not to say that getting from my mind to KFUO was an easy road. It took me two years of negotiations with HarperCollins, the publisher of the book, to secure the rights. Not to mention the legal fees. Then, it took SONY/UK two years to actually record it and SONY/US another two years to release it. Contracts, funding, schedules, record executives coming and going, all contributed to this time delay, which actually in music-industry time, is light-speed. I wrote the piece when my nephew, Myles, was born. He’s almost five. Composing is the easiest part of the process. Certainly, the most fun. The rest is where it gets dicey!
Chris Craker, an English record producer and friend of mine didn’t know the book, but he responded to the music and, as a businessman, was attracted to the book sales. He owned a small record company, which was bought by a bigger company, which was bought by a bigger company, which was subsequently bought by an even bigger one. Finally, after all those big fish/little fish mergers and acquisitions, Chris ended up head of SONY/BMG Classical for the UK. And that’s when he was able to give the go ahead for the Royal Philharmonic. (A little side bar: When my composer friends heard that SONY was involved, the first thing they asked was, “How much are you paying them?” When I answered, “nothing,” they were as incredulous as I. Ah, the fiduciary fate of composers.)
Despite Chris’s exalted position, there was still no budget for an orchestra rehearsal. I had to hear the entire concerto in my head in NYC, e-mail the music to the Royal Phil in London, and then have the producer push the red button to record the piece for posterity. Even the greatest composers like/need to change certain things after hearing a piece played for the first time, but budgetary constraints denied me that luxury. I was, however, able to hear the score spit out by my computer program, so I had had a high-tech preview of the piece. Not perfect, but beggars and composers can’t be chooser and I was, at least, able to correct some wrong notes.
However, nothing really prepared me for the glorious sound of an orchestra, especially the Royal Phil playing my music. Live! Not in my head. In between takes, I frantically make some slight alterations, even though clock was ticking. And I did make further revisions for the Carnegie performance. By that time, I had heard the piece performed, counting the Royal Phil performance, once!
(A second side bar: Chris resigned one week after the CD was released in America. I dread to think what would have happened to the poor Bunny if he had resigned two weeks earlier.)
When the album came out, I did a phone interview with Canadian talk show host, Peter Anthony Holder. He talked about what the piece would be compared to (Peter and the Wolf, of course), the inspiration, (the book, of course), and how SONY came to record it, (see above.) Then, he played the main theme of the Concerto on the air. After that, he came back and asked me another question. I didn’t respond. Wondering if perhaps there were technical difficulties, he asked if I was there? I was unequivocally there, but as that was the first time I had heard the Concerto played on the radio, I was shell-shocked and honestly, tearing up. I couldn’t respond. It was a dream come true. Having the Bunny hop out of my head and reach all those people was more than I could bear.
So, people of St. Louis (and environs) enjoy the play on KFUO and Mr. Althoff’s interview. And if you want to buy a copy, I wouldn’t be upset!
Showing posts with label non-fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label non-fiction. Show all posts
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Playing For The Stars
But to be honest, nothing competes in the thrill department with playing a piano for a Broadway legend who is recreating an original performance. Talk about musical comedy heaven.
I always feel I'm suddenly transported back to the Golden Age of Musicals, a period I sadly missed but imagined as intensely as any cast-album producer could have wished. When I play the piano for a legend and it's just the two of us onstage, I feel as if I am writer, singer, director and audience in a magical time-travel wish fulfillment dream.
When I was just a punk kid – probably aware that I'd have to hurry, I somehow managed to escape high school and started playing for performers at auditions, rehearsals and nightclubs in Manhattan. Phyllis Newman heard about me and I was suddenly writing her new act for the Grand Finale. (Anyone remember that place?). Phyllis was a well-known TV personality then but she first came to prominence as a supporting actress in a less-than-successful Jule Styne, Comden and Green musical called, Subways are For Sleeping. (Anyone remember that?) In fact, Phyllis won a Tony Award for her performance as a fallen bathing beauty, beating out another star-to-be who was making her debut as Miss Marmelstein down the block.
Happily for me, while my friends were listening to Black Sabbath, I was listening to Jule Styne and I knew the album to Subways by heart. So when Phyllis said we were going to do her famous number, “I Was A Shoo-in,” my heart skipped a beat. And when she said I was going to perform the Orson Bean dialogue with her, I virtually went into cardiac arrest.
Even then I was well aware that “Shoo-in” isn't first rate Jule Styne. It's probably not even third rate. But for me, at that moment, the number could have been “Rose's Turn.” There I was playing for the same person who was on the cast album, recreating with my fingers the sound that I grew up on. Last week I had been in home room, and this week I could not believe where I had landed.
Over the years, I've accumulated many fabulous memories: playing “Nowadays” for Gwen and Chita, the 
But something miraculous happened when I played for her. Her belief in the songs made me believe them absolutely. It was as if she were singing Mozart. I can't believe I felt like that. I can't believe I'm writing it. When I played that musical interlude in “Argentina,” I was there right by her side on the balcony at the Casa Rosada. When I played those three building chords and she lifted her hands, I could barely control myself.
The audience was mesmerized. Knowing the frenzy it would cause, I went to the piano and started the famous strut intro to “Hello, Dolly.” The crowd was on their feet and stood through the entire number. And when we hit that modulation and Dolly made up her mind, I modulated for dear life. I had to pinch myself: I was playing Dolly for Dolly.
Tonight, I have the privilege of playing for Florence Henderson in a new one women show we put together. When I first met her I had to reveal my guilty secret: When I was a little kid, way before High School exit strategy, my mother took me to the New York State Theater for the revival of South Pacific starring Florence. Honestly, I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember the giant exotic flowers engulfing the proscenium; I remember the stage jutting over the orchestra pit; and most of all I remember Florence as Nellie Forbush. I was sitting way in the balcony but Lord, I swear I can remember her putting her hands on her hips, thrusting out her chest and belting “Wonderful Guy.” I even remember the sound and colors of the orchestra: that magical Richard Rodgers hesitation waltz and the heavy downbeats contrasting with the lightness of the tune.
So, tonight, when I start playing that famous vamp from South Pacific and Florence transforms into Nellie, you can bet I'll be trying to recreate those musical memories at the keyboard. Chances are, I'll have an enormous Cheshire Cat grin on my face. Now, you'll know why.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
GAMES WE PLAYED: On With The Show
ON WITH THE SHOW
Every block had one and I was it: the queer. I grew up in the early sixties in Flatbush, Brooklyn long before queer had any sort of positive, ACT-UP connotation. It was merely one of the epitaphs hurled at me along with the usual fag, sissy, pansy and homo. These were the words that supposedly wouldn’t break my bones.
Naturally, I was excluded from all the block sport. I couldn’t catch a ball to save my life and to this day I still throw like a girl. But quite honestly, I was one, thrilled outcast. Being gay made me feel special, different from the Brooklyn thugs who lived on my block, and the kids who would be stuck in Brooklyn for an eternity while I would make my fame and fortune in Manhattan. For an occasional nanosecond, I did miss the camaraderie of playing on a team. Although having a real friend instead of Lucille Ball and Wally Cleaver might have been nice, I had my world and they had theres; I was fine with the uncrossable rubicund between us.
The big game on Marlborough Road was stoop-ball. Most of the houses had two sets of steps leading up to the front doors. After buying a new Pensy-Pinky or a Spaulding at Lamston’s around the corner, the boys would spend hours throwing the ball against the upper set of stairs, each step having a higher point value, the lowest being 5 and the highest 50. If you were able to throw the ball so that it didn’t bounce on the way back to the street the points doubled. Occasionally, I was recruited to help with the math when my friends couldn’t figure out what came after 1,999. I assured them it was a trillion.
Who needed to play ball outside, anyway? I was quite content to stay in my room and play at something I seemed to have an innate talent for: big Broadway musicals.
These were not just any run-of-the-mill productions. These were extravaganzas complete with (homemade) costumes, an orchestra (my scratchy 78s on a little red, portable record player), and a cast of thousands (the three girls on the block I could recruit)—each and every production directed, choreographed and starring me.
The only cast albums around were my mother’s old 78 recordings of Rodgers and Hammerstein shows. So my Broadway reviews consisted of the four of us lip-syncing to Mary Martin as she Washed That Man Right Out of Her Hair or Cockeyed Optimist (although I was certain that the title was Cockeyed Optometrist and consequently had the entire cast in cardboard cut-out glasses). We would usually end with the Grand Finale: Oklahoma! complete with trenches.
Where I picked this up is anybody’s guess. I hadn’t seen a Broadway musical yet, so it must have been the occasional movie musical on TV. Perhaps it was the perennial running of Wizard of OZ, or Peter Pan. Maybe it’s just in the genes. However this form of entertainment seeped into my consciousness, it filled my mind at a very, very early age. I’m sure my parents’ friends never forgot my definitive version of “People Will Say We’re In Love” sung to my sister’s Chatty Cathy.
For those who are already shaking their heads in horror about the little-gay-boy-putting-on-shows-in-his-bedroom, I fear it gets worse. My parents took me to Balanchine’s Nutcracker at the New York City Ballet and my life changed.
Not that I became a ballet dancer, but I saw how magnificent professional theatre could be. By a happy coincidence, the most celebrated, commercially successful Christmas show in NYC was also produced by the great titan of twentieth Century ballet. I venture to say any kid with artistic ambitions who had the momentous fortune to see this ballet at an early age was forever changed. I still vividly remember the ballet’s two children peeping though the key-hole trying to see the great Christmas tree. And then there was the theatrical coup as the painted scrim of the door dissolved through and we could see the guests actually trimming the tree. Amazing!
When I returned to my rehearsal room—bedroom--I knew I had to move on. Out were the tacky, under-rehearsed Broadway numbers with the amateurs from the block. Sorry Denise, sorry, Suzie. I needed professionals. Luckily, Elise Brodsky, a girl in my first grade class was already taking ballet lessons and when I suggested a full-length production of the Nutcracker with a cast of two, she jeteéd at the chance.
Unfortunately, this production never came off and I learned a valuable lesson that would hold me in good stead over the years. Stars are different. Stars are temperamental. Stars want things. Elise and I easily divided up the solos in the ballet: she would be the Sugar Plum Fairy, I would be the Mouse King, she would be Marie, I would be Fritz. But when it came to the Candy Cane dance, we reached an impasse. She wanted it and I wanted it too. In fact, I had already cut my hula-hoop in half so I could do the jumpy bit over the multi-striped candy cane.
No matter what I did or how I pleaded, Elise wanted to dance that Variation. I offered more money, better billing, the final curtain call, all the things that you learn to do early in the game. Still no movement. Negotiations collapsed. So, I did what any budding entrepreneur had to do: I cancelled the production. Artistic differences.
It was back to Broadway for me. Back to Mary Martin and the toilet paper wigs for Washing That Man Out Of My Hair. Back to real show business. And when my parents bought me a 60’s style tree-lamp reading light with three adjustable lights for studying, I knew I was right where I belonged. If I took a white sheet off my bed and painted a doorway on it, and if the tree light was positioned just right, we almost had a bleed-through effect. This wasn’t a game. This was theatre.
Every block had one and I was it: the queer. I grew up in the early sixties in Flatbush, Brooklyn long before queer had any sort of positive, ACT-UP connotation. It was merely one of the epitaphs hurled at me along with the usual fag, sissy, pansy and homo. These were the words that supposedly wouldn’t break my bones.
Naturally, I was excluded from all the block sport. I couldn’t catch a ball to save my life and to this day I still throw like a girl. But quite honestly, I was one, thrilled outcast. Being gay made me feel special, different from the Brooklyn thugs who lived on my block, and the kids who would be stuck in Brooklyn for an eternity while I would make my fame and fortune in Manhattan. For an occasional nanosecond, I did miss the camaraderie of playing on a team. Although having a real friend instead of Lucille Ball and Wally Cleaver might have been nice, I had my world and they had theres; I was fine with the uncrossable rubicund between us.
The big game on Marlborough Road was stoop-ball. Most of the houses had two sets of steps leading up to the front doors. After buying a new Pensy-Pinky or a Spaulding at Lamston’s around the corner, the boys would spend hours throwing the ball against the upper set of stairs, each step having a higher point value, the lowest being 5 and the highest 50. If you were able to throw the ball so that it didn’t bounce on the way back to the street the points doubled. Occasionally, I was recruited to help with the math when my friends couldn’t figure out what came after 1,999. I assured them it was a trillion.
Who needed to play ball outside, anyway? I was quite content to stay in my room and play at something I seemed to have an innate talent for: big Broadway musicals.
These were not just any run-of-the-mill productions. These were extravaganzas complete with (homemade) costumes, an orchestra (my scratchy 78s on a little red, portable record player), and a cast of thousands (the three girls on the block I could recruit)—each and every production directed, choreographed and starring me.
The only cast albums around were my mother’s old 78 recordings of Rodgers and Hammerstein shows. So my Broadway reviews consisted of the four of us lip-syncing to Mary Martin as she Washed That Man Right Out of Her Hair or Cockeyed Optimist (although I was certain that the title was Cockeyed Optometrist and consequently had the entire cast in cardboard cut-out glasses). We would usually end with the Grand Finale: Oklahoma! complete with trenches.
Where I picked this up is anybody’s guess. I hadn’t seen a Broadway musical yet, so it must have been the occasional movie musical on TV. Perhaps it was the perennial running of Wizard of OZ, or Peter Pan. Maybe it’s just in the genes. However this form of entertainment seeped into my consciousness, it filled my mind at a very, very early age. I’m sure my parents’ friends never forgot my definitive version of “People Will Say We’re In Love” sung to my sister’s Chatty Cathy.
For those who are already shaking their heads in horror about the little-gay-boy-putting-on-shows-in-his-bedroom, I fear it gets worse. My parents took me to Balanchine’s Nutcracker at the New York City Ballet and my life changed.
Not that I became a ballet dancer, but I saw how magnificent professional theatre could be. By a happy coincidence, the most celebrated, commercially successful Christmas show in NYC was also produced by the great titan of twentieth Century ballet. I venture to say any kid with artistic ambitions who had the momentous fortune to see this ballet at an early age was forever changed. I still vividly remember the ballet’s two children peeping though the key-hole trying to see the great Christmas tree. And then there was the theatrical coup as the painted scrim of the door dissolved through and we could see the guests actually trimming the tree. Amazing!
When I returned to my rehearsal room—bedroom--I knew I had to move on. Out were the tacky, under-rehearsed Broadway numbers with the amateurs from the block. Sorry Denise, sorry, Suzie. I needed professionals. Luckily, Elise Brodsky, a girl in my first grade class was already taking ballet lessons and when I suggested a full-length production of the Nutcracker with a cast of two, she jeteéd at the chance.
Unfortunately, this production never came off and I learned a valuable lesson that would hold me in good stead over the years. Stars are different. Stars are temperamental. Stars want things. Elise and I easily divided up the solos in the ballet: she would be the Sugar Plum Fairy, I would be the Mouse King, she would be Marie, I would be Fritz. But when it came to the Candy Cane dance, we reached an impasse. She wanted it and I wanted it too. In fact, I had already cut my hula-hoop in half so I could do the jumpy bit over the multi-striped candy cane.
No matter what I did or how I pleaded, Elise wanted to dance that Variation. I offered more money, better billing, the final curtain call, all the things that you learn to do early in the game. Still no movement. Negotiations collapsed. So, I did what any budding entrepreneur had to do: I cancelled the production. Artistic differences.
It was back to Broadway for me. Back to Mary Martin and the toilet paper wigs for Washing That Man Out Of My Hair. Back to real show business. And when my parents bought me a 60’s style tree-lamp reading light with three adjustable lights for studying, I knew I was right where I belonged. If I took a white sheet off my bed and painted a doorway on it, and if the tree light was positioned just right, we almost had a bleed-through effect. This wasn’t a game. This was theatre.
Monday, July 21, 2003
Cheese, Egg and Poultry: A Few Memories of Ann Miller
When I was 19 I was the Musical Director of Sugar Babies on Broadway for the entire run. This was a pretty heavy job for a kid and when I asked Mickey Rooney if he minded that I was so young, he looked me straight in the eye (we were the same height) and said, "Kid, when I was 16 I was the biggest box office star in the world!"
During the difficult out of town try-outs the choreographer and producer were at odds with Mickey's co-star, Ann Miller, and they were also constantly trying to fire me, so Annie and I had an immediate bond: misery. Plus, she liked my conducting because I always followed her, no matter what she did. So every night after the show we would have a dinner of commiseration.
Sugar Babies made it into
We would wait for the fans to leave and then Annie and I would hop into her waiting limo and head to a restaurant. Sometimes Ethel Merman came with us, sometimes Patti LuPone (she was Evita next door,) but every restaurant gladly stayed open for Annie because she was the toast of the town.
These were the days before VCRs and way before DVDs so the only way to see an old movie was to wait for it to appear on TV at 4 AM. But that wasn't good enough for Ann. She kept renting the original prints and projectors and screening all the classic MGM movies for me in her hotel suite. She claimed, "they're for your education, Glen," but I know she wanted to see them. And why not? She was amazing and gorgeous and hysterically funny.
We saw the famous ones of course, but I urge anyone who wants to pay tribute to this great lady to go out and rent Reverly for
Mickey was out for a show and the understudy was on. The show was dying. Ann came running to me before the show and said, "Glen, it's awful. We have cheese all over our face." "Annie, it's egg." She said, "Cheese, egg, it's all poultry."
Thursday, May 15, 2003
SINGULAR SENSATIONS: Program Notes
Necessity is the mother of invention and in the theater, the “necessity” is usually a lack of money and the “invention” is usually how-the-hell-do-you-do-a-great-show-for-50-cents?
My partner Angelo and I were executive producers of a new Arts Center in Pennsylvania and the one thing all art centers have plenty of is no money. Their budget forced us to figure out a way to present the Broadway performers we loved for the money they had.
We came up with an idea of doing an “un-plugged” evening. No set, a great star, two stools and me at the piano (because we couldn’t afford a band.) I would interview the artists and when we got around to talking about a musical they were in, I would play the piano and they would sing. Sort of like the Actors Studio interviews done as a musical.
Patti LuPone was the first artist to agree to do this. Even though Patti and I spent time working out the interview, on stage, she was completely spontaneous and surprising. I knew most of the stories about her shows, but she had me in stitches when she started relating the indiscretions on the floor in her dressing rooms. I knew we were on to something.
In fact, to be completely honest, deep in Pennsylvania, a lot of the audience wasn’t really sure who Patti was. But it didn’t matter. They loved the feeling of intimacy, the stories, the gossip and the way we were both connected when I played. They felt as if they were watching friends have a good time together, and indeed they were.
As it happened, two Broadway producers were in the audience that night (they obviously were going to Tangelwood but made a wrong turn at 209.) They suggested we take the format to NYC and perform it at a theater with different stars each week.
So now, here at The Village Theater, I get a chance to talk to all of my favorite, legendary people, hear the stories I’ve always wanted to hear plus get the chance to accompany them. And this time, I get paid. Although I would have done it for free. (Don’t tell the producers.)
My partner Angelo and I were executive producers of a new Arts Center in Pennsylvania and the one thing all art centers have plenty of is no money. Their budget forced us to figure out a way to present the Broadway performers we loved for the money they had.
We came up with an idea of doing an “un-plugged” evening. No set, a great star, two stools and me at the piano (because we couldn’t afford a band.) I would interview the artists and when we got around to talking about a musical they were in, I would play the piano and they would sing. Sort of like the Actors Studio interviews done as a musical.
Patti LuPone was the first artist to agree to do this. Even though Patti and I spent time working out the interview, on stage, she was completely spontaneous and surprising. I knew most of the stories about her shows, but she had me in stitches when she started relating the indiscretions on the floor in her dressing rooms. I knew we were on to something.
In fact, to be completely honest, deep in Pennsylvania, a lot of the audience wasn’t really sure who Patti was. But it didn’t matter. They loved the feeling of intimacy, the stories, the gossip and the way we were both connected when I played. They felt as if they were watching friends have a good time together, and indeed they were.
As it happened, two Broadway producers were in the audience that night (they obviously were going to Tangelwood but made a wrong turn at 209.) They suggested we take the format to NYC and perform it at a theater with different stars each week.
So now, here at The Village Theater, I get a chance to talk to all of my favorite, legendary people, hear the stories I’ve always wanted to hear plus get the chance to accompany them. And this time, I get paid. Although I would have done it for free. (Don’t tell the producers.)
Wednesday, August 21, 2002
Good For The Jews
I’m really glad that time of year is over: the time when He went into Jerusalem, when He was tried, and when too many people still believe my ancestors had Him crucified. (The old Lenny Bruce routine keeps playing in my head: “I admit it. It was my family. I found a note in the basement saying, ‘We did it,’ signed Uncle Morty.”)
In America, it’s hardly mentioned at all. It’s just a quiet little undercurrent, barely perceptible. Times they have a’ changed.
But not in England where I spend a lot of time. And certainly not at that bastion of serious entertainment, the English National Opera.
I’ve just returned astonished by a performance of Bach’s St. John’s Passion. Not from the glories of the music, which are numerous, or the physical production, which was terrific, but by the portrayal of the Jews, who, in this version are a particularly vengeful, hateful mob dressed in clearly contemporary clothes and shouting “Crucify! Crucify!”
This anti-Semitic staging ran through the entire piece. At the final curtain, there were no cries of outraged indignation, no screams to call the B’nai Brith Anti-Defamation League, no boos and hisses. Just heartfelt applause from the grateful audience.
In this day of political correctness, the Jewish choir being so clearly and joyously portrayed as the Christ killing-villains was a shock. In a nice opera house? Was the audience blind? Insensitive? Or simply so accepting of the stereotype that it was merely Easter as usual.
This was the first time I’ve heard the piece in English, not in its original German. Having the anti-Semitic epitaphs sung in my native language intensified my emotions. When over a hundred performers bellowed sarcastically, “We hail Thee, King of the Jews!” coupled with the spitting, cursing, and venomous expressions, it all felt so hateful. And hurtful. Reading the Gospel is one thing, but hearing it sung full-out felt so much more intense, which is, of course, the entire point of taking a text and turning it into a musical work. But at what price?
After the performance, I asked my companion if he felt anything strange about the portrayal of the Jews. He said very innocently, “Oh no. That’s the story. We’ve been listening to it since childhood.” And people wonder why synagogues are still being desecrated.
Over the years, I’ve always felt that being too PC was almost reverse discrimination. I’d hear myself screaming at the TV when a politician was clearly going over the top, “Com’on. Get off it!” But that was before I saw and heard Bach’s English-singing Jews. Maybe being too PC is a good thing.
I’ve seen many productions of The Merchant of Venice. They never bothered me. The old biblical movies never bothered me. This production did and I believe it encourages and dignifies anti-Semitism. Go ahead; call me too politically correct.
Of course, the rebuttal is clear: “It’s the Gospel; it’s Bach.” I know all that. I also know the original opening of Showboat began with “Niggers all work on the Mississippi.” In subsequent versions, it was smoothed out to “Darkies.” The current version of the score starts with “Here we all work on the Mississippi.” Although the black folk are still “totin’ dat barge,” it’s obviously better. (Although there were still plenty of protests at the recent revival.)
There were similar references in Porgy and Bess. No more. They have been totally excised from the score and playing versions.
Do you change great art to be politically correct? (Is this akin to painting fig leaves over masterpieces to conform to the mores of the times?) Do I advocate deleting the references to the Jews in Bach’s work? I don’t know. What would be more palatable? Is there a nice euphemistic way of saying, “Jews?” Hebrews? The Mob? You guys? Would that fix anything?
Of course not. Anti-Semitism would still exist. Racism would still exist. Bigotry would still exist. Would the power of the piece be diminished? Would it feel less Biblically accurate? (As if Biblical accuracy is even a possibility!)
As a writer, I’m particularly sensitive to any form of censorship. It’s ridiculous to ban the piece (and certainly the audience had no problems with it.) Should we not stage it and only do it in its original form? Or only perform it in German so this overly sensitive American is not offended? Should there be a program-warning saying this Passion may offend certain minorities? These are all ridiculous solutions. I don’t have a good one.
Living in America and especially being from New York City, I guess I’ve always been insolated from any type of anti-Semitic theatre. This production could never be contemplated by a New York Opera house let alone produced. I’m certain there would be a public outcry.
So, it was a strange and terrifying experience seeing the audience complacently sit there and not even notice that a horrible stereotype was being perpetuated.
The person I went with said I over-reacted; it was only an Oratorio. It happens every year. The music is beautiful. He said it wasn’t even worth writing about.
And yet.
I can picture my grandfather, a devout music lover who listened religiously to the Met Broadcasts every Saturday, walking out of the Coliseum shaking his head saying, “This is not good for the Jews.”
In America, it’s hardly mentioned at all. It’s just a quiet little undercurrent, barely perceptible. Times they have a’ changed.
But not in England where I spend a lot of time. And certainly not at that bastion of serious entertainment, the English National Opera.
I’ve just returned astonished by a performance of Bach’s St. John’s Passion. Not from the glories of the music, which are numerous, or the physical production, which was terrific, but by the portrayal of the Jews, who, in this version are a particularly vengeful, hateful mob dressed in clearly contemporary clothes and shouting “Crucify! Crucify!”
This anti-Semitic staging ran through the entire piece. At the final curtain, there were no cries of outraged indignation, no screams to call the B’nai Brith Anti-Defamation League, no boos and hisses. Just heartfelt applause from the grateful audience.
In this day of political correctness, the Jewish choir being so clearly and joyously portrayed as the Christ killing-villains was a shock. In a nice opera house? Was the audience blind? Insensitive? Or simply so accepting of the stereotype that it was merely Easter as usual.
This was the first time I’ve heard the piece in English, not in its original German. Having the anti-Semitic epitaphs sung in my native language intensified my emotions. When over a hundred performers bellowed sarcastically, “We hail Thee, King of the Jews!” coupled with the spitting, cursing, and venomous expressions, it all felt so hateful. And hurtful. Reading the Gospel is one thing, but hearing it sung full-out felt so much more intense, which is, of course, the entire point of taking a text and turning it into a musical work. But at what price?
After the performance, I asked my companion if he felt anything strange about the portrayal of the Jews. He said very innocently, “Oh no. That’s the story. We’ve been listening to it since childhood.” And people wonder why synagogues are still being desecrated.
Over the years, I’ve always felt that being too PC was almost reverse discrimination. I’d hear myself screaming at the TV when a politician was clearly going over the top, “Com’on. Get off it!” But that was before I saw and heard Bach’s English-singing Jews. Maybe being too PC is a good thing.
I’ve seen many productions of The Merchant of Venice. They never bothered me. The old biblical movies never bothered me. This production did and I believe it encourages and dignifies anti-Semitism. Go ahead; call me too politically correct.
Of course, the rebuttal is clear: “It’s the Gospel; it’s Bach.” I know all that. I also know the original opening of Showboat began with “Niggers all work on the Mississippi.” In subsequent versions, it was smoothed out to “Darkies.” The current version of the score starts with “Here we all work on the Mississippi.” Although the black folk are still “totin’ dat barge,” it’s obviously better. (Although there were still plenty of protests at the recent revival.)
There were similar references in Porgy and Bess. No more. They have been totally excised from the score and playing versions.
Do you change great art to be politically correct? (Is this akin to painting fig leaves over masterpieces to conform to the mores of the times?) Do I advocate deleting the references to the Jews in Bach’s work? I don’t know. What would be more palatable? Is there a nice euphemistic way of saying, “Jews?” Hebrews? The Mob? You guys? Would that fix anything?
Of course not. Anti-Semitism would still exist. Racism would still exist. Bigotry would still exist. Would the power of the piece be diminished? Would it feel less Biblically accurate? (As if Biblical accuracy is even a possibility!)
As a writer, I’m particularly sensitive to any form of censorship. It’s ridiculous to ban the piece (and certainly the audience had no problems with it.) Should we not stage it and only do it in its original form? Or only perform it in German so this overly sensitive American is not offended? Should there be a program-warning saying this Passion may offend certain minorities? These are all ridiculous solutions. I don’t have a good one.
Living in America and especially being from New York City, I guess I’ve always been insolated from any type of anti-Semitic theatre. This production could never be contemplated by a New York Opera house let alone produced. I’m certain there would be a public outcry.
So, it was a strange and terrifying experience seeing the audience complacently sit there and not even notice that a horrible stereotype was being perpetuated.
The person I went with said I over-reacted; it was only an Oratorio. It happens every year. The music is beautiful. He said it wasn’t even worth writing about.
And yet.
I can picture my grandfather, a devout music lover who listened religiously to the Met Broadcasts every Saturday, walking out of the Coliseum shaking his head saying, “This is not good for the Jews.”
CITY SECRETS: London/New York
JACK THE RIPPER WALKING TOUR
I know this sounds as corny as the wax works at Madame Taussaud’s, but trust me, it ain’t. It’s my favorite walk offered by The Original London Walks, the group that organizes hourly tours with subjects ranging from “Charles Dickens’s London” to “Princess Diana’s London,” from “The Old Jewish Quarter Tour” to the “Beatles Magical Mystery.” Show up at the Tube Stop, meet your guide, pay your £4 and you’re off. In two hours, see and learn more about London than most Londoners will ever know in a lifetime. “Jack The Ripper Haunts” meets Sunday nights at 7:30 PM at the Tower Hill Tube and is led by Donald (the world’s leading “Ripper-ologist”) Rumbelow. He escorts his group through the East End of London describing in gory detail the wheres and hows of each murder finishing at “The Ten Bells,” the pub where the prostitute-victims drank their final pints. Despite initial protestations from visiting friends, they invariably return to my flat in a Victorian frenzy saying, “That was the best thing we’ve done in London.”
SHAKESPEARE’S GLOBE
Fact: theatre is better in London. Don’t argue. It’s true. They take it more seriously, young people go, and despite the protestations from artists that it is under-funded, the government gives the institutions buckets of money. The most astonishing theatrical experience takes place at the Globe, a recreation of Shakespeare’s playhouse, the “Wooden ‘O’” itself. What initially seemed to the cognoscenti (or “luvvies” as they’re called over here) a potentially Disney-fied experience has proven the opposite. To hear an actor deliver a Soliloquy directly to the Groundlings from a bare stage with only the sun for illumination redefines Shakespeare; in fact, it redefines theatre in general. It almost makes any theatrical innovation since 1595 seem obsolete and twee. Who needs scenery, lighting, helicopters, when you can connect, one on one, with the most glorious poetry ever written? Granted, not every actor is great, not every production is flawless, but, as a rule, these are life-changing experiences. Especially for a theatergoer.
Glen Roven
The Dakota
When I was kid trying to escape the monotony of Flatbush, I’d take the D train across the bridge each Saturday to the place I really belonged: Manhattan. Despite all the mysteries and glories I discovered , I remember the rush I got walking up Central Park West and coming upon that behemoth of a building for the first time, that German Gothic, French Renaissance, English Victorian cacophony called the Dakota. Of course, I didn’t know the architectural styles when I was 15. I only knew this wasn’t Brooklyn. This wasn’t Flatbush. This was glamour. This was sophistication. This was Manhattan. Although half-shutters mask the first floor windows, you can still peer into an apartment or two, now as then; I was dazzled by the enormous rooms, and the spectacular architectural details. I remember wondering, “Who lives here? What kind of people can be surrounded by this luxury.”
Of course this was before December 8th, 1980 when John Lennon was killed outside. Now tourists come by the score to pay their respects and /or gawk. But, when I first discovered the building, it’s pop-culture claim to fame was that it was was where Rosemary’s Baby was set.
The Dakota was designed by Henry Hardenburgh who also designed the Plaza Hotel. Legend has it that it was called the Dakota because it was so distant from the then urban hub. About ten years ago the grime of New York City was sandblasted away and now, instead of the black sooty color I remember, it’s a camel-hair tan. It seemed more gothic, more foreboding with the dirt, but I still can look at it for hours in amazement: the moldings, the terra-cotta panels, the corner pavilions and the story book gables and roofing.
Don’t try to penetrate its court yard. The ever present guard knows exactly who should be there and who shouldn’t. The apartments are for Yoko, Betty, Rex, Mia, and their friends. But we, the mere mortals, can still marvel at the magnificence. I’ve lived on the Upper West Side for over twenty-five years, but every time I walk down 72nd Street , I still become the 15 year old from Brooklyn, gazing up in amazement at my favorite building in New York.
I know this sounds as corny as the wax works at Madame Taussaud’s, but trust me, it ain’t. It’s my favorite walk offered by The Original London Walks, the group that organizes hourly tours with subjects ranging from “Charles Dickens’s London” to “Princess Diana’s London,” from “The Old Jewish Quarter Tour” to the “Beatles Magical Mystery.” Show up at the Tube Stop, meet your guide, pay your £4 and you’re off. In two hours, see and learn more about London than most Londoners will ever know in a lifetime. “Jack The Ripper Haunts” meets Sunday nights at 7:30 PM at the Tower Hill Tube and is led by Donald (the world’s leading “Ripper-ologist”) Rumbelow. He escorts his group through the East End of London describing in gory detail the wheres and hows of each murder finishing at “The Ten Bells,” the pub where the prostitute-victims drank their final pints. Despite initial protestations from visiting friends, they invariably return to my flat in a Victorian frenzy saying, “That was the best thing we’ve done in London.”
SHAKESPEARE’S GLOBE
Fact: theatre is better in London. Don’t argue. It’s true. They take it more seriously, young people go, and despite the protestations from artists that it is under-funded, the government gives the institutions buckets of money. The most astonishing theatrical experience takes place at the Globe, a recreation of Shakespeare’s playhouse, the “Wooden ‘O’” itself. What initially seemed to the cognoscenti (or “luvvies” as they’re called over here) a potentially Disney-fied experience has proven the opposite. To hear an actor deliver a Soliloquy directly to the Groundlings from a bare stage with only the sun for illumination redefines Shakespeare; in fact, it redefines theatre in general. It almost makes any theatrical innovation since 1595 seem obsolete and twee. Who needs scenery, lighting, helicopters, when you can connect, one on one, with the most glorious poetry ever written? Granted, not every actor is great, not every production is flawless, but, as a rule, these are life-changing experiences. Especially for a theatergoer.
Glen Roven
The Dakota
When I was kid trying to escape the monotony of Flatbush, I’d take the D train across the bridge each Saturday to the place I really belonged: Manhattan. Despite all the mysteries and glories I discovered , I remember the rush I got walking up Central Park West and coming upon that behemoth of a building for the first time, that German Gothic, French Renaissance, English Victorian cacophony called the Dakota. Of course, I didn’t know the architectural styles when I was 15. I only knew this wasn’t Brooklyn. This wasn’t Flatbush. This was glamour. This was sophistication. This was Manhattan. Although half-shutters mask the first floor windows, you can still peer into an apartment or two, now as then; I was dazzled by the enormous rooms, and the spectacular architectural details. I remember wondering, “Who lives here? What kind of people can be surrounded by this luxury.”
Of course this was before December 8th, 1980 when John Lennon was killed outside. Now tourists come by the score to pay their respects and /or gawk. But, when I first discovered the building, it’s pop-culture claim to fame was that it was was where Rosemary’s Baby was set.
The Dakota was designed by Henry Hardenburgh who also designed the Plaza Hotel. Legend has it that it was called the Dakota because it was so distant from the then urban hub. About ten years ago the grime of New York City was sandblasted away and now, instead of the black sooty color I remember, it’s a camel-hair tan. It seemed more gothic, more foreboding with the dirt, but I still can look at it for hours in amazement: the moldings, the terra-cotta panels, the corner pavilions and the story book gables and roofing.
Don’t try to penetrate its court yard. The ever present guard knows exactly who should be there and who shouldn’t. The apartments are for Yoko, Betty, Rex, Mia, and their friends. But we, the mere mortals, can still marvel at the magnificence. I’ve lived on the Upper West Side for over twenty-five years, but every time I walk down 72nd Street , I still become the 15 year old from Brooklyn, gazing up in amazement at my favorite building in New York.
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