Marilyn Forever, composed by Gavin Bryars on a libretto by Marilyn Bowering, received its U.S. premiere last Saturday evening via Long Beach Opera. Whether the world in fact needed another artful meditation on the life and death of Marilyn Monroe is open to debate. It has in any case been given one. Marilyn Forever must be judged a success on its own terms, and the production that has been devised by LBO artistic director Andreas Mitisek shows it to greatest advantage, with richness and detail to burn.
Bowering has based her libretto on her 1987 poetry collection, Anyone Can See I Love You, so its methods are those of a free-form song cycle more so than of dramatic narrative. The poems frame a multiplane view of the figure of Marilyn Monroe as she contemplates or re-dreams her life at the time of her death. The well-known beats are revisited: her lonesome childhood as Norma Jean Mortenson, stardom and sex appeal, the marriages to Joe DiMaggio and (particularly) Arthur Miller, singing "Happy Birthday" to the President, her fatal embrace of drugs and alcohol, and so on. Through those reflections, Bowering searches for the woman within the archetype, and reintroduces us to her as one (to paraphrase The Smiths) who was human and who needed to be loved, just as anybody else does.
Bryars' score is for two small groups: an onstage trio of piano, saxophone and bass, and an eight-piece pit ensemble of low strings, winds and percussion. The composer himself played the bass part at Saturday's performance. The primary musical line slips with agility between the two groups of players, the trio deploying a 1950s-styled mix of jazz (saxophone solo included) and popular song styles and the pit orchestra swimming in broad and darksome minor harmonies, riverine and unresolved, melodic by allusion rather than by declaration. It is not difficult to imagine that only modest retooling would be needed to remove the singers—although Bryars has established himself as a gifted writer for human voices—and to reveal an evocative and intriguing instrumental piece.
Marilyn Forever premiered in Victoria, British Columbia, in 2013, and has since been performed in Australia as part of a recent Bryars survey/tribute at the Adelaide Festival. The Long Beach production for this U.S. premiere is entirely new.
As written the opera calls for a cast of four: Marilyn Monroe herself and the "Rehearsal Director," who also serves to represent some of the men (and the role of men generally) in her life, plus a two-man chorus referred to as The Tritones. Director Mitisek's innovation is to divide the role of Marilyn between two singers, one for the brightly hued public star and one for the vexed and troubled private woman.
Mitisek splits the stage as well. A lighted makeup table serves as divider, the public life playing out largely stage right (in front of the jazz trio) while stage left alludes to the guest house bedroom in which Monroe's body was found. Public Marilyn begins the opera in her bedroom, before quickly passing over into the world. Private Marilyn emerges, rather unexpectedly, from beneath the rumpled bedclothes, and never leaves her room with its scattering of old photos and the company of a motley assortment of flasks and bottles. At the opera's end, the two personae rejoin, seated on the bed, still alone but alone together.
Set walls and scrims serve as well as projection screens, bearing posed and candid photos of incidents from Monroe's life as well as live video from the stage. The video originates with several fixed positions, plus handheld cameras operated by the two Tritones. The video overlay is immersive and potent, especially when capturing small details from the stage and juxtaposing them to add point to a larger line or gesture.
Jamie Chamberlin and Danielle Marcelle Bond are, between them, Marilyn Monroe. The division of the part between two singers works so well in this production that it came as a surprise to many in the audience that the role is not in fact written that way. Both performers initially learned the entire role, working out the final apportionment of lines and sequences through exploration in rehearsal. Chamberlin's public star sings in a high register, evoking an enriched and variegated version of Monroe's own singing voice. Portions, at least, of the vocal line assigned to Bond's private Marilyn seem to have been transposed slightly downward toward a darker mezzo range. Each of the singers fully commits to her assigned facets of the character, and each can be said to be First Marilyn Among Equals.
[Update: I have it on excellent authority - Facebook comments from the singers - that in fact nothing was transposed or altered in the score. The role of Marilyn is written such as to encompass both soprano and mezzo: the way in which the part was divided for dramatic purposes served, by happy coincidence, to play to the strengths of the two performers.]
Lee Gregory (the Captain in last season's Death of Klinghoffer) brings admirable clarity to distinguish among the half-dozen (or more) men he is called upon to symbolize, including the gruff but supportive Rehearsal Director, bespectacled and beloved Arthur Miller, and the occasional unsavory Hollywood casting couch type. The Tritones (Robert Norman, Adrian Rosales) ably provide such choral support as the score requires, and they are indispensable to the seamless workings of the video schema.
Opera often concerns itself with retelling old stories and Marilyn Forever—an unfortunate title, really, that makes a serious minded and affecting chamber opera sound like a feel-good jukebox musical—does not hold itself out as offering any new and shattering insight into its subject. That may be for the best: even before her death, and certainly in the fifty-three years since, Marilyn Monroe has been appropriated, claimed, and retooled by so many hands with so many agendas of their own that offering her up as no more than a human woman alone with herself is less a reduction than it is a show of respect.
Marilyn Forever receives a final performance at the Warner Grand Theatre in San Pedro (albeit without the composer as a player) on Sunday, March 29, 2015, at 2:30 p.m. Tickets available here.
Photos above by Keith Ian Polakoff, used by kind permission of Long Beach Opera.
[As ever with Long Beach Opera, the blogger attended this performance as a subscriber, at his own expense.]
A bonus photo: the actual Marilyn, in a smoky nightclub situation in the company of Donald O'Connor and Cole Porter, at the Coconut Grove in the Ambassador Hotel, January 1953.
[Long Beach Opera will give the U.S. premiere of Gavin Bryars' opera Marilyn Forever on Saturday, March 21, with the composer among the musicians. For the occasion, I am re-posting my earlier thoughts on Bryars and his music. This post originally appeared on March 19, 2011, at a fool in the forest under the title "A Ramble on Gavin Bryars".]
On any given day over the past five years or so, if asked to name my favorite living composer, there is every likelihood that my answer would be: Gavin Bryars. That being the case, it is a surprise to me that I have never written about him here before, apart from a single reference in connection with the late Merce Cunningham. Time to remedy that omission, says I.
This post can also be taken as a long-delayed response to the question posed by A.C. Douglas back in late 2009: "OK, Who the Hell is Gavin Bryars?" I've known the answer for a good long while, but never written it down.
The impetus or excuse for my finally posting on Bryars is a newly released collection built around the premiere of his Piano Concerto -The Solway Canal in the company of two other pieces that turn out to be the entirety of Bryars' work for solo piano. Released through Naxos, the recording features Ralph van Raat at the piano with, for the concerto, the Netherlands Radio Chamber Philharmonic and Capella Amsterdam under the direction of Otto Tausk. I will return to Mr. van Raat in due time below.
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Gavin Bryars emerged in the early 1970's, with avant-garde credentials to burn. His preferred personal instrument is the double bass, and for a time he moved in the heady jazz circles around guitarist Derek Bailey. On the more classical side of the musical ledger, he put in time working with John Cage in New York before connecting with Cornelius Cardew back in London. In his own right as a composer, Bryars drew notice when the initial release on Brian Eno's (short-lived but important) Obscure label consisted of what remain (largely via later versions) two of his best known works: The Sinking of the Titanic and Jesus' Blood Never Failed Me Yet. In retrospect, Bryars' involvement in the ten Obscure discs is arguably second only to Eno's own: Bryars' compositions appear on four of them, and he conducts or plays on at least two more. He is credited as co-arranger, with Eno, of the three deconstructed versions of Pachelbel's Canon in D that form Side 2 of Discreet Music, the first recording by Eno in the now-inescapable "ambient" music style.
As the Obscure work suggests, 1970s-era Gavin Bryars was a composer working in the non-linear, frequently non-tonal, systems-driven or minimalist style of the day. The Sinking of the Titanic, in its original form, was more of a sound environment than a "composition" in the traditional sense: ship's bells, engine noises and recorded interviews with Titanic survivors fade in and out as a chamber ensemble plays distorted versions of the hymn tune ("Autumn") reportedly played by the ship's orchestra as the vessel went down. From those indeterminate, abstracted elements, Titanic emerges as a surprisingly emotional, elegiac work. Bryars has revisited and retooled it on several occasions for differing sorts of ensembles: the ship itself having been located and explored since the original version, he has characterized the piece now in part as the sound of the orchestra reemerging from its resting place below. The Sinking of the Titanic can run an hour or more in length, but my personal favorite is the compact 15 minute version Bryars devised in 1985 for the Smith Quartet. Via the rather over-large player below, you can listen to a live recording of a 2008 Titanic performance by the Wordless Music Orchestra, under the direction of Brad Lubman:
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Gavin Bryars' post-1970s music abandons most of the trappings of the stereotypical avant-garde and has moved into a more solidly neotraditional/postromantic realm, embracing tonality and even melody, albeit with a sufficient quantity of edgy bits and "wrong" notes to mark the work as contemporary. One of the standard tropes of speculative fiction is the existence of infinite parallel universes, some of which are exactly the same as our own in every way but one: for example, a universe in which redheaded people have blue eyes and only blue eyes, or in which dogs purr and cats chirp, but which in every other way is the same as what we know. Gavin Bryars' music comes from one of those nearby parallel worlds, sounding perhaps like something we have heard before until, on closer inspection, it is revealed as something slightly removed from our experience.
There is a pervasive slightly melancholy tone throughout Bryars' music. Album covers for collections of his work seem to favor cold weather and misty Hebridean distances. His is a northern muse, at home in the chill and the damp.
When Ezra Pound dictated to the Moderns that they should "make it new," he did not have in mind only the creation of "new" work in modes never seen or heard before. He also encouraged, particularly in his own work, a sort of aesthetic archaeology by which older forms, such as the songs of the troveurs, were brought into the contemporary light and seen as if for the first time. The project of Gavin Bryars is on those same lines: he very consciously engages in an ongoing dialog with music history and traditions, whether by picking the lint of ages from potentially outworn materials and placing them before the listener afresh—as in his ongoing exploration of madrigals and medieval laude songs or his In Nomine (after Purcell), in which Purcell's gorgeous 6-Part In Nomine is folded origami-like in upon itself—or by cross-referencing seemingly unrelated streams of musical thought—By the Vaar, an "extended adagio" for double bass and orchestra, includes a segment of improvisation and was written for jazz bassist Charlie Haden, and the object of homage in the double piano piece My First Homage is Bill Evans.
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Although his music tends to the relentlessly serious, there is a place in it for humor and the absurdity of odd juxtapositions, as in his deliciously odd collaboration with the late Spanish artist Juan Muñoz on A Man in a Room, Gambling. The piece consists of ten five-minute segments, originally intended to be broadcast on the radio at odd hours of the night. In each segment Muñoz, as our host, teaches a new skill in the handling of playing cards, specifically how to manipulate the cards to the "gambler's" advantage by dealing from the bottom, secreting extra cards for himself, and so on; how to cheat, to put it bluntly. Each lesson is accompanied by music for a five-piece string ensemble. The music is earnest, even somber, seemingly unrelated to the sordid little tips being offered up by the host. Listening to the "broadcasts" is disorienting, as attention shifts back and forth between the two parallel performances, not wanting to miss the "good parts" of either and trying, largely in vain, to reconcile the two. In 2008, the Tate Modern presented a Juan Muñoz retrospective including performances of A Man in a Room by the composer and members of the Gavin Bryars Ensemble, and included this video preview of the piece:
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Now, then: To return to the ostensible catalyst of this post, let's consider the new Ralph van Raat piano disk. As mentioned above, this disc collects the entirety of Bryars' compositions for solo pianist. He has written for piano previously, but those works have generally called for more than one piano or more than one pianist, or both. (Two pianos, eight hands? Try Out of Zaleski's Gazebo, a very witty piece combining churning minimalist patterns with recurring and unexpected intrusions of a theme drawn from Percy Grainger. There is video of a performance here, marred somewhat by muddy sound quality.) So, at this writing, the Bryars solo piano works are three in number: a Piano Concerto, subtitled The Solway Canal after one of the two poems whose texts are incorporated in it; a new solo piano piece, Ramble on Cortona, written for van Raat in conjunction with the composition of the concerto; and a piano revision of a 1995 piece originally written for harpsichord, After Handel's Vesper.
The centerpiece here is obviously the concerto, which received its premiere in February, 2010. The work was commissioned in part by the Borletti-Buitoni Trust, which produced this precursor video at the time of the commission in 2006:
Four years later, in an essay following the premiere, van Raat writes:
I think the Piano Concerto by Gavin Bryars takes on a unique place in piano concerto literature. First of all, because it has a rather uncommon orchestration of piano solo, orchestra and choir. Second, because the piano takes on a role which is quite radical: virtuosity is not anymore defined by playing as many notes as possible, but by another element which I think is, at times, overlooked by musicians and composers: that of complete 'control' over the instrument. Control, in my opinion, not only means being able to control technically difficult passages, but also means being able to play just a few notes as one wishes, i.e. with the right colour, tone, intention and dynamics. I think the concerto is challenging, because one cannot hide himself or herself in technical display. Here it comes down to playing relatively few notes in such a way, that they start to mean something, and that they move people. Gavin asks for an intrinsic way of music making, which is averse from musical acrobatics. Especially nowadays, in which very flashy television and radio make many people used to needing just very short attention spans, this piece forms an interesting counterpart, which we generally are not used to anymore.
And that sums it up nicely. The Solway Canal is not a flashy showpiece for the soloist, spattering runs and crescendos round the hall, but an extended collaboration between soloist and ensemble, with long, organic lines of thought twining through and about it. The piece is not explicitly programmatic, but it has been rightly compared to watching a passing, shifting landscape or perhaps to slowly walking the length of a scenic panorama. As van Raat notes, the scoring is not only for orchestra and piano, but also for a male chorus. (Bryars has written frequently for chorus, and similarly incorporates one into his Double Bass Concerto, subtitled "A Farewell to St. Petersburg.") The chorus, at three junctures in the single-movement work, sings texts drawn from two sonnets—"The Solway Canal" and "A Place of Many Waters"—by the late Scottish poet, Edwin Morgan (d. August, 2010), and it is perhaps those stern and watery vistas that are best evoked by this music. Throughout its darkly thoughtful progress this is a Piano Concerto that holds attention moment to moment with a sense that we cannot anticipate what will come next, other than to know with confidence that it will charm and satisfy.
Bryars has posted the texts of Morgan's sonnets on his exemplary website, but that site seems to be undergoing maintenance at this writing, rendering those pages temporarily unavailable except in their cached version.
Those with the skills to do so can examine portions of the score here.
With no orchestra or chorus to flesh them out, the two solo piano pieces included here make room for a bit more ostentation and flourish, but still marked by a laudable degree of restraint.
As mentioned above, After Handel's Vesper was originally written for harpsichord. It is "after" Handel in both the temporal sense and the sense of operating under the earlier composer's influence. Intriguingly, Bryars' notes on the piece reveal that the "Vesper" on which it is modeled is a fictional one, referred to in a novel by Raymond Roussel, in which Handel composes it "by a curious set of chance operations involving sprigs of holly and coloured ribbons." Bryars did not use chance operations in the composition of his piece, but consistent with period practice he has left the performer room to improvise ornamentation as he or she is moved to do so.
Percy Grainger coined "ramble" as his term for variations on an existing theme, and Gavin Bryars adopts it for his Ramble on Cortona. The title refers to the Cortona manuscript [Il Laudario di Cortona], a 13th century collection of laude, a form of unaccompanied song usually on a sacred subject. Bryars has been setting selections from the manuscript for a variety of vocal and instrumental combinations in recent years, and is apparently bent on eventually setting all of the fifty-odd laude it contains. For his "Ramble," he selected a handful of themes from earlier vocal settings, transferred them to the piano and set about working variations upon them. The result is the equivalent of examining a fine gem through a series of lenses, fresh facets emerging with each new refraction.
If I wanted to pick just one Gavin Bryars recording as an entry point for someone not already partial to Bryars' music, it would likely be the CBC Radio Orchestra performances collected on I Have Heard It Said That a Spirit Enters, which—not nearly so portentous as its title suggests—gives a slightly better sense of Bryars' full range and which includes his revelatory meditation on the so-called Porazzi Fragment of Wagner. That being said, this new Solway Canal collection has much to recommend it as a starting point as well, and will certainly provide ample satisfaction for those of us already converted to the astringently seductive pleasures Gavin Bryars' music has to offer.
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Bonus Video 1: The Greek premiere of the original harpsichord version of After Handel's Vesper.
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Bonus Video 2: The premiere of Bryars' otherwise unrecorded recorder sextet, A Family Likeness. Bryars is the only major contemporary composer I know of who takes the oft-dismissed recorder seriously as an instrument. A recorder features as well in Bryars' fascinating little piece Sub Rosa, which has been recorded by the Italian ensemble Sentieri Selvaggi.
In the middle of Les Fleurs du Mal, amid the corpses and disease and noise and drink and eroticism of Baudelaire's splenetic chronicle of Modernity, the reader comes upon an oasis of sorts: "L'invitation au voyage." Addressed to "mon enfant, ma soeur" (but in fact being offered on the page to that Reader whom Baudelaire first saluted as "Hypocrite lecteur, — mon semblable, — mon frère!"), "L'invitation..." proposes a journey of escape to a place of languorous beauty and peace, far from the stultifying scenes of the poems around it. The tenor of that longed-for place is encompassed in the poem's famed refrain:
Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté, Luxe, calme et volupté.
It has been variously translated into English. I am partial to Richard Wilbur's version:
There, there is nothing else but grace and measure Richness, quietness, and pleasure.
"Luxe, calme et volupté" serves well to characterize The South Shore, a double-CD set collecting recent music composed by Michael Vincent Waller, recently released on Phill Niblock's XI Records: It is pleasing, it calms what lies around and about it, and it is rich in plan and in execution.
The South Shore comprises more than two hours of solo or small-group pieces, composed between 2011 and 2014. (In an age of vinyl, it would be a three-disk set.) While each of the compositions is compact in itself—the longest runs slightly over 10 minutes, and most last fewer than 6—they cumulatively amount to a major statement. They nourish and satisfy, offering both familiarity and freshness, and they do not begin to cloy even after repeated listening.
The musical rhetoric of these pieces is discursive, instruments addressing the listener in sentences or at paragraph length, melodic propositions laid into place and balance as in an essay by Montaigne. Ideas bloom out of themselves and into successive ideas, logically and with little repetition.
A late Romantic atmosphere predominates, with occasional forays into a cooler pre-Baroque sensibility. Dissonance is uncommon, but also not altogether absent. The music bespeaks an old soul, in the sense that it deploys methods and impulses first explored a century, or two, or three or more ago—modal scales, in particular—in the cause of addressing a contemporary hearer. For those (such as this blogger) who are curious about the technicalities, but who lack the training to place them by ear, helpful liner notes by "Blue" Gene Tyranny identify most of the modes and keys in play.
The South Shore begins with cello and piano and ends with clarinet and gong. Each piece between has its own virtues—there's nary a clunker in the lot—and each listener will likely find selections that speak most clearly to that listener's ears, mind and heart. Among the particular highlights (in the order in which they appear):
"Anthems"— Piano and cello in stately post-Satie dialogue make for a succinct and welcoming introduction.
"Nel Nome di Gesù"— For cello and organ, a two-part sacred meditation with something of the clean-swept asceticism of Arvo Pärt.
"Ritratto"— Often evocative of Purcell or of slow movements in Vivaldi, but written for a distinctly contemporary sextet of flute, alto saxophone, electric guitar, viola, cello and trombone. Simultaneously refined and mystical, worldly and courtly one moment and cloistered the next.
"La Riva Sud"—Appropriately, the piece that lends its [translated] title to the entire collection, and the personal favorite of this blogger. The particular shore the composer has in mind in this duet for viola and piano is the south shore of Staten Island. In the long tradition of liminal pieces, impressions of the outer and inner world inform and mingle one with the other. As Pete Townsend would have it, "A beach is a place where a man can feel/He's the only soul in the world that's real."
"Pupazzo de Neve Partitas"—A four-part suite of dance forms (Allemande, gigue, et cetera) for solo cello. Any composer writing such a thing risks comparison to the great Bach cello suites and Waller's, as played by Christine Kim, hold up creditably well under that weighty scrutiny.
"Arbitrage"— Bass clarinet and gong, concluding the set on a vaporous, nocturnal ramble.
Listening to The South Shore in the background as I was singling out the pieces just listed, I am struck again by the breadth of pleasures it offers. Vraiment, luxe, calme et volupté. Recommended and restorative.
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Incidental matters:
In 1904, Henri Matisse appropriated "Luxe, calme et volupté" as title for a painting of another southern shore, that of France at Saint-Tropez.
Richard Wilbur's translation of "L'invitation au voyage" was set in 1971 for a cappella choir by John Corigliano, whose The Ghosts of Versailles I wrote about earlier this year.
This post is based upon an unsolicited, but welcome, link from the composer to a review copy of The South Shore, and on a subsequently solicited tangible copy.
Gabriel Kahane brought Los Angeles to Los Angeles on the weekend, with two performances at UCLA's Freud Playhouse of the full staged version of his song set, The Ambassador.
That this blogger is a fan of the Ambassador album is no secret. That this blogger was well pleased with the piece in its most fully-realized version will be no surprise.
By rights, this staged edition was the true form of the piece, so that the CD/album/audio-download versions should perhaps be labeled "Songs From The Ambassador." By equal rights, that recorded version is complete and laudable in itself. And, as it will continue to exist through the myriad future days on which the full version is unavailable, it will continue to "be" The Ambassador for all practical purposes. Which is fine: it is a beautiful thing in its own right, and will remain so.
The relationship between the recorded Ambassador and the staged Ambassador is much like that between an excellent wine and a "reserve" version of the same excellent wine, the Reserve not only adding complexity but also bringing clarity to bear, its workings and structures both more multiform and more plainly limned.
Directed by John Tiffany with a set design by Christine Jones, The Ambassador plays out amid vast stacks of books, emulating the high rises and hills that are the topography of Los Angeles and the catalyst of many of Kahane's songs. Scattered through the towering verticals are the musicians' spaces and smaller creations such as a model of the Bonaventure hotel constructed largely of film canisters, or a version of the Capitol Records building made of old slide carousels. [See Christopher Hawthorne's photos, infra.]
The performance is, in fact, something of a Cavalcade of Vanishing Media, its transitional segments incorporating reel-to-reel tape, a small audio cassette boombox, the aforementioned carousel slide projector, handwritten correspondence, and VHS videotape, among other archaisms.
All save one* of the songs from The Ambassador album are included in the stage version, as are three of the additional Kahane songs from the iTunes Haircuts and Airports EP, Jerome Kern's "People Who Live on the Hill" (also on the EP), and the otherwise unreleased "Pauline Gibling Schindler". "Bonaventure Hotel", from the EP, serves as prelude, with Kahane moving a cutout of himself up and up to the peak of the landmark hostelry, all the while spinning out references to themes that will recur in the later songs. With some variation in the midsection, the essential arc of the album is maintained from the entry point of "Black Garden" through the escape hatch of "Union Station," with sudden death on a sunny day at the "Empire Liquor Mart" at its heart.
In addition to the songwriter on piano, other keyboards and (far an affecting "Ambassador Hotel") acoustic guitar, the musicians include Rob Moose (electric guitars) and Casey Foubert (bass)—both core participants on the album—Alex Sopp (keyboards, flute, and vocals), Ted Poor (drums), and a string trio of Laura Lutzke, Nathan Schram and Andrea Lee. The musicians are also players in the implicit drama of the piece, particularly in an intricate dance of arms, hands and fingers accompanying "Empire Liquor Mart," and slowly laying down their instruments and themselves for the closing tableau of "Union Station". (The memorable final image is of Kahane on his knees among the musicians gazing into a glowing book.)
The Ambassador is personal, not encyclopedic, and it is lovely and it is sad. And having come and gone, this version of it has become another piece of the vanished Los Angeles of which it sings.**
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* The omitted song is the zany post-nuclear picnic rom-com "Griffith Park" which, with its Wilson-via- Nilsson harmonies, is the closest anything in The Ambassador comes to Southern California Pop. As he passed through the post-show discussion, Gabriel Kahane allowed as how architecture and books were far larger influences than prior music in his vision of Los Angeles. To the extent the local music does play in, he observed, émigré Europeans such as Schoenberg and Stravinsky loomed largest.
** With only two performances here (half as many as it received in Brooklyn this past December), too few actual Angelenos saw it. Someone should work to bring it back, if only for a full week or two. In subject and in scale, The Ambassador would be a more or less perfect fit for the Mark Taper Forum downtown at the Music Center. Someone get on that, please.
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Photos above taken, under questionable and ill-illumed conditions, and thereafter fiddled about with, by the blogger. Superior photos below. The blogger attended the performance on Saturday, February 28, as a paying customer.
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Los Angeles Times architecture critic Christopher Hawthorne, who contributed valuable liner notes to the Ambassador album, was on hand for a post-performance chat, and he procured and shared, on Twitter, some fine onstage photos.
— ChristopherHawthorne (@HawthorneLAT) March 1, 2015
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[UPDATE 030415 10:00 PST] Gabriel Kahane kindly forwarded to me some photos from the North Carolina premiere run of The Ambassador. Here are two of them, both by Ben Cohen:
I could be mistaken, but I believe Mr. Kahane wore shoes on Saturday evening. It was [comparatively] cold and wet in Los Angeles that night.