Last week, either by design, or like so many things in this profession, by accident, the {redacted}SO at Ravinia explored the quintessence of our summer music festival experience. During the span of three concerts we performed a Zemlinsky Tone Poem, a pair of war-horse concertos (which both turned into white knuckle affairs), a Gala concert, that most American of summer staples – an all Tchaikovsky Spectacular, and, where we finally reached a kind of Waterloo, (insert Sad Trombone sound here) a film night performance of the movie Gladiator. About the only things missing were a major overtime boondoggle in favor of musicians and the devastating thunderstorm, which arrived Sunday evening about an hour too late to do anybody any good.
Alexander Zemlinsky, one of
the composers championed by our departing warm-weather music
director, makes the perfect mascot to represent the recent travails
of the {redacted}SO in our summer home. Alma Schindler's rejection
of a homely musical underdog in favor of the more handsome and
successful Gustav Mahler emblamizes the way classical music itself has
been jilted by our summer overlords in favor of the more appealing
(and lucrative) Broadway and Pop acts which are now the current
paramours of the festival brain trust. In the movies, the underdog
makes an improbable, if predictable, comeback, while in real life, the
weaker forces consult focus groups and audience surveys as they
continue to back-pedal, before finally declaring victory.
Of course, the
apex, zenith, and nadir of any musical season is the gala concert,
which in summertime includes the added spectacle of seeing several
hundred very uncomfortable looking gentlemen strutting about in
ninety-degree heat wearing tuxedos. At least members of the smarter can sex resort to sleeveless or even strapless attire. A
concert is really something when the most delicate playing from the
orchestra takes place during the Star Spangled Banner, but such was
the case in our Gala Tchaikovsky Spectacular. Maxim Vengerov, who
survived the violin concerto by sheer force of will and a seasoned
veteran's ability to keep his head down (and a straight face) during
the tutti sections, got the evening off to a roaring start, earning
bravos for, if nothing else, surviving salvo after salvo of in-artful
accompaniment. Advancing deeper into Russian territory, the
orchestral campaign stretched its supply-lines to common sense almost
to the breaking point and became bogged down during an overlong suite
from Swan Lake that evoked images more pachydermical than avian –
if there is anything less than fortissimo in that ballet, I'd love to
play it someday, but alas. In the end, the Grand Orchestral Army
marched on to its dénouement
in that ode to the Musical-Industrial Complex, The 1812 Overture. I
guess it says something about a musical evening when the inevitable,
longed for conclusion, is the warm caress of the cannonball.
Just as the Grand Army of the French Republic found no rest after
its Pyrrhic conquest of Moscow, the mighty {redacted}SO, heads bowed
but spirits not yet completely broken by the aforementioned Gala
concert, had to return the very next evening for the Film Night
performance of Gladiator.
Hans Zimmer may very well be a great film composer. Gladiator may
very well be a great, or even competent film score. At this point in
my career (or perhaps just this summer) I think shell shock can be
attributed as significant cause to disqualify me as any kind of of
judge. I will say, however, there is a certain level of Dante's Hell
in which arguably one of the greatest orchestras in our time zone
sits idly by in ninety-plus-degree heat during rehearsal while a
conductor, in the monstrously erroneous belief he is earning kudos
for doing so, scratches his head and mulls over whether the
percussion section should be shaking a necklace made of Puka rather
than Cowry shells, or if the ratchet in use has thirty-six rather
than thirty-eight teeth, or if the baton used to strike the Taiko
drum is of Hinoki or Taro wood.
It seems as if these film night concerts are here to stay, which
isn't an entirely bad thing. Although Gladiator wasn't a sellout by
any stretch of the imagination, these type of concerts seem to be
popular even if the musical appeal of the selections is sometimes
pretty questionable. Making these the backbone of a symphonic season
might be questionable strategy as well. Using a pickup orchestra, or
what we call 'members of' (optional extra employment) would ensure a
happier orchestra – think of how much better a galley plies the
waves with free men at the oars rather than slaves – and it would
also free management from some of those pesky union rules about
weekly service counts and whatnot. Even Napoleon knew some things
are best handled by mercenaries.
P.S. As originally published, this post contained some language that was regrettably sexist and vulgar. My apologies.
