Jarrett House North

As a cartoon once wrote, “What good is sick leave if you have to spend it being sick?” I’m home today with a random thing that fortunately is showing signs of clearing up, but it’s maddening thinking about all the work I have to do both at the office and here at home and not really being able to touch it.

Ah well. As the Count says in The Princess Bride, “If you haven’t got your health, then you haven’t got anything.”

1. Kronos Quartet, “Forbidden Fruit” (Winter Was Hard)
2. Dexter Gordon, “Gingerbread Boy” (The Complete Prestige Recordings)
3. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, “Details Of The War” (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah)
4. Cascadian Singers, “I. Sometimes with one I love” from “For Comrades and Lovers” (Troy Peters, composer; Walt Whitman, text) (Premiere)
5. Elvis Costello, “Black Sails In The Sunset” (Costello and Nieve: Live At The Supper Club, New York)
6. Spoon, “Take a Walk” (Girls Can Tell)
7. M.Ward, “One More Goodbye” (Old Enough 2 Know Better – 15 Years Of Merge Records)
8. Beastie Boys, “I Don’t Know” (Hello Nasty)
9. Kronos Quartet, “2. November 25, Ichigaya” (Kronos Quartet Performs Philip Glass)
10. Buddy Holly, “What to Do (Overdubbed Version)” (The Buddy Holly Collection)

Long missing from the US catalog of everyone’s favorite moody goths, this reissue of The Top fills in a void in the CD discography of the Cure—since it was never issued on CD in the US in the first place. But many Cure fans who are hearing it for the first time will find it a puzzling listen. Twenty-two years after its issue, it remains a profoundly unsettled disc that documents a band in transition (and indeed, a band mostly consisting of one member, Robert Smith himself).

My previous review in the Cure reissue series, of last year’s rerelease of Faith, noted that “the darkness that flowered on Faith is what many still consider to be the Cure’s classic sound,” and while that sound is in evidence here, there are a number of other sounds as well—for better or worse. For one thing, the percussion is surprisingly tame for a Cure release, particularly on songs like “Birdmad Girl,” which has a backing track that could have come from any number of 80s acts. The excellent booklet claims that the following track, “Wailing Wall,” was strongly influenced by Smith’s work with Siouxsie and the Banshees, and its atmospherics are appropriately menacing. Other tracks sound familiar in reverse: I found myself wondering if Nick Cave had been listening to “Piggy in the Mirror” when he made “Abattoir Blues,“ the effect is so similar. And the use of the Prophet, that staple of Peter Gabriel’s 1980s recordings, on “Dressing Up” makes the song feel familiar (if dated).

The one track to surface from this album with which I was previously familiar was “The Caterpillar,” which made an appearance on the Staring at the Sea compilation. But where on that release it made a clear connection with other Cure songs like “Lovecats,” “In Between Days” and “Close to Me,” on The Top it stands alone. Yes, the other tracks on the album each have their distinct sound, but nothing prepares you for “The Caterpillar”: the scratchy violin intro, the over-the-top fey vocals, the skittering piano part. This is “happy Cure,” the other personality that is locked inside Robert Smith’s head alongside the glum Morlock, and it still brings a smile after 22 years.

It’s even more amazing that that song crept onto the album when you consider the circumstances of the recording sessions: Laurence Tolhurst drunk or drugged out, Smith himself a few inches from hospitalization (literally—the follow-up tour had to be cancelled thanks to a bad case of blood poisoning), and the rest of the band hardly in the studio (Smith played a lot of this album, except for the drums, himself). In that context, “Caterpillar” seems absolutely miraculous, as does the band’s subsequent revitalization on The Head on the Door.

Bonus material on this deluxe reissue includes the usual assortment of demos and live tracks, including some quite strong demos for never-before-heard songs. My personal favorite, “Happy the Man,” looks forward to Disintegration’s “Last Dance” in its harmonic language even as its lyrics and verbal imagery elude understanding, and was released in its final form as a b-side to “The Caterpillar.”

An essential release? No. But also undeserving of its tag (from Smith himself) of “worst Cure album ever.” There’s a lot on The Top to like.

Osvaldo Golijov visits uncharted territory with his new composition and Music Review: BSO, Golijov appeal with world premiere of ‘Azul’. An interesting pair of articles on Azul, Golijov’s delayed symphonic commission for the BSO and Yo-Yo Ma. Lisa and I attended the premiere and I’m still trying to figure out how the piece actually works.

Boston Globe: After 105 years, BSO to enter a new stage. I’ll be interested to see if there is any audible difference (there will certainly be a difference in the appearance of the floor). I find it interesting that there is so much care taken to reproduce the exact stage floor down to the nails used; certainly Carnegie Hall is a cautionary example, but I don’t think anyone is proposing filling in the sub-stage area with cement. But it’s good to know (albeit a little scary) that the BSO doesn’t know what the stage trap door is for, either…

There were a lot fewer reviews for Seiji’s Mahler 2nd than for previous concerts, though the crowd was much bigger. The reviews were also all about Seiji, though I think the performance of the orchestra and chorus was worth at least talking about:

• Boston Herald: Wiz Ozawa steals BSO shed show (easily my favorite review title ever). “Stutzmann and Murphy sang responsively in their minor solo roles, and the chorus, as usual, sang with nuance and clarity. The orchestra was magnificent, and the roaring from the crowd carried deep into the Tanglewood night.”
• Boston Globe: For Ozawa, an emotional and expressive return to Tanglewood. “The BSO playing was glorious; many episodes, like the brass chorales that used to sputter and splatter, were admirable in ensemble and balance. The hushed entry of the Tanglewood Festival Chorus into the finale was once again an unearthly and spine-tingling moment. There were significant and eloquent instrumental solos from Ronald Barron, trombone, and John Ferrillo, oboe. The vocal soloists were Nathalie Stutzmann, singing with deep-plush contralto tone and warm feeling, and Heidi Grant Murphy, tracing the higher lines with her pearly soprano.”
• Patriot Ledger: Ozawa returns, triumphant, to Tanglewood stage. “In the glorious natural setting of the Berkshires, hearing this epic work capped by the triumphant choral proclamation, ‘Rise again, yes, you will rise again,’ was an uplifting experience.”

So the only thing cooler than singing with Seiji, Heidi Grant Murphy, and Nathalie Stutzmann is having them show up at the choir party afterwards.

It was a weekend of brushes with fame, in fact, some closer than others. Leaving the dress rehearsal yesterday morning, I walked away from the shed and spoke to Lisa, and her first words were, “You touched Seiji!” I responded that I hadn’t been that close, and she said, “No, you dummy, he was standing right in front of you when you exited the hall. You almost ran him over.” Um, oops. In my defense I was still hyperventilating a little bit from the finale.

Then last night the chorus was entering the stage through the side door of the shed, a path which winds by the dressing rooms of the guest performers and the conductor. An older gentleman stepped by as I walked in and commented, “What a long line of performers.” I walked past and did a double-take: it was John Williams, the former Pops conductor and current film composer, who’s been around quite a few Tanglewood performances this summer. I had been within a step of barreling into him on the way to the stage. I walked on by, noting the vaguely familiar woman standing across the hall. When I saw her later at the after-party, I placed her: Mia Farrow. Both were there to say hi to Seiji.

And me? Too gobsmacked, and honestly too tired, to say anything to any of them. Oh well.

Two notes on last night’s performance of Mahler’s Second (“Resurrection”) Symphony at Tanglewood with Seiji Ozawa at the helm.

First, I should know better than to try to make a critical analysis of any work before I actually sing it. A tenor near me was lamenting his difficulty in hitting the high notes at the end of the last movement, and I responded, “There are, I think, some works that are so transcendent that they even transcend the ability of the performer to finish them.” Of course, in the actual performance, it was my voice that cracked on the first fortissimo B-flat on the penultimate page of the choral score. As Monty Python would say, so much for pathos.

Second: I entered the weekend with some uncertainty about Maestro Ozawa’s conducting approach, having gotten accustomed to Maestro Levine’s undemonstrative, understated style. I still have some reservations after the concert. Seiji’s approach to conducting is dynamic and evolving, and I thought at some points that he was placing too much emphasis on emotional content and not enough on precision. But there were decided benefits to his approach too. His dance (and that’s the only thing to call it) on the podium demonstrated to the audience how the music should be interpreted emotionally just as it gave guidance to the orchestra and chorus on how to interpret it musically.

And besides, it’s hardly fair to take points off for precision when he was conducting the entire massive symphony from memory. In fact, I am humbled and shamed about all the times I complained about singing from memory, as he was not only cuing every section perfectly but also mouthing the words to the chorus at the same time, all without opening his score.