Contrapunctal Contraband

Looking forward to an evening of contrapunctal Bach, depressing Strauss and heart-thumping Beethoven, we braved the 10 freeway on a Saturday evening. No doubt the Lakers or Kings would be playing at Staples Center and thus clog up the 10-110 junction¹. No thanks to all you basketball or hockey fans, we missed the bulk of the pre-concert talk². No matter. Still early enough to have a small plastic of Merlot³. And early enough to get in our usual seats and find out if we'll have new neighbours this season. All well and good so far. Usual complaints, but usual happiness at being able to have an evening out that doesn't not require complicated conversation.

Thinking all's going well, I whip out my little very old camera⁴ to get a pre-concert shot of the rather shiny organ (that we've yet to hear in a dedicated concert). Bearing in mind that I use this little camera in public places, the flash is set permanently off. Nobody likes an unexpected flash going off in the face, so it's always off by default. But it turns out that this is does not please some people. A young usher runs through to say: "We heard that someone was using a camera from here. You must know this is not allowed. If it happens again, we will take you downstairs to investigate." Or something along those lines.

I know I was the last one to use a camera. But before I took mine out, two other cameras had taken photos from my section. And another had flashed off in the expensive seats downstairs. None of these had elicited any comments or hoohah. Just mine. And all for this mediocre shot:

Apologies to my poor neighbours. That nasty comment just before the concert started preyed on my mind for a few minutes of the Bach piece. I barely heard much of it. But I hope it didn't affect your enjoyment too much.

Incidentally, another photo was taken during the intermission from our section. With the flash. Miss Usher ran through again. And, according to P, looked right at me. Not guilty, m'lud. If she's our usher for the 2007-2008 season, we may have to change our seats. I know we must look cheap to you, Miss Usher. Me in my pathetically unpolished black boots and cheap dress. And being in the terrace seats and all. But your assumption that those of us in the $66 seats are just low-life who don't know not to use flash photography during a classical music concert is somewhat misplaced.

No doubt there are official reasons photography is not allowed in the WDCH. For one, disruption of performers' concentration. And maybe other audience members' enjoyment. But to be quite so nasty is not necessary. Having been an usher before, I can almost guess at the reason behind the narky comment: they must be holding a competition behind the scenes of whose section behaves the best during the season. To them, we're just cows that need herding. If the little toe rag had said this about, say, an elderly matron, I'd have narked her right back with something about being polite to her elders. But she addressed her displeasure to me - classless bitch that I am. Throwdown...

¹ If you have to ask, you're not an Angeleno (apparently).

² Only an LA orchestra would have a special name for it: Upbeat Live.

³ $9! For that, could we not at least get a glass? It's not like we're football hooligans or anything.

⁴ A very early, 6-year old cheap digital. See sidebar photo.

We were deaf before the show even started

Well, not strictly true. We aren't deaf in the sense that we cannot hear. But we have (hopefully temporarily) lost some hearing in the middle register, which we discovered last night at the WDCH during Shostakovich's Cello Concerto. There were moments when Peter Stumpf's bow was moving, but we just could not distinguish the cello from the other instruments in the orchestra, however pared down it was. It felt somewhat ironic that a concert we attended the previous Sunday at the same theatre was what caused this slight impairment. It made me a little mad at myself for forgetting the earplugs. An anonymous commenter on the talk rot blog had a go at me for complaining about my experience, and said I should have picked up the free ear plugs they were handing out. But deaf as I was, I don't think I was blind too. And checking with my mates who attended the same concert, none of us saw any ear plug booth, nor were we offered any plugs. Perhaps anon was one of the lucky ones spared from a week of having to lip read and strain.

Moving on.

The LA Phil was, as usual, excellent. Their rendition of Britten's Four Sea Interludes from Peter Grimes somehow brought it to life for me. Peter Grimes, the opera, never fails to send me to sleep. I think it, like all of Britten's music, is lost on me. Having never experienced that level of pain, conflict or suffering in my life, I lack the empathetic potential to understand his motifs. That said, Saturday night's Four Sea Interludes somehow struck a chord with us. Maybe we were just a little more familiar with the music now, and the dischords, while still harsh and unsettling, weren't too surprising. The unease generated by the third interlude, Moonlight, after the death of his second apprentice is a feeling I've had mild exposure to. It's a feeling of being trapped. Unable to shake off a feeling of blame even if you were not truly at fault. Pressure from all sides leads to a state not unlike being in a very narrow corridor, where you cannot turn, but must keep walking forward towards certain doom. (Alright, I exaggerate. It may feel like that sometimes, but that's just heightened emotions due to cabin fever.) Perhaps even with the sheltered life I lead, Britten's work will continue to become more understandable as life throws more kinks my way.

As I mentioned at the start, I was a little upset during the cello concerto written by Shostakovich. Close to tears even. I love the concerto. In fact, I have a great fondness for the sound of the cello. It is, for me anyway, the string that resonates the best with my physiology. The warmth of its notes, the pleasantness of its hum, the way it can be played to express great joy and yet can be bowed to convey great pathos; all these aspects of the cello are best appreciated in a cello concerto. So to have lost the ability to hear the cello was... upsetting. I hope it really is temporary. Unfortunately, hair cells do not regenerate in mammals, so if there was damage, it would be permanent. (Unless I haven't been keeping up with the literature and somebody has managed to use Math1 or anything in that ever-useful Sox pathway to induce regeneration...)

Fortunately, one doesn't require great hearing to enjoy Elgar's Enigma Variations. I like maybe half of them. Some are too pompous but the rest have moments of delicacy and intimacy that are surprising from Elgar. (Well executed by the LA Phil too; it could have gone OTT, but they kept it (can't think of a word here other than crisp)... neat.) Of course, the full-on conclusion to the variations was the usual Elgar of Rule Brittania and Pomp and Circumstance. I've never particularly sought out these pieces¹. As a kind-of immigrant to Britain, I've never felt very comfortable with the nationalism associated with Elgar's music. I never want to join in. But perhaps that has something to do with the daily singing of my national anthem during my schooldays. It's off-putting now. That said, I do join in to Flower of Scotland at Murrayfield. Usually because the Irish and Welsh sing theirs so magnificently, I feel I should help the Scots along and produce a bigger sound.

Well, that concludes our season of the LA Phil at the WDCH. I have enjoyed every concert of the Saturday Symphony series, and am very glad that my inability to find P a decent birthday present is what led to the purchase of the subscription. I wish in the time we'd found somewhere to eat either before or after the performance. The cafe in the lobby, while pleasant as cafes go, always seemed a little pricey for what they served. Patina was always too busy. The Brasserie across the road wasn't always an option². The late-night ramen places in Little Tokyo aren't much of an option if you don't know your way around. BCD Tofu is fine for 2-3 times, but the rush to get P home after soon dubu is not always fun. We don't know K-Town well enough to stop anywhere else. Next time, more research on the eating and drinking options will be needed to make it a real date night.

Elsewhere this weekend, the Modest Mouse concert³ was moved from the Greek Theatre to the Gibson Amphitheatre in Universal Studio's lot. Part of the original reason for getting the tickets was to see the Greek Theatre. The last time we had tickets for the Greek, it was for Keane. And it was cancelled because Tom Chaplin had to go into rehab. This time round, the Greek was very nearly consumed with flames in a fire at Griffith Park. According to the guy from KROQ, the fire came within 200m of the theatre. Ooh. Close call. The other reason was that I quite liked the last album I bought: Good News for People Who Love Bad News, purchased because I liked the sound of the title. I'm not so sure I like the new album: We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank. Maybe because I hadn't heard anything from it until tonight. It takes me time to warm to music sometimes. But I have a feeling that I think I like Modest Mouse because whenever I hear one of their songs on an iPod shuffle, I "rock out" a little. Hmm. For me, perhaps they will always be an iPod shuffle band. A full 45 min set didn't go down so well. (And I even remembered the ear plugs this time; thank goodness.) I really liked Float On (from the older album), even though I thought the lead singer was a little more growly than necessary. I guess that's his thing at live shows. It's a very butch performance. And a little hicky. Is that fair to say? I don't know if it's LA-specific, but at almost every pop/rock concert I've been to here, there have been several hick moments. But I tend to confuse "hick-ness" with drunkenness or with being stoned.

And speaking of drugs, I have a confession to make of my own gaucheness (I really am all the time, but like to pretend I'm not.) There came a point tonight when I thought I could smell something agricultural. Like the smell of P's father's farm shed just after the silage has been packed for winter storage. A slightly sweet, fermented, grassy, nitrogen-heavy smell. Either someone farted, or was using fertiliser in the amphitheatre. On telling P, he laughed. Clearly, I have never smoked hash, or I would have recognised it. Need to get out more? Probably. Pot must be almost customary here. At one point, we could smell cigarette smoke. One of our neighbours went to complain to the security staff who told her they don't normally stop anyone from having a smoke at the back. It wasn't until they learned it was a regular fag that they took action. So, if you want to smoke in California, make sure the contents of your roll-up aren't tobacco.

With that public service announcement, I leave you to go to my bed.⁴

¹ Speaking of which, I finally learned of the riddle behind the Enigma Variations. It made me snigger with every variation. But I won't spoil it for anyone here. Seek it out if you must. It definitely wasn't obvious until I read the spoiler. After that, it was all that I could hear.

² The Brasserie is the only place I've seen any Scottish beer in LA: Belhaven's Best. But EVERY SINGLE TIME we've asked for it, the darn barrel is empty. What's with that? If a beer is that popular, maybe it's time to have a second pump? Or a system for swapping over? Don't offer me a Murphy's instead. While it's a nice enough beer, when I have my heart set on a Belhaven, I want a Belhaven. Expat Scots have a much harder time in LA than English and Irish; there are no Scottish theme pubs here. And nobody, but nobody, sells Scottish beer. Apart from the Brasserie. Who won't serve it to us...

³ Hence the title of the post...

⁴ WTH? It's a quarter to 4 in the morning and a chopper is hovering over our heids. Damn this city. You can't get any peace even in the wee hours.

Forgive me if I don't reply when you call

For I am now deaf.

The WDCH is normally a venue of a whole spectrum of music, but it is quite possible that last night bore witness to its loudest concert to date. The evening started off with loudness from Oakley Hall, a decent band I'm sure, but whose music I was in no mood for. Apart from the general loudness, I don't remember anything about them. The second touring partner, Gillian Welch, didn't suffer from this problem and wowed us with her lyrical brilliance and David Rawling's extraordinary talent on the guitar. So far, she has a 4-disc catalogue, which she has convinced us of our need for. I don't know whether to classify her as folk or country in my music library, but perhaps the terms are synonymous in my lack of understanding of American music

I'm really glad she and David Rawlings have been touring with Bright Eyes, because without them, my night would have been just unbearable. I am not dissing the music of Bright Eyes. I really enjoy Conor Oberst's albums¹, hence the tickets to see his group play. But I really cannot stand music played at such ridiculous volumes. I have no doubt that if the entire audience was tested before and after the performance, a significant loss of hearing would be found in each and every one of us. Why do bands feel this crazy need to "blind" our ears? Deafen as a term does not suffice; if you possess both sight and hearing, imagine your retina being bleached by staring at the midday sun for 2 hours. That's how I felt. In fact, it made me extremely grumpy because I felt as though I had lost one of my senses. Even placing my hands over my ears to dampen the sound did nothing to improve my mood. An enterprising sort of person should be taking advantage of this and selling ear plugs at concerts for those of us who keep forgetting to bring some. (Hmm... Alternative career for me...)

I like the showmanship of Bright Eyes. It's nice to see large egos bring on stage an impressive entourage of a bass player, a second guitarist, a keyboard played, TWO drummers/percussionists, several string players (I think 4) and 2 flautists²³. To top it all, a video artist (dang I can't remember his name) in the projector booth using one of them fancy modern OHPs to provide a video backdrop. Live. Real-time. (Thank goodness that was pointed out to us or I'd have thought the videos were a little shoddily made deliberately. With magic markers.) They were all decked out in white. If they were in the UK, I'd think they were showing solidarity with the junior doctors vs that stupid placement system in the NHS. And the only reason I got my camera out (illegally, according to the usher) was because I swear Conor Oberst is channelling the still-alive spirit of the ELO. Viewed in the context of orchestral swells and all-white attire, even some of the music sounded like the bright pop of the ELO. Only, because I saw the ELO on TOTP on the telly, they didn't DEAFEN ME!

¹It's of no interest to anyone but myself and P, but our first introduction to Conor Oberst was on a BBCThree special, where he was hailed as the saviour of alt rock and proclaimed a genius. What struck me the most was his greasy hair and floppy fringe, through which he played his whole set without looking at anyone. This all just made me think he was some sort of idiot autistic savant, and we had to close our eyes to enjoy the music because we're old farts and cannot stand the sight of greasy hair. Told you it was of no interest to anyone. You shouldn't read my footnotes.

²I don't see the point of having the mini orchestra when all you're going to do is drown it out. It may be ostentatious, but it certainly didn't impress me. What a waste of their talent and time.

³Having checked my programme, I see I counted it all wrong: it was one flautist and one saxophonist. There were two violinists and two cellists. And not bass player: just the multi-talented, multi-instrumented Mike Mogis (guitar, mandolin, banjo, pedal steel, glockenspiel, hammered dulcimer). See, I knew those saved programmes would come in useful one day! But I still can't find the name of the video artist with the magic markers... Sounded like Joey Lin/Lynn/I can't spell anyone's name to save my life.

Wagnerian Love Story

Let me state first that I'm not one of opera's biggest fans. I don't dislike it, I'm just too impatient to sit through the innumerate variations of "Oh I am lost". When one compares the "high-art" of opera with the more populist musicals, one sometimes has to wonder how opera has survived in our modern pop culture.

But sometimes, when the mood is just right, the setting suitable, it hits you. Opera, whether you understand the wailed out German or French, is very emotive. There is no mistaking a devoted servant lamenting his master's imminent death, as we witnessed Kurwenal efforts to keep Tristan's hopes up that his love, Isolde, would arrive to spend one last hour with him. Ah. And here we run into another problem with opera. The complexity of the plot is not aided by the German words nor a lack of Wagnerian education in schools. I have no doubt that in the very best schools, girls and boys are drilled in the arts and educated on the finer complexities of the misunderstandings and plot twists of Tristan and Isolde, just as Shakespeare's works were drilled into my skull. Unfortunately, by mistake of birth, I did not attend such a school. Instead, I struggled with my vague memory of the last time I saw it on telly, supplanted by a quick read on wikipedia earlier in the day, and a scan of the synopsis helpfully provided by the LA Phil. A cheat-sheet, if you like, for the unwashed and uneducated (same thing). Suffice to say, the plot has everything from near-death experiences, unrequited love (which happens to be requited but unknown or undisclosed), fights to the death or near-death, arranged marriage, unarranged marriage, love potions, poison (same thing), midnight trysts and more. You know, the usual... Throw in Simon Cowell and you get a sanitised version of American Idol.

For all its plot complexities, melodrama, bad acting and over-exaggerated emotion, good opera can grip you if you're in the mood for it. If you're feeling a wee bit menopausal, for example, or just a little down, the death and destruction of Act III* of Tristan and Isolde will co-oscillate and transform your low mood into the very trough of despair. And yet, the evidence of Tristan's love for Isolde, and hers for him, transcends this pit of despondency. And while the lovers will never spend their final hour together, in death, their love will be consummated.

What was my point again? I get side-tracked by the tawdriness of Tristan and Isolde's love affair. Oh yes. The point of this post was to put up my wonky blurry shots of the Walt Disney Concert Hall's garden. There's a complex mini story behind our eventual discovery of the garden. How best to tell it? I'll settle for chronologically for now: Find out friend's birthday is on day of opera. Offer our season tickets to cheer him up (he thinks he's old; needs cheering up a lot). Realise I really want to listen to T+I too. Buy cheap seats so P and I can go get totally depressed as well. Chastised by P for not telling friend; might be awkward if he brings a date. Tell friend. Told by friend his date does not wish to be seen in public with him. Promise and cross heart not to spy. Get to concert hall and realise it will be hard to avoid friend because new seats are close to usual seats. Decide not to loiter in case of awkwardness. Spy garden door. Exit through garden door. Take lots of blurry shots of garden until kick-off. Studiously avoid looking in direction of seats. Until the lights go out and I cannot resist. Damn. Forgot binoculars. Console myself with photographs of WDCH garden and decide to give up being devious:

*This must be a universal truth: in Act III, everybody dies. Always.