Friday Photo 2025/42

 

pumpkins

San Francisco Performances: Jeffrey & Gabriel Kahane

Last Friday I was back at Herbst Theater for a dual concert with the Kahanes, père & fils, presented by San Francisco Performances. It was actually their season-opening gala (sort of, as it was preceded by a couple of other concerts), though I was there only for the concert (there was a dinner which was a separate ticket). In fact when I bought my ticket last spring I'm not sure I realized it was part of a gala. I just like the Kahanes.

Gabriel emceed with his usual genially askew humor. He started by saying he was surprised when the gala was suggested to him, as he didn't think he had that level of glamorous renown (my phrasing, not his), until he realized that maybe if you put him together with his father the combination was enough to qualify as a gala host. And indeed most "galas" feature big star performers, usually in something light &, this is important, short. That's one reason I generally avoid galas. But having the Kahanes host is offbeat enough to say good things about San Francisco Performances, & their attitude, both serious & playful, to what they do: expect musical surprises & artistic pleasures, not boldfaced names & fancy attire (actually, a lot of the audience was more dressed up than the performers, who wore basically black jeans & long-sleeved t-shirts, which is what I was wearing, so I did not feel out of place).

The program was mostly announced from the stage. As the concert slipped into the "past performances" archive on SFP's website, it was not updated with the playlist, as I had thought it might be, so I'm going  by memory here. They opened with three "composed folk" songs, sung by Gabriel to piano accompaniment by Jeffrey (& I apologize for the obnoxious use of first names, but it seems like the easiest way to distinguish them under the circumstances). The first was by Bob Dylan. I didn't recognize that, or the others, though I liked them.

Gabriel referenced the current insanity under which we live with some musical settings of the words of Robert F Kennedy Jr. He prefaced these by quoting the latest bit of wacky WTFery from that source: that autism (which the Secretary seems a bit obsessed with) is caused by circumcision. (Which is why all Jewish men & many of us gentiles are autistic – my joke, not Kahane's –sorry if it's in bad taste, but it's difficult to know how to react in face of the firehose of free-associative madness we're sprayed with daily.) Gabriel has a bit of a specialty in these witty & appealing settings of found texts, as witness his celebrated Craigslistlieder & his Fleischlieder. This set lived up to their predecessors. One was a parody of the much-parodied William Carlos Williams poem apologizing for eating the plums in the icebox (so I guess not quite a found text in this case) & another was a setting of RFK Jr's admission or boast about having a brainworm. It was epic.

Jeffrey played several short pieces on piano. There was a Mendelssohn "song without words" (which could describe a lot of the piano pieces; both the classical & the folk-ish fit in beautifully with each other). I think there was also a Schumann piece? We had what Gabriel referred to as the lightning round, in which the two men traded off piano solos, segueing seamlessly from one to the other, fortunately without intrusive applause (the audience was attentive & appreciative, which also set this apart from other "galas"). I think it was right before or after this that Jeffrey told Gabriel that his iPad (Gabriel's, which his father was using) had locked out & all the passwords he guessed (birthdates, &c) had failed. I couldn't tell at first if this was an entertaining bit of business or, you know, reality. It turns out it was the latter. In a bold move, Gabriel gave his father the password out loud on stage. I forgot it immediately (I'm not a numbers guy), so if any of you happen to end up with Gabriel Kahane's iPad, you're on your own breaking the code.

There was a long song to a text by Matthew Zapruder. Very appealing, though it was dense & long enough so that it was difficult to take it all in on first listen (this is far from a criticism, by the way). I think then Jeffrey played one of the Schubert Impromptus.  Then came the only officially announced portion of the program: the world premiere for two pianos of one of the movements of Heirloom, a piano concerto Gabriel had written for Jeffrey. There was a funny & charming story attached to the movement's title: during the pandemic, Gabriel's very young daughter would only eat chicken, & she used to play in a pretend vehicle her mother had made out of a big cardboard box. So the movement, which was bright & sprightly as well as funny & charming, was named Vera's chicken-powered transit machine. (The original piece has been released by Nonesuch records so you can hear the whole thing, & let's support our artists by buying their art!)

There was one encore; Gabriel announced he would leave us with some Joni Mitchell. She is loved by many whose opinions I respect (including, apparently, the Kahanes) but I do not hear what they're hearing in her. I decided I would try to listen with neutral ears, as if I had not heard the name. I don't know if I succeeded in that or not, as I found it the weakest piece of the evening. No harm done, as it had been an engaging & interesting 90 minutes. The respect & love between father & son was palpable & it was a pleasure sharing in their music-making.

Museum Monday 2025/41

 

detail of Landscape with Pan and Syrinx by Paul Bril, now at the Legion of Honor

Friday Photo 2025/41

 

detail of a mosaic at the Castro Valley Marketplace (the mosaics are the work of artist Rita Soyfertis)

Museum Monday 2025/40

 

detail of Rain Garden Zag IV by Louise Nevelson, now at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art (SFMOMA)

Friday Photo 2025/40

 

geraniums

San Francisco Symphony: Runnicles conducts Berg & Mahler

Last Saturday I was at the second of three performances of Alban Berg's Seven Early Songs & the Mahler 1, with Donald Runnicles leading the San Francisco Symphony. It was a magnificent performance of an excellent program (such are starting to stand out on the Symphony schedule, crowded as it is with attempts to turn these superb musicians into a back-up band for pop groups or soundtrack-suppliers for recent movie hits that already come with perfectly fine soundtracks), & a welcome return to this area for Runnicles, fondly remembered by many (including me) for his work across the street at the Opera House.

The program opened, as you might expect, with the Berg songs, with mezzo-soprano Irene Roberts as soloist. She swept out looking exceedingly glam in her broad-hemmed pink gown. I don't know why the pink surprised me (pleasantly), but it did. Perhaps at some level I was expecting something more somber, for no particular reason. Roberts was in splendid voice, rich & intimate in these crepuscular & shifting songs. As anyone who has been in Davies knows, it is what is kindly called a barn: a vast, not very attractive space with notoriously iffy acoustics. The miracle of this performance was the intimacy Roberts & Runnicles with the orchestra created, the almost hushed immediacy of a direct, heart-to-heart communication, drawing in even those rows back from the stage. I always love the works of the Second Viennese School, but this was really a performance to cherish.

After the intermission we had the Mahler 1, sometimes still known as the Titan, though it's a nickname the composer jettisoned. The familiar music unfolded magnificently, implanting itself newly into my memory (I've been replaying parts of it in my mind for days). What struck me most about the whole thing was the flow & the timing: it never seemed too fast, too slow, too hurried, stretched out, but all perfectly balanced. I loved it, but I have to say, I preferred the Berg. Perhaps the triumphant overcoming of obstacles at the symphony's end, however inspiring to listen to & even theatrically thrilling to see (when the horn players stand), – the "Titan"-esque romantic heroness of it – that doesn't quite resonate with me, especially in this moment, so grim politically as well as in other ways. It is the questing, inclusive, neurotic Mahler that I respond to more, at least these days, & these are qualities found with greater strength, I think, in Mahler's other works.

My anxieties aside, I was deeply grateful to have heard this performance. And of course the subtext here is "the San Francisco Symphony is not doomed" (or maybe, "the San Francisco Symphony is not doomed – yet"); its current administration will forever be branded as the ones who didn't bother to keep Esa-Pekka Salonen,  & it remains to be seen where they'll steer this ship, but in the meantime, we are given this generous & triumphant performance.

San Francisco Performances: Mark Padmore & Paul Lewis perform Schumann

San Francisco Performances opened its season with an all-Schumann program, performed by tenor Mark Padmore & pianist Paul Lewis. I am always happy to hear all three gentlemen.

The first half opened with the Four Hans Christian Andersen Lieder, Opus 40, followed by Liederkreis, Opus 39; after the intermission (which Padmore charmingly referred to in the British way as "the interval"), we had Dichterliebe, Opus 48 – as the opus numbers might tell you, all 33 songs we heard were composed in roughly the same period: according to the program, 1840, the year Schumann finally managed to marry Clara Wieck. Despite the officially happy circumstances of the composer's life at the time, many of these songs are haunted & afflicted with loss. Make of that what you will; of course there is the old warning about answered prayers, but the inner creative impulses of the artist don't always reflect his outer circumstances, even for the Romantics. How could anyone expect something titled Dichterliebe – poet's love – to be straightforwardly happy?

After the opening Andersen lieder, Padmore spoke briefly about the affinity Schumann felt for the writings of that odd spinner of tales. He also mentioned that Schumann was basically a pianist, & we should think of the songs not as verse set to music but as music with words attached. The pellucid playing of Lewis was indeed a highlight of the evening, sparkling & insightful.

With his finely etched features & patriarchal silver beard, Padmore looks like a High Gothic sculpture of one of the prophets, which lends an interesting dimension to some of the songs, such as the solemn conjuration of Cologne Cathedral in Dichterliebe. It seemed to me, with my very limited knowledge of German, that he pointed the words with expressive power, plaintive when needed, thundering on occasion. (I would very much like to hear him sing a program entirely in English.)  The usual adjective applied to British tenors, reedy, doesn't seem out of place; I find it a pleasing quality. And though I have heard these songs sung with more plush tones, given the intellectual & aesthetic integrity & emotional commitment displayed here, the merely plush can seem almost a limitation of what the music contains.

As Padmore pointed out, it's difficult to come up with an encore that could follow Dichterliebe, so he sang one of the four songs that were strangely omitted form the official compilation: Dien Angesicht.

I found it all very satisfying, though the woman behind me managed to make astonishing amounts of noise with her program. I really don't understand this. All the songs are printed there, in the order in which they're sung. Why the endless flipping, folding, searching, creasing, crackling? What is so hard to find? As I was leaving, I heard her say to someone, "That was a nice way to end the week" so I felt kind of bad about my irritation.

San Francisco Opera: Dead Man Walking

Last week I went to the second production of San Francisco Opera's season, Dead Man Walking by Jake Heggie & Terrence McNally, based on the book by Sister Helen Prejean about her work as a spiritual advisor to a convict on death row in Louisiana, & how that work changed both of them. The opera had its world premiere here 25 years ago. I saw it then & was impressed by it; a quarter of a century & many, many operas later, I remain impressed by it. It's an especially impressive piece of work when you consider that it was the first opera Heggie wrote. You don't just stumble into such power, though it took considerable insight for those who put the commission together to realize it was implicit in the pleasant young man who had written some pleasing songs.

I think there's often a tendency to be a bit dismissive of Heggie; I have found his music consistently interesting & appealing, elegant though also strong & forceful as needed. I haven't always liked the texts he has set, but although I have some (mild) reservations about McNally's libretto for Dead Man Walking, it is a perfect subject for Heggie (& how did they realize it would be? these are the mysteries of art). He often deals with dark subjects, but I think Heggie is not essentially drawn to darkness, but to the movement from darkness to light. That is why the portrayal of the journey (a key word in this opera) of Sister Helen & the convict Joseph De Rocher seems to me an artistic triumph, whereas Heggie's Moby-Dick left me unsatisfied. I will be the face of love for you is a Heggie sentiment; From Hell's heart I stab at thee! is not.

Interestingly, there are a couple of spots in the opera when the music is muted or silent; the first is in the opening scene, depicting the brutal rape & murder of two teenagers by the De Rocher brothers. After an uneasy trembling opening, the music sort of drops out & what we hear is what's playing on the teenagers' car radio. The silence adds to the tension & horror of the scene; we expect music, but there isn't any.(The orchestra resumes full force in the second scene, showing Sister Helen & Sister Rose (Brittany Renee, a bright & strong presence throughout) singing a hymn with a group of the children they serve at Hope House.) The second time, when we are given not intermittent but complete silence, is during the execution itself. It's an interesting choice, to leave this key moment in silence (not exactly silence, of course, as there really is no such thing; we hear the ominous mechanical metronome-like beeping of the death machinery). It was a controversial choice at the premiere. The musical shock of silence increases our awareness of what is happening. It sets it apart. Perhaps the music is the enveloping social & emotional & psychological bonds of this world, something apart from the cold & silent hand of state-administered death. Perhaps it is only the portrayal of life, not death, that interests the composer.

Heggie's music for this work is strong & encompassing, with distinctive regional touches – old-school hymns, delta blues, some Elvis Presley when the nun & the killer bond over a shared love of the King. Patrick Summers was back to lead the orchestra (he also led the premiere), & led a committed & rousing performance, though he does still have his tendency in moments of high drama to let the orchestra cover the singers a bit.

My reservation about the libretto is the very prominent role given to De Rocher's mother. My views are perhaps colored a bit by a those of a friend who went to the premiere production with me; the mother, a struggling but, in her own mind, well-meaning character, struck some family chimes with my friend, who found her not only weak but emotionally manipulative. (I'm not sure I would go quite that far.) Mrs De Rocher was the role taken at the premiere by Frederica von Stade, & of course if you have the opportunity to write for such an artist you're going to seize it, but I felt then & again now that the part could be trimmed back a little. This is no reflection on von Stade or on Susan Graham, who created the role of Sister Helen 25 years ago & has returned to give a touching & truthful portrayal of the mother. But I think we discover what she has to say fairly quickly & some of her time & space would maybe be better spent with the parents of the two victims, who, outside of one powerful ensemble, have little to say or do (with the partial exception of the murdered girl's father, in a complex portrayal by Rod Gilfry).

There really is no answer to the opera's debate, which officially is about justice versus vengeance versus mercy, but really is a surging emotion-driven whirlwind of helpless pain on the part of everyone: the mother who cannot believe the beloved little boy she raised committed such horrible acts, the parents who know their children were cruelly robbed of life, the nun who is trying to figure out a way, guided by her understanding of the teachings of Christ & the Catholic Church, to move them all to a place of understanding, forgiveness, & love. These are impossible tasks, &, as with the John Adams / Alice Goodman The Death of Klinghoffer, no matter where you think you stand on the people & issues portrayed, you're going to feel a bit discomfited, which of course is the point.

I don't see this as an "issue opera" about the death penalty; it's pretty clear, from what we're shown, that it is unjust & inequitable. The drama is more about the struggle to understand & to connect along the way. We the audience have seen what De Rocher did, but he denies it, blaming his brother (who had a better lawyer & got off with a life sentence). But is he simply withholding the truth to avoid giving a justification to those who want to kill him in turn? Was he too drugged out to remember what exactly happened? How far should Sister Helen believe him? And has she, as the victims' parents charged, ignored them in favor of a sentimental identification with an evil man? (She realizes she has made a mistake in not reaching out to them, but, as I noted earlier, I think the opera makes the same mistake in not giving them more prominent voices.)

So here's a little sidelight on the struggle for community & connection & understanding: the couple seated behind me were, at least initially, awful. They kept whispering loudly back & forth; one of them snickered at Sister Helen's description of a nun as "the bride of Christ" (perhaps they had never heard this common metaphor? in any case, it's part of the strange power, illustrated also in the opera, that the celibate hold over the imaginations of people). I gave them The Glare during the whispering, & finally turned around & briefly shushed them, which I am very reluctant to do (if the problem is noise, the solution is not more noise, but I could not face having to listen to their inane chatter for the next three hours). The guy exploded at me. I think he told me to fuck myself; he definitely called me a prick (which struck me as an odd, almost charming word, one not heard much these days). After that they did both shut up for the rest of the opera, fortunately, but there you sit pondering connection & community & forgiveness while being attacked in a theater for letting people know you are there to hear the performers & not some random clown in the audience. Such is the strange interplay between theater & life. Why is life so much more trivial?

Back to the drama on stage. I have already mentioned some of the performers, though not the leads.  Jamie Barton gave us a strong Sister Helen, whose struggles with others (notably the prison's recalcitrant chaplain, skillfully portrayed by Chad Shelton as both smooth & gruff) & with herself provide the heart of the drama. She was matched by the Joseph De Rocher of Ryan McKinny, whose strong physical presence masked a recessive & evasive persona that finally gives way, under Sister Helen's influence, to a place of humility & compassion. I've mentioned Rod Gilfry as the murdered girl's father; Caroline Corrales played her mother, & Nikola Printz & Samuel White the parents of the murdered boy, & as mentioned I would have liked to have heard more from them. The entire cast was strong, & the multi-level, cage-like set is extremely effective. Dead Man Walking is, I believe, the most-performed of contemporary operas; this production was a powerful reminder of why this work has already held the stage for a quarter century, & is likely to continue doing so for many more.

Museum Monday 2025/39

 

detail of Bacchus & Ariadne by Corneille Van Clève, an early eighteenth-century French bronze now in the Legion of Honor