Douglas McLennan

This isn’t just pique over a new star launched without the critics’ coronation. Even critics who assailed the Three Tenors notion at least had to acknowledge that each of the singers had important careers. Helfgott, on the other hand, has not won his celebrity through performances, but his performances through celebrity.

The qualities that make a star are hazy. Is Nadia Salerno-Sonnenberg definitely a better violinist than Dmitry Sitkovetsky? Yo-Yo Ma a greater cellist than Janos Starker? Yet Salerno-Sonnenberg and Ma are invited on Jay Leno and Sitkovetsky and Starker are not.

Certain music also radiates charisma. There are some 39 versions of Rachmaninoff’s Third Concerto in the recording catalog, and it is a staple of orchestra programs. But many serious music fans would dispute the movie’s claim that the Rachmaninoff is the most difficult piano piece. Technically tortuous though it may be, your average Bach prelude and fugue or Beethoven concerto is much more musically demanding.

But what those discovering Helfgott, and Rachmaninoff, seem to be attracted to — more than the music or the performances — are their stories. The Rachmaninoff requires such physical exertion it was declared unplayable by Joseph Hoffman, the pianist for whom it was written. And Helfgott’s life is inspiring: David defeats the twin Goliaths of Dad and Rachmaninoff, with the movie version casting the battle in heroic terms.

Rather than being dismayed by the Hollywood-inspired Helfgott phenomenon, critics ought to be pleased. He has already sold more than 100,000 copies of his Rachmaninoff, and reportedly sales of other recorded versions of the Third have picked up in a spillover effect. There is a real connection between getting people in the door with highly appealing classics and having them stick around for more sophisticated fare. Developing taste has to start somewhere, even though many classical “newbies,” as some of the current orchestral program research suggests, rarely venture beyond the “lite” classics.

There is also much to be said for over-the-top personalities and some down-market glitter. The 19th century American pianist Louis Moreau Gottschalk was as famous for his flamboyant persona as for his music. Audiences clamored to see singer Jenny Lind after P.T. Barnum’s promotional exertions. More recently, the film “Elvira Madigan” scored a hit for Mozart’s C Major Piano Concerto, and Bo Derek’s “10″ a groundswell for Ravel’s “Bolero.” “Amadeus” ignited a Mozart cult that lasted years.

True, the world is full of talented pianists, and Helfgott’s playing doesn’t stand out above that of thousands of others. And true, without the movie he likely wouldn’t have a performing career, least of all the sensational one he is having now. Perhaps he is being exploited. But outward indications are that for Helfgott, playing the piano in front of audiences is pure joy — joy that many a musician only dreams about having at this level.

So what’s wrong with getting caught up in that dream, of cheering the story, of celebrating Helfgott’s very real accomplishments? The Helfgott phenomenon isn’t just about music. Besides, surely the classical music world is big enough to welcome legions of new Rachmaninoff fans buying tickets and CDs in Helfgott’s wake. New fans, presumably, who would stick around if something else grabbed hold of their imaginations.

Like virtually every other conservative candidate, Romney has had it — had it! — with government expenditures like public broadcasting, and he wants to save taxpayers money by cutting federal funding to programs like PBS and the National Endowment for the Arts.

There are many good arguments – aesthetic to social to economic – for using public money to fund the arts. There are also arguments – philosophical and practical – for not using public money this way.

But Romney’s threat/promise isn’t about arguments. For the past 30 years, opposition to government funding for the arts has been a rote exercise for conservatives wanting to demonstrate ideological bona fides. It’s not just about opposing arts funding, it’s about actively seeking to defund the arts (two different things). Arts funding is shorthand for a laundry list of evils, from rampant government handouts to profligate spending, suspicious values, and out-of-touch elitism. Framed in these terms, who wouldn’t be opposed? Opposing arts funding checks the boxes on numerous fundamentalist conservative issues.

Because it does, no amount of argument – good things the arts do, what a great return on investment they are, or the mountains of studies designed to convince – makes a whiff of difference. It isn’t about the arts.

It’s a cliché, but true: Those who frame an issue control it. Republicans want to win the support of moral absolutists and those who believe, as Ronald Reagan famously said: “Government is not the solution, it’s the problem.” In this fight, the arts are collateral damage, symbol rather than target. For all the right reasons. The arts are shades, not blacks and whites. The arts are messy collective investment and experiment. They’re about undependable ideas often intended to provoke rather than reaffirm. The arts represent, for a certain class of politician, a threat to “traditional” values.

As long as fundamentalist ideological conservatives are able to define the issue, the arts lose. Period.

I think as long as it’s about money, the arts lose. As long as the conversation starts with funding, the arts lose. Yet that’s where the arts often start; if the debate is about money, then we try to prove what a good investment the arts are.  But the problem with economic impact studies is that if someone isn’t in the market to invest – no  matter how good the return is – they won’t. Concurrently, the problem with arguing aesthetic value is that if the aesthetic values aren’t my aesthetic values, they don’t sound compelling to me.

Conservatives have been successful not because they have a better economic case, but because they make an argument about values. In a time when people are angry over a sour economy and a lack of accountability for those they perceive got us there, they preach caution, living within our means, and trying to impose more responsible behavior. Argued in these terms, again, who wouldn’t sign on?

Against this, how does arguing for public funding for the arts get anywhere? The argument seems so … small … so self-serving. By the time it’s about money, the argument has already been lost. The arts actually are about values. The question is how to argue them before the argument ever gets to funding.

So imagine the shock in classical music circles last summer when the last contestant left onstage was a young American who had never been to music school, had studied with only one teacher in his life, was a German major in college and made his living as a schoolteacher.

Really. There are supposed to be rules.

Now Jon Nakamatsu, a resident of the Bay Area, has quit his teaching job and hit the concert circuit. Despite the Cliburn’s waning reputation, winning one still seems to be the best shot at having a major career. Generous cash prizes are awarded to the winners, but the real prize, delivered as only the Cliburn can, is about 200 concerts in some of the most prestigious music venues in the world, including a Carnegie Hall debut. And the Cliburn Foundation has released a recorded documentation of his prize-winning Cliburn performance (as well as those of silver medalist Yakov Kasman and bronze medalist Aviram Reichert on a companion disc) on Harmonia Mundi.

Out on the concert stump, Cliburn winners don’t cause much of a stir after their first circuit, and in the past they have quietly faded away. (You deserve a Steven DeGroote recording if you can name the past three winners and where they are now.) But Nakamatsu may prove a different kind of winner.

Having heard Nakamatsu in concert and on recording, it’s obvious he is an unusual winner for more reasons than his pedigree. His technical prowess is fine but nothing remarkable — the Brahms C Major Sonata and Chopin “Andante Spianato and Grande Polonaise” on disc and the Chopin, Liszt and a Beethoven sonata he played in a recent recital in Seattle are competent, certainly, but not in any way illuminating. The Beethoven sounded green and immature, its connective tissues showing little natural suppleness, while the Chopin and Liszt were notes and little more. On disc, the Brahms clatters along, making all the required stops but never lingering over the scenery. The “Andante Spianato” is pretty, showing off Nakamatsu’s range of color, but it feels studied.

So what’s the big deal?

Well, in both his Seattle concert and to a lesser extent on disc, Nakamatsu shows himself to be one of the first pianists around to understand modern music from an emotional, rather than intellectual, perspective. Many pianists play the 20th century repertoire, but they generally have to figure it out rather than feel it. Nakamatsu performs Stravinsky’s “Four Itudes” with great elasticity, as if he were feeling his way along, exploring the interesting corners and having fun with its complexities. There’s nothing dry or intellectual about the performance, and the itudes breathe naturally. They resonate in the way Murray Perahia’s Chopin does. The colors and lines make sense emotionally.

It’s the same in William Bolcom’s “Nine Bagatelles” (commissioned for the Cliburn). Nakamatsu threads through the irony and humor as if he fully understood what the composer was after. Bolcom’s aesthetic is more jazzlike — lots of sudden turns of direction that evolve from the music’s organic material. Simply playing it correctly — no matter how well — makes it sound contrived and trite. But Nakamatsu plays with it, has fun with it, and makes it sound fresh and fun. At last, here’s a performer who understands music of our time from his heart rather than his head.

If Pfitzner never became a major composer, it’s because so much of his music
sounds derivative and not terribly distinguishable from any number of faceless
German Romantic efforts that followed the main currents of Wagner, Mahler and
others. Not only was he derivative, but Pfitzner was still gnawing away on
this well-chewed bone in the 1930s and ’40s, decades after the music world had
moved on to other adventures.

But at this year’s Lincoln Center Festival, which concluded last weekend, Pfitzner was the main attraction. This 2-year-old festival not only offered a generous exploration of the
composer’s chamber music, it imported London’s Royal Opera Company for three
performances of his masterpiece, the five-hour-long opera
“Palestrina.” Although the opera has had passionate fans in Germany, it has never been performed in the United States before now, and as such has been the subject of considerable hype.

It is in part Pfitzner’s personal artistic predicament that makes
the story behind “Palestrina” so interesting. Pfitzner casts the 16th century
composer at the center of his opera as the defender of purity and tradition
in the face of a changing world, idealizing him as an artist in the service
of music. The opera is a struggle of ideas and ideals as the great, persecuted
master clings to his principles (no doubt Pfitzner fancied himself living in a parallel universe).

Taking his personal identification with his subject a step further, Pfitzner wrote an occasionally absorbing and spirited debate with himself, making ideas the main protagonists. The
ideas are the stuff of usual German Romantic fare: Where does inspiration
come from? What is the meaning of creating? Of course, there is no real
evidence that the persecution of the real Palestrina for his artistic struggles ever took place, and this conceit is quirky and occasionally clumsy. Predictably, Palestrina comes out on top at the end, celebrated for his accomplishments and winning apologia from his persecutor — certainly a satisfying ending for Pfitzner to write.

About four hours and 50 minutes long, “Palestrina” takes its time
unfolding, especially in the first act, which runs close to two hours. But
director Nikolaus Lehnhoff paced it well, except for a silly scene in
which Palestrina is communing with the ghosts of dead composers (dressed here
like floating crash test dummies in sheets). Tobias Hoheisel’s sets were
fittingly minimalist, in keeping with the production’s stripping away of
excess to let the music speak for itself. The performances by
both the singers and the Royal Opera orchestra (under the direction of Christian Thielemann) were good and featured several fine characterizations.

That said, “Palestrina” is unlikely to enjoy any repeat performances in this
country. Despite the hype and considerable interest within opera circles,
the production didn’t fill the Opera House. And as skillfully executed as it was,
the music didn’t bear the same stamp of personality that the story itself does. But Pfitzner was, as usual, an ace in his festival-reliever role, even if he was the star.

In retirement Janis served a brief stint as director of the Waterloo Festival and, improbably, wrote a musical theater version of “The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” that played briefly on Broadway. In the summer of 1995, Janis discovered drugs that eased his arthritis, allowing him to go into the studio and make this disc of Chopin mazurkas, nocturnes and waltzes, his first recording in 34 years. The disc confirms Janis’ former glory.

Mazurkas aren’t something you can really teach. Sure, the notes are learnable, and most any pianist can wrap his fingers around the basic meter. But there’s something elusive and undefinable about how mazurkas get from their first to their second beats, how that little nudge in the middle of the bar propels the line forward, how a slight hesitation dropped into the accompaniment sets up the melody and lets it exhale. Jazz played from written scores is only an imitation of a feeling; likewise, mazurkas read from the page are plastic flowers at best. The late classical pianist Arthur Rubinstein had it right — less concerned about hitting a few wrong notes than he was about expressing his musicality, he had a way of playing mazurkas that made you smell them before they reached your ear.

It’s natural that Janis has turned to these smaller Chopin works for his return to recording. He has always been strongly identified with the composer, and, like Rubinstein, understands the importance of involving all the senses.

The Mazurka in C Major, Opus 56, No. 2 shimmers along, never in straight lines, set in glinting colors. The Mazurka in C Sharp Minor, Opus 30, No. 4 is a whiff of Polish nationalism. The Waltz in A Flat Major, Opus 69, No. 1 is slightly underplayed, giving it a baggy texture that begs contemplation rather than movement. And the Nocturne in D Flat Major, Opus 27, No. 2 is held sweet in the mouth as it gradually dissolves.

There are as many nocturnes on this disc as there are mazurkas (six), and they, along with three waltzes, are an interesting study in the subtle differences between the three types of pieces — at one end there’s the rhythmic vitality of the waltz, at the other the languorous unfolding of the nocturne. In the middle, ambiguously straddling them both, are the mazurkas.

But surely that is too pedantic a way of classifying these performances that seem so naturally expressed on “Byron Janis Plays Chopin.” Every pianist plays Chopin, but few express him so eloquently.
June 3, 1997

If classical music is going to survive in the modern culture, it has to appeal to new audiences, and Tilson Thomas has demonstrated some early and encouraging success with that challenge. There was genuine excitement a few years back when Tilson Thomas was named music director in San Francisco, for not only is he native-born, he has also been a champion of homegrown music. Since arriving in the Bay Area in 1995, he has courageously and aggressively programmed contemporary fare and audiences have responded positively. A recent survey indicated that 68 percent of the San Francisco audiences are younger than 44 — an astonishingly younger demographic constituency than most orchestras attract.

At a time when other orchestras have been losing their recording contracts, Tilson Thomas quickly got a contract to produce 15 recordings in five years — a significant coup. The Mahler, Copland and Prokofiev discs have all been on Billboard’s bestseller list, and the Prokofiev won a Grammy this year for best orchestral performance.

There’s no question Tilson Thomas is a talented conductor who is tackling interesting projects. Villa-Lobos is an intriguing composer whose prolific output has perhaps daunted potential fans. The four examples of the “Bachianas Brasileiras” on this disc are among the composer’s best and best-known work.

Mahler is hardly under-recorded these days, but “Das Klagende Lied,” among the composer’s earliest compositions, is a rarity. And the Copland disc has some terrific music — the jazzy Piano Concerto with soloist Garrick Ohlsson, and the “Short Symphony,” “Symphonic Ode” and the orchestral version of the famous “Piano Variations.”

Tilson Thomas conducts tight performances, honing a professional edge on the Mahler and the first disc performance of Prokofiev’s “Romeo and Juliet” suite. But for all its polish, the Villa-Lobos is curiously flat, and while the Copland notes gleam, they lack organic purpose. Tilson Thomas’ instincts don’t seem to allow him to linger over unusual contours, and he lacks the rhythmic harmonic weight that marks the best Copland performances of, say, Bernstein.

On an accompanying press video interview, Tilson Thomas talks about “layering” some parts of his recordings track by track, a technique borrowed from the pop world that he says allows a kind of precision that would be difficult or impossible in a performance. Perhaps such studio engineering works well with some music. But perhaps the attitude that drives this approach also accounts for the pre-packaged feel of these performances. There’s no push and pull for control of the musical ideas, nor is there a sense of musical narrative that resolves at the end. The music sounds about as real as the “MTT” campaign, and for all the luscious musical effects, the performances on these first discs are emotionally barren.

Hype is a time-honored American tradition. But hype demands a higher standard of substance to back it up, otherwise the purveyors of hype are likely to fall prey to that other time-honored American tradition — the tearing down of hype.