Saturday, June 24, 2017

Douglas Messerli | "Going/Gone Crazy" (on Partch: Windsong")

going/gone crazy
by Douglas Messerli

The Harry Partch Ensemble Partch: Windsong / performed at Redcat (Roy and Edna Disney/CalArts Theater) at the Walt Disney Concert Hall / June 23-24, 2017 / the concert I attended with Pablo Capra was on June 23, 2017

I last reviewed the music of Harry Partch, also at a concert at Redcat, on May 29, 2009, when the Partch Group performed “Dark Brother,” “God Lonely Man,” Yankee Doodle Fantasy,” “Isobel” and “Annah the Allmaziful” (the last two based on James Joyce and Lewis Carroll),  and his important Sprechstimme-like work Eight Hitchhiker Inscriptions. I promised at the end of  that review, which appeared in My Year 2009, that I would be soon attending other concerts of this eccentric American composer’s work.

      In the 8 years since, that group has performed in Los Angeles several times—including at Redcat—and has garnered several Grammy nominations and awards, adding to the number of their performers as well as recreating several new Partch-invented instruments, while adding works by other contemporary composers to their repertoire. I can’t exactly explain why it has taken me so long to return to Partch’s music, but I was pleased to attend a performance the other evening of the newest event, “Partch: Windsong” with my editorial assistant Pablo Capra, and, by accident, my dear friend Deborah Meadows.

       Actually, after hearing last night’s sell-out concert I did perceive why I had not immediately decided to return to the works of Partch. Despite the sort of Americana energy Partch’s work conveys, there is, as I described to Pablo, also a sort of corny, kitsch aspect to his work, particularly in the first act of this new concert which featured his 12 Intrusions from 1950. Some of these fascinating “songs” are based on classical dramas and others on Chinese poems, but many of them, such as “The Letter” come from an American heartland sensibility that might remind one of a sort of cynical version of Frank Capra, wherein the American everyday man is heartily, if somewhat negatively, celebrated.
     In “The Letter” the narrator relates an epistle that recounts his unhappy marriage “by the shot-gun,” and his following incarceration, after which, upon his release from jail, he wishes for his wife’s death.
     Other pieces call up visions of “a rose,” “a waterfall,” and “a crane,” all with Partch’s standard employment of fretted strings and heavy percussion, including his remarkable BooBams played by Nick Terry, and Bass Marimba, performed by T J Troy. If it’s all extremely entertaining, particularly, as performers, including the great experimental pianist Vicki Ray (playing, in this case, chromelodeon and canons), rush from instrument to instrument, there is, nonetheless, something slightly embarrassing here about Partch’s “downhome” aesthetic, the same kind of “aw-shucks” kind of sensibility of his memorable Hitchhiker Inscriptions. Charles Ives’ love of the circus and American parades immediately spring to mind; but here the California on-the-road sensibilities replace the more effete New England traditions of the older American composer.
      The wonderful exception in this first “act” was Partch’s memorable Ulysses at the Edge of the World of 1962, performed with baritone saxophone by Ulrich Krieger and trumpet by Dan Rosenboom.  That work alone would be worth the ticket to the concert.
       But then, the “second act” was even more amazing, particularly given the encyclopedic orchestration of Windsong, the score of Madeline Tourtelot’s 1958 art-house film of the same name—performed in its Los Angeles premiere—that encompasses all the startlingly beautiful instruments displayed on the Redcat stage (in a brief speech, John Schneider called for financial support for the group’s recreation of the final few instruments that Partch had created so that they might perform other such restorative works).
     Windsong, as the program notes suggest, is “a collage of sounds,” but it is also a bravura performance of the players, as they rush from instrument to instrument, from chamber bowls to chromelodeon, from canons to kithara and spoils of war, while the diamond marimba and bass marimba pound out the impressive rhythms of the piece. The Redcat audience couldn’t resist the work.
      What followed, a stunningly beautiful piece by Partch’s close friend, gay composer Lou Harrison, Suite for Cello & Harp (1948), was like a dessert that salved the ears after the rambunctious Windsong. I almost cried with the weeping laments of Caleb Yang’s cello and the strangely percussive accompaniment of the harp. This short piece, as far as I was concerned, might have gone on forever, and audience members could not resist the standard silences between movements.
      The final work in the concert, Partch’s Sonata Dementia represented the pure  mania of the composer’s sensibility once more, as he studied the very notions of psychological problems, including schizophrenia, paranoia, and numerous other diagnosed mental problems with Bass Marimba and the Hypobass, while, in the last passages, performer T J Tro chants "Mumbo jumbo, hocus pocus, hoity toity, etc.” and every other possible set of words one might apply to madness, using its professional terms along with the common mockings of the conditions it brings to light.
      Here, we see the kind of Partch “madness” that led many contemporary pop-artists such as Iggy Pop and the Stooges to his music, and helped them to take Partch’s art (whom Iggy Pop openly acknowledges influenced his compositions) into their later punk rock works. My friend, Pablo sent me just three links to Iggy Pop’s works, but they are absolutely revealing. You need just listen to Iggy Pop’s “The Passenger” and his “I’m Bored” to immediately comprehend the remarkable transition of Partch’s down-and-out American colloquialisms into the entire punk movement. The writer of Partch’s “The Letter” is only a step away from crying out “I Wanna Be Your Dog” who might almost be screaming out the dissociative lines from the composer’s “Dementia Sonata.” Ultimately, the entire culture, without always knowing it, took up Partch’s strange isolate compositions to express the new generation’s anguish.

Los Angeles, June 24, 2017
Reprinted from USTheater, Opera, and Performance (June 2017).

Friday, June 23, 2017

Monday, June 19, 2017

Robin Gibb and the Bee Gees | Close Another Door [link]

If you want to hear want Robin Gibb and the Bee Gees might have been instead of the pop-gum singing group them became, you might listen to "Close Another Door" from 1981.

Douglas Messerli | "Power Speaks Lies" (on Kamala Sankaram's Thumbprint)

power speaks lies
by Douglas Messerli

Susan Yannowitz (librettist), Kamala Sankaram (music) Thumbprint / presentdy by by LAOpera Off Grand and presented by Beth Morrison Projects, at REDCAT (Roy and Edna Disney/CalArts Theater) in the Walt Disney Concert Hall / the performance I attended was on Sunday, June 18, 2017

Kamala Sankaram’s 2014 opera, Thumbprint, produced in LAOpera’s “Off Grand” series at Redcat from June 16-June 18, 2017, is an eclectically composed work that offers a great many theatrical delights.

       First of all, the true-life story upon which it is based is centered upon the moral courage of a young Pakistan woman, Mukhtar Mai, whose young 12-year old brother, after swimming nude in a local river, was accused by the ruling city Mastoi tribesmen of having an encounter with a young girl of their group. Although the boy denies their charge—and we never do know if any actual meeting of the two even occurred—the family members imprison him and demand an “honor” trial. It is strange that they describe this as an issue of “honor,” when it actually involves the greatest dishonor possible, demanding that a woman of the offending family come to the family leader to plead for her relative’s release.

       The young, fairly carefree and yet obedient Mukhtar—who makes her living by embroidering and teaching young students the Koran—offers to plead the family’s case. After all, they are only a poor family, and when the wealthy Mastoi speak, as the libretto makes clear, power can easily tell lies. “If the Mastoi say the sun is shining in the middle of the night or that the moon is shining in noon light of the day, it is so. There can be no question.”
       It is clear that Mukhtar fears the plea she has undertaken, and her father rightfully demands that he must accompany her to the Mastoi home, since his daughter is a virgin and, accordingly, is not permitted to visit areas outside their neighborhood.
      Apparently, the family does not recognize that the entire charge against their son is part of an age-old tradition in which, after such an honor charge, the female—in this case the young  daughter—is brutally raped, in a kind of gang-bang attack by all the younger brothers. After being so dishonored, moreover, the female is expected to commit suicide, or in the tradition of other honor killings, to be killed by her own father or brother. It is all, as we later learn, part of a barbaric tradition based on the notion of an eye-for-an-eye, or, to put it another way, a method in which the powerful keep their poorer neighbors in their place while allowing the sexual release of their youth.
       In this particular 2002 incident, however, the young Mukhtar, although at first contemplating suicide, is, seemingly, supported by her parents, who insist that she remain, in their love, alive. As she gradually gains an righteous anger, moroever, she develops a kind of power which allows her to contemplate reporting the event to the police. But when the perpetuators simply laugh at her intentions, the family members themselves begin to doubt their support of their daughter, and her mother, father, and even her loving sister demand that she remain within the tradition by killing herself.
       One of the haunting themes of this short opera is how Makhtar, under such cultural pressure—as the Mastoi men mock, who will now buy her embroidering, who will send their
 sons to her to learn the Koran?—continues to grow, moving along one of several “roads” she is forced to take as she attempts to bring her case to justice.
     Justice in Pakistan is very much a matter of who has the power, and, obviously, the Mastoi demand that she admit to her dishonor by signing a document which the uneducated girl cannot even read. A local magistrate assures her of fairness, but the document he demands she sign, is completely empty. Besides, the girl does not even know how to sign her name. The traditional method of signing for women, so the authorities tell her, is to imprint her thumbprint upon the page. After a great deal of inner doubt, Makhtar does apply her thumb to the magistrate’s empty  document, and her case eventually comes to court, with the Mastoi insisting, of course, on tradition, suggesting that if they are found guilty half of Pakistani men will go to prison.
     Almost amazingly, the judge, even without the demanded four male witnesses (Makhtar has only her father, the stones, the stars, and her own body as her witnesses) finds the Mastoi family guilty and sentences all the boys to death, one of the very first instances of a rape victim actually succeeding in her claims.
     Since this case and the victim quickly became an international cause célèbre, Makhtar is awarded damages by the Ministry of Justice, also, she is surprised to learn, a woman—money which the girl determines she will use to establish a school to educate not only herself but other wives and daughters (actually some from the same Mastoi family members) of their rights and, through learning the language, how to actually sign their names.
     With such a dramatic, true-life story, it is hard to imagine how Kamala Sankaram, a composer-singer of Indian origin, might have failed to create a riveting work. Indeed her music, representing both Western traditional, John Adams’-like recitatives, and kitar-based rhythms that embrace Qawwali music, along with chanting and percussive hand claps hardly ever fails to please. The music itself seems to sweep the audience up in the story it tells. And the orchestral performers, including Brian Shankar Adler (drums and Indian percussion), Greg Chudzik (bass), Mila Henry (piano and harmonium), Margaret Lancaster (flute), Andie Springer (violin), and Phillippa Thompson (viola) perform quite magically.
      Similarly, all the singers, often playing several characters each, Steve Gokool, Manu Narayan, Phyllis Pancella, Leela Subramaniam, and Kannan Vasudevan, are true professionals who bring to this opera a sense of wonderment. And the composer, Sankaram, as Makhtar, singing in a full-voice soprano who easily moves into high resgisters, certainly brings dramatic energy to the work.
     My only complaints, in agreement with several critics, is that the libretto by Susan Yankowitz, although clarifying what could have been a denser plot, seems to have little ear for true poetry, even though she does, at moments, attempt inner and even end rhymes. But her art is presented mostly in repetition, and one quickly tires of the purposely repeated phrases which stress the major themes of the story.
     Indeed, the story of the chamber-opera seems often more important than the music and singing. And, at many moments, the entire work pushes into the domain of Broadway theater with what Los Angeles Times critic describes as a tendency to belt-out passages as if they were constructs of pop-music. I have never complained about hybrid elements in opera, and have often mentioned my love of theater-opera composers such as Kurt Weill, George Gershwin, and others who have combined jazz with music from numerous other cultures. The problem here is that, in the paring down of the narrative, we sometimes seem to be moving closer to stories of personal celebration as presented in Evita or even Gypsy than the complex pushes and pulls of a poor woman from Pakistani culture who dared to stand up against, not only those who raped her, but the entire traditions in which she had been raised. While we can certainly celebrate Makhtar’s coming-into-full-being, quieter, more introspective passages may have more effectively helped us to comprehend the questions of many of the people around her, “how had she learned to be so very courageous?”
      It might also have helped us to understand Mukhtar Mai more fully if the opera had taken us to her current women’s shelter, set in the same village in which she was raped and where, daily, as she crosses the street in front of her own home—as Dawn, a Pakistani-based paper reports— she is still daily forced to confront the very men who raped her: “When I walk past, they taunt me and make catcalls.” The fact that these same men have now been acquitted in another court makes clear that for such strong women as Mukhtar the road is still a long and arduous one. Mukhtar attended the Los Angeles performances, witnessing the opera based on her life, for the first time, while remaining after the performance, along with the composer, librettist, and director, to answer audience questions and hear their responses.
     Given the phenomenal musical talents of Thumbprint’s composer, we can be certain that we will hear from her again. And I look forward to whatever she creates.

Los Angeles, June 19, 2017