[Author's Note: I wasn't necessarily going to post this review, but I received some positive feedback from Kim Tritt, professor of dance, which prompted me to share (because why not, really?). The review appeared in slightly different form in the Nov. 13 issue of the Wooster Voice.]
This year's “Stage Door” fall dance concert is doubtless one of the most compelling showcases for student work to be presented this semester. The intimacy of dance “in the round” immerses the audience fully in each piece, and even under such intense scrutiny (or perhaps because of it) the concert succeeds wildly.
Each of the ten pieces was created by a different student choreographer (all of them under the direction of Kim Tritt, professor of dance), and the breadth of these assembled creations is one of the great joys of “Stage Door.” The sequencing highlights profound contrasts in mood, rhythm, and form in such a way that each successive piece is its own revelation—not a single one of them feels stale or derivative.
The first set, for instance, takes leaps of nearly bipolar extremes in three successive standout numbers. The instantly grabbing “Maniacal Somnolence” unfolds at a frenetic pace that reinforces its sense of mischief and surprise. It's followed by “Full Circle,” a beautifully focused piece that plays out like a celebration of sisterhood, and one that knows the compositional value of blank space. This gives way to the starkly dramatic “Interference”; taking its cues from traditional ballet, “Interference” is as tense and fretful as the Prokofiev music to which it's set. The cumulative effect of these contrasts is disorienting in the best sense of the word—there are no safe assumptions about what any dance holds.
One of the most distinctive aspects of this year's “Stage Door,” however, is also the glue that holds these disparate numbers together as a concerted whole. In the way “Stage Door” has long spotlighted a broad range of student talent, composition major Paul Winchester '11 is featured as prominently as anyone during the performance, creating free-form piano improvisations between each dance number. This serves not only a practical purpose, giving time to set up the next piece, but adds a crucial sense of continuity and reflection as Paul draws on the musical themes that accompanied the previous dance.
In addition to his improvisations, Paul also performs an original composition for the delicately nightmarish “Woven,” perhaps the strongest overall achievement on the program. The music, in perfect tandem with Kaitlin Yankello's wonderfully restrained choreography, builds to a breathtaking climax followed by a chilling coda. Quite simply, “Woven” is superb.
Equally noteworthy is the aptly titled “Animation Play,” which unfolds in the lobby during intermission. “Animation Play” boasts taut, theatrical performances from each of the three dancers that emphasize the piece's cartoonish humor. It's a very entertaining play on the dancing space itself and a suitably lighthearted divider between the two longer sets.
Each half of the program ends in similar territory, with a large-scale number that reminds me of contemporary Broadway. These, “Write Me a Tragedy” and “Not Juliet,” might be faulted for lacking the focused intensity or subtlety of the most memorable dances, but their placement effectively lends a sense of unity and balance to the concert. These are also ample reminders that there really is something for all tastes at “Stage Door.” As an exhibit for student music, lighting design, and dance, “Stage Door” is highly recommended.
The “Stage Door” fall dance concert will be presented Friday and Saturday at 8:15 in Freedlander Theatre.
Showing posts with label Reviews. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Reviews. Show all posts
2009/04/21
Grateful Dead, To Terrapin
[Author's Note: The following review will be published in Friday's edition of the Wooster Voice.]
The Grateful Dead's newest archival release, “To Terrapin: Hartford '77,” is pitted against some intimidating competition. This May 28, 1977, concert was the last from a month that many Deadheads consider the best ever, and while plenty others (this one included) would beg to differ, there's no denying that the band was delivering exceptional, career-defining performances nearly every night of the tour.
This means two things for “To Terrapin”: one, it's marvelous by default; and two, it will forever be subject to ruthless comparisons to its May '77 predecessors.
How does May 28 acquit itself on the latter score? Moderately well. It would certainly be hard to think of a better opening sequence. After rocking through a typical pairing of “Bertha” and “Good Lovin',” both of which boast a polished, sparkling sound, lead guitarist Jerry Garcia seamlessly steers the band into the ballad “Sugaree.”
With its lyrical treatment of love, loss, and regret, and its roots deep in the American folk tradition, “Sugaree” is signature Grateful Dead—and everything about this version falls into place beautifully. The song proper, especially in Garcia's aching vocal lines, is executed with a profound expressiveness, but the three instrumental breaks between verses are where “Sugaree” reaches its most transcendent peaks. Here, in endless but purposeful melodic invention over two chords, the band conjures up a love story more vivid, dynamic, and intense than could ever be put into words, mining every corner of the song for its emotional truth. I dare you not to be moved. The track total runs nineteen minutes, and not one is wasted. Even in a month studded with epic takes, this “Sugaree” is the rival of any.
After “Sugaree,” however, the first set loses considerable momentum. The rhythmic evenness of 1977 Dead begins to drag, and while Garcia takes a truly arresting solo in “Brown-Eyed Women,” backed by some adroit fills from pianist Keith Godchaux, the latter half of the set still feels somewhat underwhelming.
But this band is nothing if not able to bounce back, and they bounce back with a vengeance after intermission. The thick, dark reggae of “Estimated Prophet,” which opens a seventy-minute thread of uninterrupted music, is warped into a fiery, chromatic jam led by Garcia. They then take a jubilant stroll through “Playing in the Band” before that song dissolves like a momentary illusion into fretful, modal jazz spiked with bizarre electronic textures.
The second really exemplary moment of the show comes in the form of “Terrapin Station,” their latest and most idiosyncratic extended composition (and the namesake for this release). The lilting, ambiguous first section is executed perfectly, and not just by Garcia, but by the entire band, all of whom frame the verses with clarity and grace. The triumphant second part of the suite, however, is breathtaking. When Garcia sings, “Inspiration! move me brightly,” you can hear him basking in it. The song doesn't let up from there, but rather charges through its majestic, radiant conclusion.
It's hard to find fault with much of “To Terrapin.” All of the songs are fundamentally played well, and “Sugaree” and “Terrapin Station” are maddeningly good. But in the company of its May contemporaries, the 28th was perhaps only an average night, marred by lackluster passages in the first set. “To Terrapin” is therefore highly recommended, but even greater shows, both bootlegs and official releases, await those interested in exploring the era more thoroughly.
The Grateful Dead's newest archival release, “To Terrapin: Hartford '77,” is pitted against some intimidating competition. This May 28, 1977, concert was the last from a month that many Deadheads consider the best ever, and while plenty others (this one included) would beg to differ, there's no denying that the band was delivering exceptional, career-defining performances nearly every night of the tour.
This means two things for “To Terrapin”: one, it's marvelous by default; and two, it will forever be subject to ruthless comparisons to its May '77 predecessors.
How does May 28 acquit itself on the latter score? Moderately well. It would certainly be hard to think of a better opening sequence. After rocking through a typical pairing of “Bertha” and “Good Lovin',” both of which boast a polished, sparkling sound, lead guitarist Jerry Garcia seamlessly steers the band into the ballad “Sugaree.”
With its lyrical treatment of love, loss, and regret, and its roots deep in the American folk tradition, “Sugaree” is signature Grateful Dead—and everything about this version falls into place beautifully. The song proper, especially in Garcia's aching vocal lines, is executed with a profound expressiveness, but the three instrumental breaks between verses are where “Sugaree” reaches its most transcendent peaks. Here, in endless but purposeful melodic invention over two chords, the band conjures up a love story more vivid, dynamic, and intense than could ever be put into words, mining every corner of the song for its emotional truth. I dare you not to be moved. The track total runs nineteen minutes, and not one is wasted. Even in a month studded with epic takes, this “Sugaree” is the rival of any.
After “Sugaree,” however, the first set loses considerable momentum. The rhythmic evenness of 1977 Dead begins to drag, and while Garcia takes a truly arresting solo in “Brown-Eyed Women,” backed by some adroit fills from pianist Keith Godchaux, the latter half of the set still feels somewhat underwhelming.
But this band is nothing if not able to bounce back, and they bounce back with a vengeance after intermission. The thick, dark reggae of “Estimated Prophet,” which opens a seventy-minute thread of uninterrupted music, is warped into a fiery, chromatic jam led by Garcia. They then take a jubilant stroll through “Playing in the Band” before that song dissolves like a momentary illusion into fretful, modal jazz spiked with bizarre electronic textures.
The second really exemplary moment of the show comes in the form of “Terrapin Station,” their latest and most idiosyncratic extended composition (and the namesake for this release). The lilting, ambiguous first section is executed perfectly, and not just by Garcia, but by the entire band, all of whom frame the verses with clarity and grace. The triumphant second part of the suite, however, is breathtaking. When Garcia sings, “Inspiration! move me brightly,” you can hear him basking in it. The song doesn't let up from there, but rather charges through its majestic, radiant conclusion.
It's hard to find fault with much of “To Terrapin.” All of the songs are fundamentally played well, and “Sugaree” and “Terrapin Station” are maddeningly good. But in the company of its May contemporaries, the 28th was perhaps only an average night, marred by lackluster passages in the first set. “To Terrapin” is therefore highly recommended, but even greater shows, both bootlegs and official releases, await those interested in exploring the era more thoroughly.
2009/04/14
Wooster Senior I.S. Art Presentations
[Author's Note: The following review will appear in Friday's edition of the Wooster Voice.]
As I write this, I'm sitting on someone's senior I.S.—a piece of it, at least. Alexandra Cotter's “Collages: Exploration of Furniture Design Using Found Objects” is one of three senior exhibits currently on display at Ebert Art Gallery. The space is, as always, like none other on campus—a room abuzz with ideas, speaking through the breathtaking achievements of the featured student artists.
Cotter's furniture, constructed entirely of discarded materials, is beautiful both in concept and execution. Each of the five sets emphasizes the role of chance in art, the interaction between deliberate intent and serendipity. Relics of the materials in their past lives lend the furniture many of its most striking qualities.
“Each piece I incorporated into the collage has its own story,” she writes in her abstract. “All of these smaller stories are pieced together to create a new entity, which I find fascinating.”
Evidence of these stories are everywhere, in patterns which might connote lamps or crates reincarnated as stools or tables, raising countless questions about the way commercial or functional cues inform our understanding of art, or the way our interaction with materials shapes their destinies.
While “Collages” necessarily blends with the gallery itself, stepping into Dana Bustamante's “Imagorium for 'the Prince'” is like stepping into another world. Bustamante drew on the traditional imagorium, a Mouridiyya Senegalese space for images and objects both secular and sacred, and a single photograph of this “Prince,” a homeless man in Lamu, Kenya, whom Bustamante encountered during her study there. With almost fugal imitation, her iconic portrait of the man in profile is transposed seamlessly onto nearly every corner of the exhibit and explored in countless variations of medium, style, and implication.
More than an intense reflection on a single character, however, the Imagorium is a panorama of life, vibrantly captured, as Bustamante witnessed it in Kenya and Tanzania. The exhibit manages to be a testament to both the individual and the collective, and the fact that the two are not at war here contributes to the Imagorium's intended spiritual resonance.
The diversity of the work she displays, from patterned cloths and photographic collages to paintings and simple sketches, reveals the full spectrum of her processing her experience and the range of possibility that emerges from a single spark—an apt expression of the non-definitiveness of art.
Adrienne B. Livingston's “Clusters & Constellations: Music and Mixed Media” takes on another wholly distinct style set and visual language, at once sparse and provocative. In her abstract, she proclaims, “I believe that people's lives are political lives,” and she draws on the words of some of the sharpest and most unsparing musicians and poets as the framework for her examination of contemporary society.
Livingston's images are as big and bold as the lines with which they're paired. Ani DiFranco's snarling “My country 'tis of thee / to take shots at each other on primetime TV” is captured in a graffiti-like piece incorporating an angry Muslim face, the McDonald's “i'm lovin' it” slogan, and drooping, blood-red flowers. Next to it, DiFranco's “Just remember you were there / you were always there” is simply and memorably rendered as an elephant.
Each piece is mounted on formations of overlapping black circles, suggesting clouds or, ingeniously, LPs, reinforcing the centrality of pop culture to the language we use to render modern times.
All three exhibits are endlessly thought-provoking and transformative. Wooster students, particularly those who don't often get to see peers' artwork, owe themselves this experience.
As I write this, I'm sitting on someone's senior I.S.—a piece of it, at least. Alexandra Cotter's “Collages: Exploration of Furniture Design Using Found Objects” is one of three senior exhibits currently on display at Ebert Art Gallery. The space is, as always, like none other on campus—a room abuzz with ideas, speaking through the breathtaking achievements of the featured student artists.
Cotter's furniture, constructed entirely of discarded materials, is beautiful both in concept and execution. Each of the five sets emphasizes the role of chance in art, the interaction between deliberate intent and serendipity. Relics of the materials in their past lives lend the furniture many of its most striking qualities.
“Each piece I incorporated into the collage has its own story,” she writes in her abstract. “All of these smaller stories are pieced together to create a new entity, which I find fascinating.”
Evidence of these stories are everywhere, in patterns which might connote lamps or crates reincarnated as stools or tables, raising countless questions about the way commercial or functional cues inform our understanding of art, or the way our interaction with materials shapes their destinies.
While “Collages” necessarily blends with the gallery itself, stepping into Dana Bustamante's “Imagorium for 'the Prince'” is like stepping into another world. Bustamante drew on the traditional imagorium, a Mouridiyya Senegalese space for images and objects both secular and sacred, and a single photograph of this “Prince,” a homeless man in Lamu, Kenya, whom Bustamante encountered during her study there. With almost fugal imitation, her iconic portrait of the man in profile is transposed seamlessly onto nearly every corner of the exhibit and explored in countless variations of medium, style, and implication.
More than an intense reflection on a single character, however, the Imagorium is a panorama of life, vibrantly captured, as Bustamante witnessed it in Kenya and Tanzania. The exhibit manages to be a testament to both the individual and the collective, and the fact that the two are not at war here contributes to the Imagorium's intended spiritual resonance.
The diversity of the work she displays, from patterned cloths and photographic collages to paintings and simple sketches, reveals the full spectrum of her processing her experience and the range of possibility that emerges from a single spark—an apt expression of the non-definitiveness of art.
Adrienne B. Livingston's “Clusters & Constellations: Music and Mixed Media” takes on another wholly distinct style set and visual language, at once sparse and provocative. In her abstract, she proclaims, “I believe that people's lives are political lives,” and she draws on the words of some of the sharpest and most unsparing musicians and poets as the framework for her examination of contemporary society.
Livingston's images are as big and bold as the lines with which they're paired. Ani DiFranco's snarling “My country 'tis of thee / to take shots at each other on primetime TV” is captured in a graffiti-like piece incorporating an angry Muslim face, the McDonald's “i'm lovin' it” slogan, and drooping, blood-red flowers. Next to it, DiFranco's “Just remember you were there / you were always there” is simply and memorably rendered as an elephant.
Each piece is mounted on formations of overlapping black circles, suggesting clouds or, ingeniously, LPs, reinforcing the centrality of pop culture to the language we use to render modern times.
All three exhibits are endlessly thought-provoking and transformative. Wooster students, particularly those who don't often get to see peers' artwork, owe themselves this experience.
2009/02/10
Susan Wallin & Peter Mowrey, "An Evening of American Art Song"
[Author's Note: This review of a faculty recital from Friday will definitely be appearing in this week's Voice. I'm decently pleased with both the way this one turned out and the ease with which I wrote it—I think I'm developing something of the habit behind journalism.]
“An Evening of American Art Song,” presented in Scheide Music Center February 6 by soprano Susan Wallin and accompanist Peter Mowrey, was an evening of rare musical delights, beginning and ending with a voice one would be privileged to hear anywhere, be it Gault Recital Hall or Carnegie Hall. Wallin is fundamentally an extraordinary singer and performer, armed with a beautiful coloratura, impressive range, and dramatic sensitivity—all of which were on full display throughout the rich and varied program.
The recital began with a series of songs by the late-Romantic composer Amy Beach, whose lush, melodic style recalls Puccini or Bizet. Wallin showed a deft attention to both the passionate and the reflective, and the conviction behind her performance more than carried the most traditional set of the night.
She moved into more interesting and surprising musical territory with five contemporary songs by Ricky Ian Gordon in an art-Broadway vein reminiscent of Leonard Bernstein. Gordon's “Coyote” was perhaps the highlight of the entire evening. Wallin threw herself in to the bizarre lyrics with a finessed blend of comedy and pathos—when she proclaimed, “I'll scream until I turn that moon to wax,” you believed it.
She also proved herself superbly attuned to Americanness of Gordon's songs, subtly adapting her tone to suit their unique contours and cadences, whether in the melancholy humming of “Once I Was” or the frenzied ascent of “Poem (Lana Turner Has Collapsed).”
The second half of the program dived into delightfully murky twentieth-century waters with Norman Dello Joio's “Three Songs of Adieu.” Imbued with a dark urgency and extending to the edge of tonality, these offered Wallin ample opportunity to explore their contrasts—really hitting words like “pain,” or fading into an impressive softness at the end of “Farewell.”
Following these was Laurie Altman's jazz-like “reimagining” of eighteenth-century Italian songs. Here, Wallin's voice occasionally fell into a breathier timbre in her only significant misstep of the recital, but the thoughtful attention she lent the syncopations spotlighted the hybrid nature of the work and distinguished her interpretation.
The jazzier songs were proof of Peter Mowrey's exceptional contributions as well. From one composer to the next, he managed each stylistic set distinctly, and while his unshakeable facility at the piano hinted at his own abilities as a soloist, he remained a sensitive accompanist who aptly complemented, but never overpowered, the vocal performance.
The last song of the evening took a sharp turn into light opera (itself a Wooster legacy), specifically Victor Herbert's send-up of the operatic diva, “Art Is Calling for Me,” arranged by Wallin herself. With intermittent quotations from a number of famous operas, among them La Bohème and The Magic Flute, Wallin alluded to her own vast repertoire, and, though she nailed the high Fs from the famous Queen of the Night aria, she proved unafraid to occasionally tweak her ability level to suit the comedy—providing a fitting and lighthearted capstone to a recital of unflagging quality.
“An Evening of American Art Song,” presented in Scheide Music Center February 6 by soprano Susan Wallin and accompanist Peter Mowrey, was an evening of rare musical delights, beginning and ending with a voice one would be privileged to hear anywhere, be it Gault Recital Hall or Carnegie Hall. Wallin is fundamentally an extraordinary singer and performer, armed with a beautiful coloratura, impressive range, and dramatic sensitivity—all of which were on full display throughout the rich and varied program.
The recital began with a series of songs by the late-Romantic composer Amy Beach, whose lush, melodic style recalls Puccini or Bizet. Wallin showed a deft attention to both the passionate and the reflective, and the conviction behind her performance more than carried the most traditional set of the night.
She moved into more interesting and surprising musical territory with five contemporary songs by Ricky Ian Gordon in an art-Broadway vein reminiscent of Leonard Bernstein. Gordon's “Coyote” was perhaps the highlight of the entire evening. Wallin threw herself in to the bizarre lyrics with a finessed blend of comedy and pathos—when she proclaimed, “I'll scream until I turn that moon to wax,” you believed it.
She also proved herself superbly attuned to Americanness of Gordon's songs, subtly adapting her tone to suit their unique contours and cadences, whether in the melancholy humming of “Once I Was” or the frenzied ascent of “Poem (Lana Turner Has Collapsed).”
The second half of the program dived into delightfully murky twentieth-century waters with Norman Dello Joio's “Three Songs of Adieu.” Imbued with a dark urgency and extending to the edge of tonality, these offered Wallin ample opportunity to explore their contrasts—really hitting words like “pain,” or fading into an impressive softness at the end of “Farewell.”
Following these was Laurie Altman's jazz-like “reimagining” of eighteenth-century Italian songs. Here, Wallin's voice occasionally fell into a breathier timbre in her only significant misstep of the recital, but the thoughtful attention she lent the syncopations spotlighted the hybrid nature of the work and distinguished her interpretation.
The jazzier songs were proof of Peter Mowrey's exceptional contributions as well. From one composer to the next, he managed each stylistic set distinctly, and while his unshakeable facility at the piano hinted at his own abilities as a soloist, he remained a sensitive accompanist who aptly complemented, but never overpowered, the vocal performance.
The last song of the evening took a sharp turn into light opera (itself a Wooster legacy), specifically Victor Herbert's send-up of the operatic diva, “Art Is Calling for Me,” arranged by Wallin herself. With intermittent quotations from a number of famous operas, among them La Bohème and The Magic Flute, Wallin alluded to her own vast repertoire, and, though she nailed the high Fs from the famous Queen of the Night aria, she proved unafraid to occasionally tweak her ability level to suit the comedy—providing a fitting and lighthearted capstone to a recital of unflagging quality.
2009/02/03
Grateful Dead, 7/21/90 Tinley Park, IL
[Author's Note: I've finally done what I'd promised myself to do for ages and distilled my notes on a Grateful Dead show into a coherent review. Reviewing live music was the principal intended purpose for this blog, so I hope to make this something of a regular occurrence. This post is first in a planned three-part series dissecting Brent Mydland's last shows with the Grateful Dead.]
Grateful Dead
Tinley Park, IL 7/21/90
Brent Mydland's Last Stand: Part I of III
There's a lot to love about set one tonight. In the first fifteen minutes, the band delivers a truly wonderful string of uptempo songs: "Touch" and "Greatest Story" show both Jerry and Bobby in excellent voice, as well as energetic and attentive playing from all, which spills over into an infectiously bouncy "Jack-a-Roe." In the last fifteen minutes, we get a beautiful and expansive "Bird Song," which reaches some piercing and resounding highs at the end of its long, cathartic climb, hinting along the way at startling wells of dissonance and space—it's about as good as the song ever got.
In between these extraordinary bookends falls half an hour of more uneven fare. "Walkin' Blues" is fun and fresh, and "Friend of the Devil" is even better, if not 6/16/90. The show comes to the first of two considerable crashes, however, with "Just a Little Light." Brent's voice is showing a lot of strain this entire show, as it was throughout July, and these difficulties somehow sap his keyboard playing which in turn throws the band out of sync and derails the song. It takes them the entirety of the following "Queen Jane" to fully recover.
The second set starts off at least as promisingly as the first. After an average, low-key "Scarlet," the band creates magic with a "Fire" that truly lives up to its name. Bobby and Brent know just how to poke Jerry for maximum intensity, and tonight they really succeed—his playing is simply ablaze. "Fire" is the absolute highlight of the show and a wonderful reminder of the copious treasures of Summer 1990.
There's still a "Playing" and "He's Gone" to come before "Drums," and both are well-played, especially in the last few minutes of each. The former dissolves into a jam like something from late in "Space" as they search for the next path to take; the latter resolves into a gorgeous, E-major dew with generous contributions from Phil, hinting at at "Eyes," "Stella," maybe even the coming "Miracle."
Post-"Space" isn't nearly as successful. In between a head-banging "Miracle" and a juicy "Dear Mr. Fantasy" comes the second great crash of the show, an all-around weak "Crazy Fingers" followed by a whimper of a "Playing" jam. To round out the set, we get the conclusion to "Playing," which is crisp but flat, and an average "Saturday Night," which, along with the average "Quinn" encore, still makes for a fun end to the show.
7/21/90 offers a relatively attractive package of Grateful Dead from the end of the Brent years and boasts its share of really stellar playing. However, its frustrating unevenness, particularly in the second set, takes a heavy toll on the show, which ultimately does not have enough to recommend itself over many others from that tour.
SET ONE. 7
SET TWO / ENCORE. 6
SHOW. B-/B
The recent remasters of this run by Charlie Miller sound fantastic, on par with, say, Dick's Picks, Vol. 9. This is unquestionably the version you will want to seek out.
http://db.etree.org/shninfo_detail.php?shnid=95809
Grateful Dead
Tinley Park, IL 7/21/90
Brent Mydland's Last Stand: Part I of III
There's a lot to love about set one tonight. In the first fifteen minutes, the band delivers a truly wonderful string of uptempo songs: "Touch" and "Greatest Story" show both Jerry and Bobby in excellent voice, as well as energetic and attentive playing from all, which spills over into an infectiously bouncy "Jack-a-Roe." In the last fifteen minutes, we get a beautiful and expansive "Bird Song," which reaches some piercing and resounding highs at the end of its long, cathartic climb, hinting along the way at startling wells of dissonance and space—it's about as good as the song ever got.
In between these extraordinary bookends falls half an hour of more uneven fare. "Walkin' Blues" is fun and fresh, and "Friend of the Devil" is even better, if not 6/16/90. The show comes to the first of two considerable crashes, however, with "Just a Little Light." Brent's voice is showing a lot of strain this entire show, as it was throughout July, and these difficulties somehow sap his keyboard playing which in turn throws the band out of sync and derails the song. It takes them the entirety of the following "Queen Jane" to fully recover.
The second set starts off at least as promisingly as the first. After an average, low-key "Scarlet," the band creates magic with a "Fire" that truly lives up to its name. Bobby and Brent know just how to poke Jerry for maximum intensity, and tonight they really succeed—his playing is simply ablaze. "Fire" is the absolute highlight of the show and a wonderful reminder of the copious treasures of Summer 1990.
There's still a "Playing" and "He's Gone" to come before "Drums," and both are well-played, especially in the last few minutes of each. The former dissolves into a jam like something from late in "Space" as they search for the next path to take; the latter resolves into a gorgeous, E-major dew with generous contributions from Phil, hinting at at "Eyes," "Stella," maybe even the coming "Miracle."
Post-"Space" isn't nearly as successful. In between a head-banging "Miracle" and a juicy "Dear Mr. Fantasy" comes the second great crash of the show, an all-around weak "Crazy Fingers" followed by a whimper of a "Playing" jam. To round out the set, we get the conclusion to "Playing," which is crisp but flat, and an average "Saturday Night," which, along with the average "Quinn" encore, still makes for a fun end to the show.
7/21/90 offers a relatively attractive package of Grateful Dead from the end of the Brent years and boasts its share of really stellar playing. However, its frustrating unevenness, particularly in the second set, takes a heavy toll on the show, which ultimately does not have enough to recommend itself over many others from that tour.
SET ONE. 7
SET TWO / ENCORE. 6
SHOW. B-/B
The recent remasters of this run by Charlie Miller sound fantastic, on par with, say, Dick's Picks, Vol. 9. This is unquestionably the version you will want to seek out.
http://db.etree.org/shninfo_detail.php?shnid=95809
2008/11/05
Philip Roth, Indignation
[Author's Note: The following review will appear in Friday's edition of The Wooster Voice. Let's hope the print version isn't inexcusably mangled this time.]
“Indignation,” the twenty-ninth novel from American writer Philip Roth, represents a unique transposition of the themes of his recent work. The concerns that occupied the ageing protagonist of, say, “Everyman” (2006)—the fragility of the body, the steady march of mortality—all these are present in the story of the much younger Marcus Messner.
Marcus is driven from his home in Newark, New Jersey, where he attends a local college, when his father, a kosher butcher, suddenly develops an irrational and incapacitating paranoia—he becomes convinced that his scrupulous and bookish son is in infinite danger and needs to be strictly guarded. Marcus relocates almost indiscriminately to Winesburg College in rural north-central Ohio, where the bulk of the novel unfolds.
All his actions here are driven by fear of the draft—it is the early Fifties and the Korean War is claiming thousands of young lives. He knows he will have to distinguish himself academically at Winesburg in order to avoid carnage overseas.
In one of the novel’s most brilliant parallels, Marcus’s dread of bloodshed in Korea is intertwined with his family’s history as butchers (the name Messner undoubtedly a play on the traditional German butcher surname “Metzner”). Marcus narrates:
The novel is often compelling, and certainly memorable. Where Roth succeeds most, as always, is in the power of his prose and the size of his ideas. Gems of insight and an infinite series of questions alike burst out of every single page. This is especially true of the dialogue. Perhaps the most remarkable scene is Marcus’s first, pivotal confrontation with the Dean of Men—an all-out values war between the atheist Marcus (drawing heavily on Bertrand Russell) and the traditionalist Dean, with neither devolving into caricature.
Roth’s juxtaposition of humor, shock, and gravity is also as scintillating as ever. As a bemused Marcus reacts to a series of unexpected sexual encounters, we know that tragedy only looms nearer in an environment that condemns sexual expression.
“Indignation” is by no means Roth’s most accomplished book, however. The narrator, though astute and incisive, is not completely credible. Simply put, Roth is better suited to write as an older sophisticate than he is a young sophisticate. The attempts he makes at a more natural voice come off halfhearted and awkward (“And lessons I loved—bring them on!”). That he narrates from a netherworld between life and death also strains believability.
In addition, the tragedy is imperfect. By the end of the novel, some pieces already feel superfluous—the tragic inevitability is not watertight. The ending itself comes off perfunctory and the ideas jumbled, as if we’re not sure what to take away from it.
“Indignation” is a fine novel and perhaps of particular interest to college students in and around north-central Ohio. However, first-time Roth readers would be better advised to start elsewhere.
“Indignation,” the twenty-ninth novel from American writer Philip Roth, represents a unique transposition of the themes of his recent work. The concerns that occupied the ageing protagonist of, say, “Everyman” (2006)—the fragility of the body, the steady march of mortality—all these are present in the story of the much younger Marcus Messner.
Marcus is driven from his home in Newark, New Jersey, where he attends a local college, when his father, a kosher butcher, suddenly develops an irrational and incapacitating paranoia—he becomes convinced that his scrupulous and bookish son is in infinite danger and needs to be strictly guarded. Marcus relocates almost indiscriminately to Winesburg College in rural north-central Ohio, where the bulk of the novel unfolds.
All his actions here are driven by fear of the draft—it is the early Fifties and the Korean War is claiming thousands of young lives. He knows he will have to distinguish himself academically at Winesburg in order to avoid carnage overseas.
In one of the novel’s most brilliant parallels, Marcus’s dread of bloodshed in Korea is intertwined with his family’s history as butchers (the name Messner undoubtedly a play on the traditional German butcher surname “Metzner”). Marcus narrates:
I knew what blood looked like, encrusted around the necks of the chickens where they had been ritually slaughtered, dropping out of the beef onto my hands when I was cutting a rib steak along the bone, seeping through the brown paper bags despite the wax paper wrappings within, settling into the grooves crosshatched into the chopping block by the force of the cleaver crashing down.His nightmares of butchery amount to a paranoia that rivals even his father’s, but which is still not enough to offset his profound sense of disorientation (and indignation) at conservative Winesburg. A series of at first commonplace encounters with peers and faculty earn him an unwanted notoriety and, as they build in intensity, take on the weight and drive of inevitable tragedy. As Roth puts it, “One’s most banal, incidental, even comical choices achieve the most disproportionate result.”
The novel is often compelling, and certainly memorable. Where Roth succeeds most, as always, is in the power of his prose and the size of his ideas. Gems of insight and an infinite series of questions alike burst out of every single page. This is especially true of the dialogue. Perhaps the most remarkable scene is Marcus’s first, pivotal confrontation with the Dean of Men—an all-out values war between the atheist Marcus (drawing heavily on Bertrand Russell) and the traditionalist Dean, with neither devolving into caricature.
Roth’s juxtaposition of humor, shock, and gravity is also as scintillating as ever. As a bemused Marcus reacts to a series of unexpected sexual encounters, we know that tragedy only looms nearer in an environment that condemns sexual expression.
“Indignation” is by no means Roth’s most accomplished book, however. The narrator, though astute and incisive, is not completely credible. Simply put, Roth is better suited to write as an older sophisticate than he is a young sophisticate. The attempts he makes at a more natural voice come off halfhearted and awkward (“And lessons I loved—bring them on!”). That he narrates from a netherworld between life and death also strains believability.
In addition, the tragedy is imperfect. By the end of the novel, some pieces already feel superfluous—the tragic inevitability is not watertight. The ending itself comes off perfunctory and the ideas jumbled, as if we’re not sure what to take away from it.
“Indignation” is a fine novel and perhaps of particular interest to college students in and around north-central Ohio. However, first-time Roth readers would be better advised to start elsewhere.
2008/10/21
Bob Dylan, Tell Tale Signs
[Author's Note: This review will be published in Friday's edition of the Wooster Voice. Notice I've reverted to that ridiculous newspaper convention of putting titles that should be italicized in quotes.]
Bob Dylan
"Tell Tale Signs"
In a career unrivaled in popular music, Bob Dylan's on yet another high. His 2006 album "Modern Times" was met with nearly universal acclaim, entering the U.S. charts at #1 and subsequently named album of the year by "Rolling Stone." Earlier this year, he was awarded a Pulitzer Prize special citation for the arts.
Riding on this wave is "Tell Tale Signs," the eighth volume of his ongoing "Bootleg Series" and his first collection of unreleased material in two years. "Tell Tale Signs" encompasses outtakes, alternate takes, live tracks, and other rarities from 1989-2006, a period of renewed creativity that yielded not only "Modern Times" but the equally celebrated "Time Out of Mind" (1997) and "Love and Theft" (2001).
Much of this material is hardly new at all—in fact, most of it’s been sitting in the vault for over ten years. Nonetheless, it's very much representative of recent Dylan. His voice is grizzled and craggy. His lyrics spotlight the concerns of aging and mortality even as they reflect a weary, experienced kind of contentment and an often biting sense of humor. His music draws not only on timeless Americana—folk, country, and the blues—but pop balladry circa the early 1900's.
What these two discs reveal is the volume of material that was recorded for, and left off, many of Dylan's recent albums. "Tell Tale Signs" includes five unique songs axed from "Time Out of Mind," as well as four from 1989's "Oh Mercy."
It is a wonder that some of these songs have never seen the light of day until now. "Dreamin' of You," recorded for "Time Out of Mind," is among the highlights of the collection, boasting a dark ambience befitting its desperation in lyrics like, "Even if the flesh falls off my face / It won't matter as long as you're there." From the same sessions, “Marchin’ to the City” is first-rate blues sketched out in piano and organ and tinged with subtle gospel shadings.
Equally regrettable was that the brilliantly silly "Huck's Tune" ("All the merry little elves / Can go hang themselves / My faith is as cold as can be") was consigned to last year's box-office flop "Lucky You." And perhaps the strongest song featured here—the lovely "Mississippi" appears as two distinct outtakes from "Time Out of Mind"—was vetoed by producer Daniel Lanois before being given to Sheryl Crow and rerecorded by Dylan for "Love and Theft."
However, the general sense is that the cuts were judicious—most of the best material here has already surfaced in some form. "Red River Shore," which appears for the first time here, is formally perfect but bland and unremarkable; it is redeemed only by Jesus (literally), whose healing powers are referenced in the witty closing verse ("I don't know what kind of language he used / Or if they do that kind of thing anymore"). Even more disappointing is "Cross the Green Mountain," the album's closing track, previously released on the soundtrack for civil war film "Gods and Generals." The song collapses under romantic clichés and forced rhymes, as in, "Pride will vanish and glory will rot / But virtues lives and cannot be forgot."
The live tracks are often phenomenal, however, and showcase Dylan’s range as a performer. The version of “High Water” that closes the first disc gels almost instantly, boosted by his ever-exemplary touring band and an almost manic vocal performance which gives extra punch to Dylanisms like, “I’m gettin’ up in the morning—I believe I’ll dust my broom.” In stark contrast, he revives the traditional Appalachian “Girl on the Greenbriar Shore” in a solo acoustic performance recalling his earliest days as a Greenwich Village folkie.
“Tell Tale Signs” contains more than a few pleasant surprises for any Dylan fan. While it isn’t as strong as any of his recent studio albums or the previous volume of the “Bootleg Series,” which similarly reexamined his career through 1966, “Tell Tale Signs” is rich, diverse, and rewarding, ample reminder that Dylan, at 67, just “keeps on keepin’ on.”
Bob Dylan
"Tell Tale Signs"
In a career unrivaled in popular music, Bob Dylan's on yet another high. His 2006 album "Modern Times" was met with nearly universal acclaim, entering the U.S. charts at #1 and subsequently named album of the year by "Rolling Stone." Earlier this year, he was awarded a Pulitzer Prize special citation for the arts.
Riding on this wave is "Tell Tale Signs," the eighth volume of his ongoing "Bootleg Series" and his first collection of unreleased material in two years. "Tell Tale Signs" encompasses outtakes, alternate takes, live tracks, and other rarities from 1989-2006, a period of renewed creativity that yielded not only "Modern Times" but the equally celebrated "Time Out of Mind" (1997) and "Love and Theft" (2001).
Much of this material is hardly new at all—in fact, most of it’s been sitting in the vault for over ten years. Nonetheless, it's very much representative of recent Dylan. His voice is grizzled and craggy. His lyrics spotlight the concerns of aging and mortality even as they reflect a weary, experienced kind of contentment and an often biting sense of humor. His music draws not only on timeless Americana—folk, country, and the blues—but pop balladry circa the early 1900's.
What these two discs reveal is the volume of material that was recorded for, and left off, many of Dylan's recent albums. "Tell Tale Signs" includes five unique songs axed from "Time Out of Mind," as well as four from 1989's "Oh Mercy."
It is a wonder that some of these songs have never seen the light of day until now. "Dreamin' of You," recorded for "Time Out of Mind," is among the highlights of the collection, boasting a dark ambience befitting its desperation in lyrics like, "Even if the flesh falls off my face / It won't matter as long as you're there." From the same sessions, “Marchin’ to the City” is first-rate blues sketched out in piano and organ and tinged with subtle gospel shadings.
Equally regrettable was that the brilliantly silly "Huck's Tune" ("All the merry little elves / Can go hang themselves / My faith is as cold as can be") was consigned to last year's box-office flop "Lucky You." And perhaps the strongest song featured here—the lovely "Mississippi" appears as two distinct outtakes from "Time Out of Mind"—was vetoed by producer Daniel Lanois before being given to Sheryl Crow and rerecorded by Dylan for "Love and Theft."
However, the general sense is that the cuts were judicious—most of the best material here has already surfaced in some form. "Red River Shore," which appears for the first time here, is formally perfect but bland and unremarkable; it is redeemed only by Jesus (literally), whose healing powers are referenced in the witty closing verse ("I don't know what kind of language he used / Or if they do that kind of thing anymore"). Even more disappointing is "Cross the Green Mountain," the album's closing track, previously released on the soundtrack for civil war film "Gods and Generals." The song collapses under romantic clichés and forced rhymes, as in, "Pride will vanish and glory will rot / But virtues lives and cannot be forgot."
The live tracks are often phenomenal, however, and showcase Dylan’s range as a performer. The version of “High Water” that closes the first disc gels almost instantly, boosted by his ever-exemplary touring band and an almost manic vocal performance which gives extra punch to Dylanisms like, “I’m gettin’ up in the morning—I believe I’ll dust my broom.” In stark contrast, he revives the traditional Appalachian “Girl on the Greenbriar Shore” in a solo acoustic performance recalling his earliest days as a Greenwich Village folkie.
“Tell Tale Signs” contains more than a few pleasant surprises for any Dylan fan. While it isn’t as strong as any of his recent studio albums or the previous volume of the “Bootleg Series,” which similarly reexamined his career through 1966, “Tell Tale Signs” is rich, diverse, and rewarding, ample reminder that Dylan, at 67, just “keeps on keepin’ on.”
2008/09/30
Mike Gordon, 8/29/08 Boulder, CO
[Author's Note: This review will be published in Friday's edition of the Wooster Voice.]
Mike Gordon
Boulder 2008
2008 has proven the best year for fans of Phish since the jam band's 2004 breakup. Court-ordered rehabilitation now behind him, guitarist Trey Anastasio has been writing and performing with renewed vigor. In a letter posted on the band's website, pianist Page McConnell confirmed rumors that the four plan on getting together by the end of the year and exploring their options—even the possibility of a reunion.
But mostly, 2008 has been Mike Gordon's year. The Phish bassist released his second solo album, The Green Sparrow, on August 5th to considerable acclaim and toured throughout the summer with what a new live album reveals to be a top-notch supporting band.
Boulder 2008 comprises this band's two-hour set, uncut, from August 29th at the Fox Theatre in Boulder, Colorado. Gordon is joined by guitarist and long-time collaborator Scott Murawski of fellow jam band Max Creek, as well as by Tom Cleary on keyboards, Todd Isler on drums, and Craig Myers on percussion.
The band's potent chemistry is apparent from the first notes of the show's opener, “Andelman's Yard,” one of five cuts from The Green Sparrow. Here they lay down a funky, polyrhythmic groove that belies the song's bright, poppy melody—it is this juxtaposition, but especially the deep, sometimes jittery funk, that sets the tone for the evening.
The playing is uniformly excellent. This is a band that, like Phish at its best, performs as a tight, cohesive unit—musicians who can listen to each other—which isn't to say that they don't shine individually. Cleary's keyboard playing steals the show for me. It's rich, clear, and precise, and draws on a spectrum of influences from Herbie Hancock to legendary session musician Nikki Hopkins, from Rick Wakeman of Yes to the Grateful Dead's Brent Mydland. One can even forgive him for using an overabundance of synthesizer voices, down to a synth-harpsichord on “La La La.” Murawski is a fine guitarist, though he favors a bluesier edge that occasionally feels lost within the funk.
The singing isn't nearly as strong—shaky, with a few moments of redemption (as on a cover of Brian Eno's “No One Receiving”). Similarly, the originals, however fun and well-crafted, are hardly gems of songwriting (the lyrics, in particular, may put off those unaccustomed to hippie-fare). On the whole, given the predominance of jamming, neither complaint is a huge strike against the performance.
After the standalone opener, the set unfolds in two long, seamless sequences of music. In the first comes the highlight of the entire show, “Another Door,” also off The Green Sparrow. After Gordon positively tears through a nasally, synth-bass groove, the band modulates smoothly into the cool, ambient “No One Receiving” before returning to “Another Door” in a single, flash moment as if they'd never left it. It is truly a breathtaking musical accomplishment.
Similarly, the extended “Traveled Too Far” is the capstone of the second, sixty-five minute sequence. Craig Myers's percussion provides a slow-burning, African-derived undercurrent that recalls the Talking Heads circa Remain in Light, but this band's pursuit is looser and jazzier. They flirt with and reject different themes, moods, tempos—quoting everything from Leonard Bernstein's “Maria” to Phish's own “Run Like an Antelope”—before snapping into the song proper after eight full minutes.
A cover of David Bowie's “I'm Deranged,” which attempts a danceable, electronica-like vibe, is the only song of the set that falls flat. To the musicians' credit, it sounds like mid-90s Bowie, which is also precisely why it feels out of place.
Boulder 2008 is by and large an excellent show, one which is both adroit and adventurous, accessible and imaginative. For fans of improvisational music, whether rock or funk or jazz, it is highly recommended. Boulder 2008 is available for download, or may be pre-ordered on CD, at livephish.com.
Mike Gordon
Boulder 2008
2008 has proven the best year for fans of Phish since the jam band's 2004 breakup. Court-ordered rehabilitation now behind him, guitarist Trey Anastasio has been writing and performing with renewed vigor. In a letter posted on the band's website, pianist Page McConnell confirmed rumors that the four plan on getting together by the end of the year and exploring their options—even the possibility of a reunion.
But mostly, 2008 has been Mike Gordon's year. The Phish bassist released his second solo album, The Green Sparrow, on August 5th to considerable acclaim and toured throughout the summer with what a new live album reveals to be a top-notch supporting band.
Boulder 2008 comprises this band's two-hour set, uncut, from August 29th at the Fox Theatre in Boulder, Colorado. Gordon is joined by guitarist and long-time collaborator Scott Murawski of fellow jam band Max Creek, as well as by Tom Cleary on keyboards, Todd Isler on drums, and Craig Myers on percussion.
The band's potent chemistry is apparent from the first notes of the show's opener, “Andelman's Yard,” one of five cuts from The Green Sparrow. Here they lay down a funky, polyrhythmic groove that belies the song's bright, poppy melody—it is this juxtaposition, but especially the deep, sometimes jittery funk, that sets the tone for the evening.
The playing is uniformly excellent. This is a band that, like Phish at its best, performs as a tight, cohesive unit—musicians who can listen to each other—which isn't to say that they don't shine individually. Cleary's keyboard playing steals the show for me. It's rich, clear, and precise, and draws on a spectrum of influences from Herbie Hancock to legendary session musician Nikki Hopkins, from Rick Wakeman of Yes to the Grateful Dead's Brent Mydland. One can even forgive him for using an overabundance of synthesizer voices, down to a synth-harpsichord on “La La La.” Murawski is a fine guitarist, though he favors a bluesier edge that occasionally feels lost within the funk.
The singing isn't nearly as strong—shaky, with a few moments of redemption (as on a cover of Brian Eno's “No One Receiving”). Similarly, the originals, however fun and well-crafted, are hardly gems of songwriting (the lyrics, in particular, may put off those unaccustomed to hippie-fare). On the whole, given the predominance of jamming, neither complaint is a huge strike against the performance.
After the standalone opener, the set unfolds in two long, seamless sequences of music. In the first comes the highlight of the entire show, “Another Door,” also off The Green Sparrow. After Gordon positively tears through a nasally, synth-bass groove, the band modulates smoothly into the cool, ambient “No One Receiving” before returning to “Another Door” in a single, flash moment as if they'd never left it. It is truly a breathtaking musical accomplishment.
Similarly, the extended “Traveled Too Far” is the capstone of the second, sixty-five minute sequence. Craig Myers's percussion provides a slow-burning, African-derived undercurrent that recalls the Talking Heads circa Remain in Light, but this band's pursuit is looser and jazzier. They flirt with and reject different themes, moods, tempos—quoting everything from Leonard Bernstein's “Maria” to Phish's own “Run Like an Antelope”—before snapping into the song proper after eight full minutes.
A cover of David Bowie's “I'm Deranged,” which attempts a danceable, electronica-like vibe, is the only song of the set that falls flat. To the musicians' credit, it sounds like mid-90s Bowie, which is also precisely why it feels out of place.
Boulder 2008 is by and large an excellent show, one which is both adroit and adventurous, accessible and imaginative. For fans of improvisational music, whether rock or funk or jazz, it is highly recommended. Boulder 2008 is available for download, or may be pre-ordered on CD, at livephish.com.
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