A Dutch medical student, Jelle Pieter de Boer, has produced some stunning photographs of the great violinist, who lives in retirement in Miami.

Two samples.

 

See more here.

People leaving the Barbican last night after the opening Rattle LSO concert faced a row of freesheet hustlers trying to thrust the Philharmonia’s season programme into their hands.

This opportunistic gesture may backfire.

All the who’s who of British arts were at the Rattle concert.

They, like me, may have thought the Philharmonia pitch smacked of desperation.

 

 

The accident happened near Pisa, where he had been performing in a gimmick concert that was conducted by a robot. He appeared to have suffered a head injury. The tenor, 56, was helicoptered to hospital.

He messages:

My dears, I know you’ve been worried about me in those latest hours. I just want to calm you down and tell that I’m pretty fine.

It has been just a simple fall from a horse. If there are no complications, I will probably leave the hospital right today.

Thank you for the many messages i received, I embrace you with affection.

– Andrea

 

Ben Glassberg, 23, has reached the finals of the Besancon Conducting Competition after a polished semi-final performance.

He faces off against a French contender Jordan Gudefin, 28, and a Russian, Ivan Demidov, 26.

Although the youngest of the three, Ben has strong experience as Glyndebourne’s assistant conductor and has already been signed by a smart agent.

 

The maestro, 76 and super-fit, tells Corriere della Serra that this summer’s Aida at Salzburg was his last.

‘I will only conduct opera in a concert staging that does not require a month’s work. I do not have so many summers left. I want to spend them with my family.’

He will, however, conduct Macbeth in Florence next year and Cosi fan tutte in Naples, directed by his daughter, Chiara.

photo (c) Franz Neumayr/Salzburg Festival

The Houston Symphony gave its first concert last night since the Harvey disaster, away from the flooded theatre zone, in a university hall.

Before the conductor came on stage, principal cellist Brinton Smith addressed the audience:

‘Good Evening, On behalf of my fellow musicians and all of us at the Houston Symphony, let me start by saying how unbelievably happy we are to be back again with all of you. To those of you in the audience and throughout the city who have had their lives turned upside down by this historic storm, you have our deepest sympathies. And beyond all of the personal losses, the storm also disrupted so much of the rhythm and life of our city, so we owe a great debt of gratitude to Bob Yekovich and our friends at the Shepherd School of Music for allowing us to be here for the next three weeks, to begin to bring beautiful music back to Houston.

During the long weeks of waiting, we have been organizing groups of volunteer musicians to play for our homeless and displaced citizens at the evacuation shelters. This has been a powerful and moving experience for us; being able to connect personally with Houstonians in their time of need, and seeing the power of music to transport people away from their troubles and remind them that beauty will return to their lives.

As we were finishing a performance at the Brown convention center, one of the volunteers asked us to come play for an evacuee who was blind and alone, and had been unable to calm down for days since being brought to the shelter. Seeing her reaction to hearing a Mozart string quartet reminded me that music connects our hearts and minds in a way words never can.

 

 

Like the city we represent, 12 of our own musicians had serious flooding, some of them losing everything. But some of these musicians, even after losing almost all their own possessions, still volunteered to go perform for others. In many cities, such extraordinary selflessness might make them unusual. In our city, it makes them typical. Among the many worthy causes that so many have supported so generously, we also have a musicians emergency fund for those musicians onstage suffering great losses, we believe strongly in the Mayor Turner and Judge Emmet’s relief fund for general relief, and we also deeply appreciate support of our symphony’s annual fund.

We chose to make these concerts free because we want to bring beauty back to everyone in our city, but we, too, will need help rebuilding. So many in our city lost so much, some of which can never be replaced. But we found something too, something about our city that I think we sensed, but maybe never fully realized before. This is a special place. There is nothing special about the swampy heat, the traffic, or the mosquitos, but there is something very special about our people. In a city with deep traditions, full of people from every nation and every walk of life, you might expect the dividing lines of our nation to be seen most clearly here. But instead we are united by the unyielding and unbreakable kindness, humanity and compassion of our fellow Houstonians.

We are sometimes told that Houston is a microcosm of what American will be in 30 years. May we be so lucky… Disaster can take many of the things we hold dear from us, but loss also refocuses our attention on what is most important. We enter life with nothing, we leave life with nothing, and looking back, the moments that mattered most are the ones we shared, the moments in which we connected.

We hope that the beautiful, powerful and hopeful music we play tonight will free you from the stress of this past month and help connect you with the immortal beauty in our shared humanity. Like our citizens, the musicians of your Houston Symphony come from around the country and around the world. We love what we do and we’re proud to be musicians, but tonight, there is nothing that makes us prouder than to be Houstonians- to be your musicians, playing for you in an orchestra built by, and for, the extraordinary, generous and compassionate people of Houston. Thank you and enjoy the concert.

A long queue jamming the Barbican entrance suggested either a security alert or a total sell-out for Sir Simon Rattle’s opening concert with the London Symphony Orchestra.

It turned out neither was the case. Despite the biggest media campaign for a music director in London memory, I counted two dozen empty seats and quite a few more given away to BBC freeloaders (why aren’t the BBC made to pay for free seats?). The great and the good of the British arts world turned out for the occasion.

The all-English programme was ambitious, daunting even. It looked better on paper than it sounded.

Helen Grime’s fanfare commission occupied a landscape somewhere between Birtwistle and Maxwell Davies without asserting personal ownership of the space. Thomas Adès’s showpiece Asyla has wonderfully effective gestures but leaves listeners struggling for a structural thread.

The star work was Harrison Birtwistle’s violin concerto, insouciantly tossed off by Christian Tetzlaff who made light of its tremendous physical demands. It featured some breathtaking interplay with, tripping happily to the front one after another, the LSO’s principal flute, piccolo, oboe and bassoon.

After the interval, we heard Oliver Knussen’s third symphony, written in his 20s when he was the coming thing and stuck in the indeterminate 1970s. The piece has not worn well.

A performance of Elgar’s Enigma Variations, which UK orchestras can play in their sleep, was distinguished by some fine pianissimi in the upper strings and a heart-melting solo from principal cello Rebecca Gilliver, earning her a smacking kiss from the conductor in the first round of applause.

The LSO played like the LSO, neither greatly elevated nor accelerated by Rattle’s constant facial exhortations. Rattle remains Rattle, weathered by his Berlin years and rather more comfortable in his skin, but still relying on physical exuberance to reach for that elusive high.

First nights are never a good test of love. This relationship needs time to bed in. But to pretend that this concert was epic, auspicious, historic or whatever, as some (but not all) reviewers have rushed to do is to mistake image for substance – which, I came away thinking, was what this concert was all about. Throughout the event, the audience faced two screens that proclaimed ‘This is Rattle’, except when the man himself appeared in short videos, delivering polished soundbites about the music.

Not a concert that will linger long in the memory. There will be better nights.

 

Our diarist Anthea Kreston was rushed to a Berlin hospital this week. It felt like back to the future.

I started feeling funny Saturday morning. The most curious thing was that, when I went to the breakfast in our glorious, stately hotel, snow-peaked mountains and roaring river outside my room, (quartet was in Italy for a concert), I didn’t go through the buffet like a category 5 tropical storm.  I am a total breakfast beast, and my colleagues know to give me a wide berth, as I can be embarrassing to be associated with during a morning meal. On Saturday, I was normal, and ate the same amount as the other humans in the room. “Funny”, I thought to myself. 

The rehearsal and concert went off without a hitch, although I was quite spaced out and was dizzy when I left the stage. I decided to not go to the after meal (another blaring red light – for the love of all things good, I was in Italy – how could I pass on a meal invitation?).

I promptly lay down on the green-room table – a long wooden affair – as no couch was in the room, and fell asleep, within moments – until a knock on the door woke me — colleague was delivering some food to me – a festive collage of greens in a deep, a-symmetrical dish. I felt like a wet blanket had been put on top of me – I was flabby, dizzy, nauseous, and had a headache. 

I pride myself on my heartiness – I am a reliable, solid person who actively cares for her health, and I have very high expectations for myself and my responsibilities to others. I haven’t cancelled anything in this past year – I can  push myself though anything, normally. But I knew I was heading down – I quickly called the Deutsche Oper, with whom I was supposed to start rehearsing with on Monday, and told them it would be wise to look for a substitute, just in case my hunch was right.

I fell asleep again on our way to the airport, and made a nose-dive to a horizontal position as soon as I got home to Berlin. I stayed mostly in bed (which is very hard for me to do) the next day, and I began to feel discomfort – physical.  On Tuesday, the doctor found a large, infected cyst, and put me directly into a cab for the Emergency Room. My first German Hospital experience. 

I was scared, a little overwhelmed, and in pain – Jason was able to get a last-minute replacement for his orchestra for the week, and friends came over to help with the girls while he juggled things. It is such a nice feeling to finally start building our web of interconnectedness here – people who can help out, and people we can help out. We are not so alone anymore. 

 

 

The hospital was very different from my American hospital experiences. I was bounced like a pinball from one office to waiting rooms, emergency and form-filling out rooms. The hospital itself was not “done-up” like the American versions, no fountains outside, no coffee stands or televisions or gift shops or walls of glass or plush couch areas. Everything was basic, just benches and walls. And everything seemed kind-of — how do I say it — like a 1950’s movie of a hospital from “some foreign land”.  The caulk on the walls was visible, the paint was not fresh, there was no art, and a lot fewer beeping machines.

My oldest sister, who lived for years in Paris, was texting me constantly (I was alone – Jason had to be home to take care of the girls). She said, don’t worry about what it looks like. All that matters is what is inside of their heads, their medical knowledge. 

The nurse showed me my room, a triple (as of now only one other person was in there).  She explained that I could pay for a private room, but I figured, if this is how they do it, I can do it too. I had just enough time to say hello to my roommate, text Jason goodbye, and lock up my wedding ring and phone before I was rolled away. This was happening fast. 

Being put under general anesthesia is no small matter. The complexity of monitoring – a breathing tube is inserted after you are under, blood pressure and heart are under constant watch – a controlled coma. When I woke up I was shaking all over, my throat hurt, and for some reason I was crying. The nurses tucked me in with a warmed up blanket, and gave me a Kleenex. Then the male nurse plugged his phone into the speakers and put on some 80’s classic rock. So silly but very nice (not sure how all the others in the post-op liked it, but the nurse and I had a pleasant little sing-along).

Back to my roommate – and an overnight at the hospital. Jason and the girls were waiting as I came out of the elevator – flowers, comfy blanket, stuffed animals, markers, my books, and Sudoku. They loved looking through all the cupboards in my room, hearing about my surgery, playing with rubber gloves. 

My floor was an interesting mix – babies were getting born next door, and women of all ages were recuperating or preparing for surgery. All night long, my fitful sleep was punctuated by the first sounds of babies entering this world, nurses and new mothers coo-ing and pacing, our own nurses coming in to check wounds and vitals. It was wonderful, actually, to have a reminder of the full circle of life. My roommate was a delicate, older woman. All night long she was a one-man-band of creative digestive eruptions. Sometimes it sounded like she was spelunking, others like she was triumphantly heading for the exit after winning the 2017 International Hot-Dog-Eating-Competition.  One was so percussive it woke me with a jerk, and I smashed my hand catheter against my bed railing. 

The other thing – in the States they are so concerned with privacy – those curtains in the rooms, attached to rods along the ceiling, changing rooms – not the case here!  There was no privacy – my roommate and I were face to face, and the doctors and nurses just whipped off those covers and dived in, privacy be damned!  

This was a place where your body was being fixed. You don’t need fancy wallpaper, glass sculptures, a latte or magazines.  Or walls of computers at the nursing stations, for that matter.  There are pencils and paper, tape, printers and envelopes. You are there to get well, and I felt that – the quickness and sensitivity of the staff and doctors, the no-nonsense, get ‘er done approach. They explained that there was now a “cave” where my cyst used to be, they removed a duct – it will fill with blood and drain – keep an eye on it and come back right away if anything begins to hurt in a new way. 

Jason picked me up today, settled me in a nice quiet nook at home, delivered toast, tea and eggs to me.  He gave me a little speech on the way home – no running around, carrying heavy stuff (one of my favorite things to do), working. I know this is the hardest thing for you – just stay put and we will take care of you.

So here I am, propped up and writing my diary, camomile tea at my side. Gosh, this will be fun!

From Mark Swed’s LA Times review, titled ‘Yo Yo Ma does the impossible at the Hollywood Bowl’:

 

The Hollywood Bowl shell was lighted midnight blue. The amphitheater was probably kept as dark as the fire marshal would allow. Few of the more than 17,000 seats were empty.

Then for two hours and 40 minutes Tuesday night, Yo-Yo Ma played all six of Bach’s solo cello suites straight though, with just a 10-minute pause in the middle.

The master cellist had never played these suites for a crowd so large, he later confirmed …We need Guinness World Records to determine whether, as I suspect, that this was a record, a larger crowd than any before to hear a performance of all six suites. But whether it was or not, the concert proved an unquestionably great, memorable Bowl occasion….

Not sure which bit the headline writer found impossible: the length of the recital with just a ten-minute break, or the size of the crowd for solo Bach.

Read on here.

 

Photo (c) Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times

AskonasHolt, who manage the Philadelphia conductor Yannick Nézet-Séguin, have quietly signed up his assistant Kensho Watanabe after the young man’s heroic jump-in last April.

 

The Venezuelan conductor Rafael Payare has cancelled Cologne with the Mahler Chamber Orchestra next week to undergo eye surgery.

He will be replaced by Lorenzo Viotti.

 

 

The Register Guard of Eugene, Oregon, reports that the University has agreed to pay Matthew Halls $90,000 after brutally sacking him as artistic director of the Oregon Bach Festival.

The deal is that neither side will say bad things about the other for two years and that both will give 24 hours’ notice before speaking to media.

This shambles just gets worse and worse.

The University, having failed to say why it sacked the unblemished Halls, is now throwing money at him to buy silence. This is neither good governance, nor good use of public money. The vastly overpaid Provost ought to face questioning by state authorities.