Through a glass, darkly

Bit disappointed with Donna Leon's latest offering 'Through a glass, darkly'. Not only the rather unimaginative title, but it's also much of a muchness with the other books - though perhaps that's the nature of crime novels, where readers expect the same thing again and again?

It's set in the glass blowing industry in Murano, near Venice, and the text is sprinkled with Italian words relating to this - while you can guess many of them, it would be nice to have a glossary somewhere. There are many dark goings-on, also in nearby Marghera (where the pollution is said to be much worse than in Murano). Rumour is that Leon had written another novel first, dealing with pollution/corruption (in Marghera?) but had got rather carried away with anti-pollution/corruption rhetoric....

Otherwise it is the usual mix of lovingly described family meals (the children are increasingly becoming age-less, the Commissario's mother has now totally succumbed to Alzheimer's), debates with his boss - a vain buffoon who knows which side his bread is buttered on, and the extraordinary amount of time and freedom apparently available to Italian commissarios, who seem to be able to go to places and have coffees or glasses of wine quite as the fancy takes them.

Like many Donna Leon books you don't get the satisfaction of seeing the baddie being led to the cells, handcuffed - there's always a moment of frustration at the end of her books.....

Oh well. But on TV they are very nice. Now back to Alex Ross' 'The Rest is Noise' and let's see if I can crack that!

Two concerts of one half (each)

Two concerts, starting two hours apart today. Could have made all of the first concert, but without a car, and with needing to be early in the second concert to get a good seat, I left after the first half.

It was the trio 'Fortvio' (piano trio, ....think about it). Consists of Indre Baikstyte (accompanist in the music academy, Ingrida Rupaite (leader of St Christopher's Orchestra), and Povilas Jacunskas (first cello desk of Lithuanian State Orchestra). I have been aware of Povilas since before he started studying at the music academy 7 years ago. Ingrida I heard recently play solos with her orchestra, but there she was a bit lacking in confidence - not the case today! Makes you wonder about interpersonal dynamics in the band....Ms Baikstyte did all the emoting she cannot do as an accompanist. They are all good musicians. In fact, looking at them today, I wondered what it is that happens to Lithuanian musicians once they turn forty and many seem to lose the will to live. Was speaking to someone today who said that the Opera House orchestra is really difficult to motivate - yes, we can hear it!

Our young trio, in existence formally since 2006, has already won some international prizes - the International S Vainuno Chamber Music Competition in Vilnius in 2006, and the third prize at the J Brahms International Chamber Ensemble Competition in Austria last year. Keep an eye on them!

I heard Haydn's G-major piano trio, and Shostakovich's second trip. Both were great. Gee, the energy and the communication the group has! The Haydn was a bit dull for the cello perhaps, but he did not let it show and played along perfectly with his fellow players. The Rondo al' Ongarese was so ....Ongarese ... with loud, dirty cello playing (only where required!) and everything. None of that (falsely) refined 'oh, the notes must all sound nice' playing. This was pure Bull's Blood and temperament.

The Shostakovich, which I recognized when I heard the second movement (and I am surprised I had not reviewed it before) has a funny start, which would be good for a listening exam - 'which instrument starts first'? The cello plays harmonics for what seems forever while then the violin enters with much lower notes. Like the Haydn last movement it has plenty of scope for rumbustious, temperamental playing - I loved the beginning of the last movement, which the violinist and cellist played like the approach of a couple in a tango (not in tango rhythm of course) who then dance violently with each other. I wish I could have heard the remainder of the concert.

But I had to rush to the Lutheran Church for the next concert of Musica Humana of Bach and 21st century Lithuanian music. When I saw the balance of the programme, I was a bit dismayed - one Bach, three modern pieces. But by then I had hailed one of the composers, so had to listen to his work - which was ok.

Like yesterday we were made to stand in memory of someone. I could not believe it yesterday, but now I've checked - it was in memory of Margarita Dvarionaite, a (woman) conductor of the Filharmonija for over 30 years. We had them here, first? Maybe it helped that Dad had been a quite well-known if not exceptional composer (and brother is violin professor, whose children are music teachers...another dynasty).

So although I was aghast that they put the 'Air on a G-string' on the music stands, under the circumstances one could hardly protest.

This was followed by Bach's concerto for oboe d'amore in A major. Oboe d'amore, in Lithuania? Methinks the delectable Robertas Beinaris, our best oboist, has a new toy! It must be the first d'amore anything in Lithuania. And a very fine, dark tone he produced, too. It was a bit lost because he was in the middle of the orchestra, and the pitch is not ideal for that, but hey, keep it coming, Robertas. Played as beautifully, and securely, and confidently as he only knows how.

Osvaldas Balakauskas' clarinet concerto, brand new, was the last piece I heard today. It's in two merged movements, with largely the same rather spiky rhythm for the orchestra throughout (or at least for the first fiddles, practically among whom I was sitting). The second movement read 'Andante' or 'Andantino' on the score, but it was hard to tell the difference. It seemed very virtuosic for the clarinet who was constantly playing. Again his sound was a bit lost among the orchestra, or maybe I was just too close to them - plus I was really paying attention to the first fiddles - who went astray at one stage despite counting very hard. It happens, I suppose. Now, don't ask me if it was atonal (no, almost certainly not) or serial music (also almost certainly not) .... It was quite pleasant, really, but very hard work for the clarinetist.

New concert, new audience

Well, partially new - the Rimsky-Korsakoff Sheherazade we hear about once every two years at the Vilnius Filharmonija - the sheet music is so much used, it's well patched and very very fragile.

Tonight's concert by the Lithuanian National Symphony Orchestra, conducted by the talented Robertas Servenikas, began with Joaquin Turina's Fantastic Dances. To be honest, it was a bit of misprogramming in Vilnius, seeing as last night, at the other concert hall, we had heard effectively Ravel's Spanish Dances (ok Rhapsody), and at one stage I wondered, did they only ever have one dance in Spain? I am sure the same material was used for at least one of the dances. Turina (1882 to 1949), has a very short entry in Wikipedia, as is that in my dictionary of music....The piece was quite nice, if you like that sort of thing, but rather cliche-y and full of lush upper strings; sort of Hollywood meets sanitised Spain. Maybe I just had enough of Spain in two evenings running. Again, it did not feel all that Spanish, but it may have been the nature of the written music rather than the interpretation.

Nestor Marconi had come all the way from Argentina to play Piazzola's Bandoneon Concerto. This was a bit of inspired programming on behalf of the Filharmonija - it got people into the concert hall who you don't often see, especially young people. Great move, Ruta! In fact, the hall was packed - and they got a better deal for their money than last night. This was lovely; he communicated beautifully with the orchestra (which may have been a little leaden, not quite in the spirit of Piazzola), but he did his best to pull them along - if they had lifted their noses from the music from time to time it would have been grand; but it's not normal run-of-the-mill repertoire. It's a nice piece, and we could hear the bandoneon quite well - myself, I thought it was due to the amplification (seeing as one time he leaned over to one side and the thing suddenly started to roar), though my friends tell me that 'experts' said to them that the microphones were for the broadcast. The loudspeakers either side of the stage must have been just for decoration in that case.....

He added two encores, one seemed like a Piazzola medley - I recognized several of his themes, and then another piece, much loved by the audience. Got a standing ovation. I wondered about the breadth of the bandoneon repertoire - it must be even more limited than the viola repertoire....

Finally, every year again comes 'Sheherazade'. Many of the young people were still in the audience and may have got exposure to music they don't usually listen to; this is quite a good piece for that. The violin soloist played well, mostly, as did the cello leader. The lead clarinetist deserves much praise. I wonder if more risk could have been taken with tempi, elasticating them more (in all pieces this evening) - that would have made it more interesting. But much fun was had, much scraping was done and the audience was happy.

I swear I've seen those beats before

Bit of a concert of two halves tonight at the Lithuanian State Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Vladimir Ziva. I'm sure I've seen him in Moscow before - there was a conductor of similar build and colouring who always gave the beats to the band before they started....at the Tchaikovsky Conservatoire, with a Russian orchestra. But it was before my blogging days, and the ticket I may have kept would give no info, and programmes are hardly worth getting at the venue. No matter.

The first half had Ravel's 'Spanish Rhapsody'; a nice piece with well-known parts, but it did not quite have the Spanish swing, or whatever you call Spanishness in music. It just did not quite go, even though the orchestra played rather well - there was some nice trumpet playing (never guaranteed here). This was followed by Lukas Geniusas playing the Saint-Saens second piano concerto. Young Lukas, born 1990 in Moscow, is the offspring of Petras Geniusas, the best-loved pianist in Lithuania. Lukas' uncle is a conductor, as was his grandfather. It's another one of the Lithuanian dynasties, of which we have too many. Lukas lives in Moscow and gets his training there (the Russian granny might be a piano professor). Frankly, the performance did not set the heather alight. Even though the hall was packed to the rafters with friends of the family, not a single 'Bravo' was heard. The first movement was dull; after that he got going a bit, but he was too much huddling into the piano (says she, sitting at the far left of the hall) and he did not really let it rip. He played a well-known Chopin encore, with a bit more zing, but also with quite a few iffy chords. Not totally convinced. Also the way he sidled onto the stage, looking as if he was about to be beaten, I wondered if he was totally comfortable.... This reminds my of my Georgian colleague, who at 16 toured Lithuania playing a Grieg piano concerto, but then became a gynaecologist, and now is second-in-charge of a powerful NGO. Young people still have options open to them.

The second half - wow, what a half! It was Mozart's 40th symphony. I have always had doubts about this band and Mozart, but boy, did they play well this time. Even though it was the big band with 12 first fiddles and so on. With a hint of HIP performance, a delicacy I have never heard before, pianissimos which were like a feather on a pillow of air, coordination in the first fiddles never seen before - it was wonderful. There were some such Mozartian moments! They played all repeats (frankly, was that necessary? The second movement goes on and on and on, with much of a muchness). They belted into the third movement, only to reign back hard for the trio start, before again.... 'and they're off' - race you to the end.

Mr Ziva had a funny little habit of turning round in the final beat of the piece, presenting the music to the audience. The first time, at the end of the Ravel, we were rather startled to see him grinning at us! At the end of the concert, they did a little encore of the last movement of the Mozart, slowed down dramatically, he turned around, and handed it over to the audience like a bouquet of flowers. What a charming gesture! The audience went wild - this was a well-deserved standing ovation.

When's he coming back?

Pianos for the People!

This little story describes how 15 pianos, unguarded, have appeared across Birmingham (England), and anyone can (and does) play them. It's an action of the artist Luke Jerram by the name of 'Play me, I'm yours'.

What a wonderful idea!

Though perhaps not under my window, please....

'Und neigte das Haupt und verschied'

'and bowed his head and died' - Jesus in Bach's St John's Passion.

But he didn't. He frigging didn't! I'd heard that this was a very slow production at the Vilnius Opera and Ballet Theatre, but I was not bothered. I love this piece, bought the score and came back specially for this performance and the St Matt's Passion next week in the Filharmonija.

The score was a mishtake - the opera house was pitch dark. I had bought the last ticket available, in January (!) and was in the 15th row. Almost no point of going at all. Couldn't recognise anyone on the stage. Which may be as well in some cases.

I began to worry when the orchestra started noodling around the opening introduction; noodle, noodle, noodle and not a clear note among it. It then turned out to be an extremely stylised production by the American Robert Wilson (if he were Scottish, there would be about 500 of them in an area the size of a thimble). Fast movement? Forget it? Movement (I'm talking human movement, not part of a piece of music)? It was robotic, they moved, and then froze for a good long while - often in poses akin to Indian temple dancers. The costumes were sort of clerical, single colour head to foot; the choir members' heads were painted the same colour as their clothes. Beams moved along the back of the stage - every time you looked, they were in a different place, but you hardly ever saw them move. Now, I love the piece, but I could not see the band, there was no action on the stage, and I could not read my score. Not my idea of a Bach passion. Not interesting. I did not feel any passion.

The opera house orchestra is not made for Bach either. The obbligatos were really quite rough. The singers...so I cannot tell you who sang what, because I was too far away. Especially since my score has 5 main soloist parts, and the website lists 10 singing soloists, plus two choir members stepped forward during the applause. One of the singers had a voice problem, and the German Dominik Koninger sang for him from the edge of the stage (the part of the servant, I think). Not bad. The male alto had intonation issues, I thought - his first aria seemed way off-beam. Johannes von Duisburg, a regular attender in Vilnius, probably Jesus, did well.

At least the diction was better and I could understand most words. People seemed to like it, though I am not sure whether the standing ovation was due to achievement or due to the need to rush to the loo urgently - there had been no break and people suffered.

French word for today...

'youtuber', as found here....

Homesick!

Found 'The History Boys' on my return home (must have travelled for only two months from Ayr to Vilnius. Thanks, Pat!).

Wow, it's so wonderful - and so a different world now. Those teachers (hmmm, well) would you get them like this now, in times of targets (and, er, not touching the boys)? That nice school, with its little minibus, those neat school uniforms, those interesting lessons? No mobile phones, hardly any traffic on the streets? Seeing those old actors again, Frances de la Tour (what was her name again in Rising Damp?), Richard Griffiths, Penelope Wilton, that Clive whatisname who always seemed to play headmasters, some more evil than others.....

I see the story is by Alan Bennett - that explains it all! (Including the camp teachers?)

Right nostalgic it made me! Sometimes I really miss that place (and those years.....)

What am I atoning for?

was what I was asking myself while sitting through the interminable film 'Atonement'. Jeeez!

It was my own fault for not checking it out better. I think I may have read the book(yes, in fact it's sitting there on my bookshelf, looking distinctly read) but obviously I blocked out stuff. Particularly the war stuff. I hate British and American war films; the British ones are all plucky Cockney subalterns caring for those above (or apparently above) their station, and having more common sense than their officers will ever have. If they are not that, it's the guys in the tavern/bistrot/Kneipe singing along to a chap with a banjo. (Music as social glue and all that). Large chunk of war scenes in this film. Not convinced that our chaps would include a rather large black guy - black yes, rather large, not sure. Also our hero walks along and then stands in front of a cinema screen while a film is running, and neither does he throw a shadow, nor does anyone shout at him for standing in the way? Not convinced, not one bit.

So the film (and book) is awf'lly English. Large country house, dippy and rather romantic young daughter of the family, who understands nothing, including how to walk gracefully (had she been watching too much Joyce Grenfell?), sees something, adds two and two together with her imagination and makes seven, and her sister's boyfriend ends up in prison before you can say 'Bob's yer uncle'. Eventually, she starts feeling guilty, by which time it's far too late.

McEwan, the writer, does lovely descriptions - but this does not translate well to film; it's far too langurous, and wallows in sentiment, cliche and self-pity. Like I did by the time it finally came to an end (self-pity that is). James McAvoy was wonderful, though. I see he's a Glasgow lad - I thought I had heard a wee Scottish burr....

What happened to live reviews....

no worries, I'm back in Vilnius, with an action-packed programme. Reviews will start pouring in again shortly......

View from my Window - or Other Colours

Orhan Pamuk's latest offering, the View from my Window (in German) or 'Other Colors' (in American English), sounded like a good book to take on my most recent trip to Istanbul. I expected another book exploring the highways and byways, little corners, tiny streets and unusual courtyards of Istanbul, a book which would lead me into further, so far unexplored corners of the city.

In fact the book is a collection of essays, and a story (though it does not seem to be a fiction story). The essays cover a vast variety of topics; moments from his childhood (which he seems to revel in - he always talks about it), thoughts about other authors, the experience of being in Germany with the expatriate Turkish community where everyone holds a different concept of Turkishness, a fond farewell essay addressed to his father, something that looks like a speech (and what a long one) he made when receiving the Peace Prize of the German Book Trade; in another essay he pokes gentle fun at people who exhibit their books to impress their visitors; he contemplates earthquakes and gives a description of the Istanbullus' reaction to the 1999 earthquake which killed about 30,000 people, and finally adds a story from his childhood of one of the occasions when his father left.

As always, the essays are absolutely beautifully crafted, and because one does not expect anything to happen, or to develop, the long and very involved descriptions do not get in the way of action, as they do in some of his novels. Going by some of his other stories I was rather surprised to find that he has a wife and a daughter; his writing is so contemplative and slightly melancholic that I expected him not to have space in his life for people, apart from the city of Istanbul which he loves. An essay on the earthquake and the high risk of earthquakes in Istanbul (I would not buy a house there) finishes answering the question - why don't we leave? 'Because I cannot imagine a life in any place other than Istanbul'. This makes it doubly sad that after Hrant Dink's murder he left Istanbul to live in the US.

It's a lovely book, one which one could pick up, read an essay or a few lines, and put down again. It's been put together from essays published in a variety of media, and I wonder a little bit if this was an emergency reaction to having to live in expensive New York - but my bookshelf is richer for this little volume. He is growing on me more and more....I still have a number of unfinished books on my 'to be read' shelf....

Whiter than the Driven Snow

is Margaret Hodge's impression of the Proms, according to the Guardian. She's the English culture minister, and complains that the Proms do not reflect the multiculturalism of English society. Nor does the Royal Family, for that matter.

Is it that the audience is too white, or the programming? Is she looking for a quota system to represent the different groups in British society? She could start with women composers, black, Muslim and Asian composers...(I'll not even whisper that my Open University music course last year focused vastly on central European composers, particularly German and Austrian, because as I keep saying - British composers, Were Not, Are Not, and May Never Be All That Good). Sounds like she would like to the Proms to offer a concert spot to my black Scottish son, who plays Scottish and Arabic music on his violin, in a band containing, amongst others, a Palestinian percussionist and an Iraqi composer......(the security system would go crazy!)

Maybe classical music is not offered in schools with many ethnic minority children (NB - are Jewish people not considered an ethnic minority?)? Seeing as in Scotland we are trying to repeat the Venezuelan experience, it could be tried in some corner of London, too.

Or, whisper it (again!) - do non-white people not feel welcome in the Royal Albert Hall?

What a difference a letter or two make

The German newspaper 'Die Zeit' has an article on an Austrian lady who was a guard in one or two concentration camps, and who may have contributed to quite a number of deaths, beatings and so on. She had been interviewed twice by Austrian and German police after the war, but got off scot-free. Recently, however, she was within inches of being taken to court. She died before this happened.

Her name is Erna Wallisch.

Which reminds me of Ernst Wallfisch, the fabulous viola player.

And of the delightful Raphael Wallfisch, the cellist, his mother who played the cello in Auschwitz, for her life, and the rest of that talented family. (Not sure if they are related to Ernst).

Isn't it creepy what difference a little letter or two can make to a name? Like put you on different sides in the camps?

Incidentally, I see that Raphael is playing in the Berlin Konzerthaus on 8 May, to celebrate the end of WWII on that day 63 years ago, and also the founding of the state of Israel 60 years ago. Not sure that I would want to push the latter quite so much, given the more recent history. For that I would be very happy to chuck eggs at Mr Wallfisch, even in Germany. (Nothing more than eggs, mind, and making sure they'd miss the cello). They will be playing Schelomo by Bloch, something by Pavel Haas (who perished in Auschwitz) and some other pieces, all Jewish music. It would have been nice to add Kol Nidre to that - would he play it like Misha Maisky in that memorable Vilnius concert in 2004?

Matsuev - reliability?

The Russian pianist Denis Matsuev is due to play at the Vilnius Filharmonija this weekend. I'm cheesed off, because Saturday night (my first Saturday home) is orchestra night, but this time we just get a pianist. At an outrageous ticket price. I'm not going - just going to curl up in front of the telly instead (although there is my friend Pavelas Giunteris' concert in honour of International Women's Day, but it starts earlier and I won't be able to make that. I'll live).

I wonder, though, if Mr Matsuev has a small reliability, or miscommunication problem? He would not be the first pianist who withdraws from concerts for one reason or another. A few years ago he withdrew from a concert in Vilnius, needing someone else to stand in (or rather sit in) for him. This weekend he was also supposed to give an additional concert for the Filharmonija Club (again at an outrageous ticket price), and it has been cancelled. Could be, of course, that club members do not care for twice paying high ticket prices for hearing the same guy two days in a row.

Yes, that'll be it....

Freud and Nietzsche and Breuer, too

In Istanbul came across the book 'When Nietzsche wept' by the American psycho-whatsit (analyst/therapist) Irving Yalom. I had read another of his books recently and found it very readable, though normally anything with a flavour of 'costume drama' puts me off right away.

All protagonists in the book (Josef Breuer, Freud, Nietzsche and some people in his environment) are real people. It's just that Breuer never met Nietzsche, although this is the topic of this novel. (Breuer worked together with Freud for a while, as his mentor, though Breuer's own once-only attempt at healing the soul burnt his fingers just a bit).

(Come on, I mean...Breuer was treating Bertha Pappenheim, who later became a famous social worker, and presented her case as that of Anna O - this is fact. According to the book he became infatuated with her. It's necessary to know that BP suffered from hysteria (much diagnosed in those days) which had myriad symptoms, including inability to walk, to speak German etc. She got lots of spasms, in her legs, like, which would improve if the doctor massaged the inside of her thighs, during which she would moan in pain. In pain? Just how naive was this doctor? According to the story Breuer was not the only doctor who fell for her. Whenever, on a walk, the doctors had massaged her thigh, they would then continue hobbling themselves - with an erection...).

Yalom is pushing credibility to the limits by suggesting that Breuer agreed to treat Nietzsche without Nietzsche being informed that he was being treated. Ethically this is severely unsound and nowadays would constitute assault. But in those days.....So once Nietzsche is wheedled into the consulting room, and he still does not agree to be treated (because he is incapable of accepting help) Breuer has to pretend that it is he himself who needs help with his obsession with BP, and in the process becomes more and more distraught. Until the book comes to a rather abrupt end.

In passing the book introduces us to Nietzsche's philosophy (I had a look at some of Nietzsche's books today, but like all German philosophers, they are fairly unreadable). If I understand it right it involves only rationality - he is against god, feelings and sex (all of which he describes as baser motivations that need to be overcome); he suggests that people need to be hardened to be able to deal with life - if they are only hard enough they can deal with anything (yes, but....), and he says that everything is down to selfish motives, including the wish to help people (because it makes the helper feel good or assuages his guilty conscience). He is also insufferably independent, and almost totally unable to accept help or love (though he does ask for help in a moment of delirium). I know people like this .... and I wonder if this hardness and rationality stuff somehow influenced Nazi thinking (was Hitler capable of reading Nietzsche??) - in which case it would have affected a whole generation of Germans.

It's a fascinating story, which must have taken a huge amount of research to complete (then again, the story of Anna O as the first attempt at psychoanalysis is well-documented), and it also describes very well the rather tight world of Vienna around 1882, which other authors also refer to - it's not for nothing that a Sigmund Freud could erupt there.

The book is very readable, and compared to 'The Bastard of Istanbul', as a small, tightly printed paperweight, very good value for money. Yes, ok, I read it in 24 hours - but I had time....

A funny book about Turks and Armenians

Two of my stereotypes were destroyed in the last couple of days - Turks can write funny books (my main knowledge is Orhan Pamuk, though he grows on me more and more), and they can write sympathetic and funny books at the same time about the Armenian question.

Just as well though, that Elif Shafak's book 'The Bastard of Istanbul' is a fast read; as I was flying to Istanbul I began to realise that it might not be the best book to read in public here. I guess the suggestive photo of the pomegranate on the front of the German version should have given me a clue.....Ms Shafak herself grew up in Spain and only returned to Turkey when she was 20, but by now she will be well steeped in all the controversy, what with having had to face a court case on this book.

The book ultimately connects two nineteen-year-old girls, both from large families. One grew up partly in a large Armenian family in the US (though her mother divorced her Armenian father early on and married a Turk out of spite), and the other, totally fatherless (she only finds out about him aged 19 - I know how it feels, though in her case the situation is terrible) grows up in a family of women in Turkey, where the men have always had a habit of dying early. Then the semi-Armenian girl decides she needs to find her identity and can only do that by going to Turkey, secretly, though with the help of the Turkish stepfather (who is an escapee from that all-female household). And so it goes on.

The book covers a huge number of topics - not just the Armenian/Turkish issue, but also the situation of illegitimate children, there's a rape-scene, the story of the Armenian tragedy is movingly told and well-reacted to by the Turkish listeners to the tales (though the characters in the book don't see themselves as having a feeling of guilt, unlike, say, my generation of Germans who still feel guilty for something their parents did).

What's so funny about it, then? It's the characterizations of people - less of the Armenians, but in particular of the Turkish end, where each of the women in that house full of women has her own idiosyncracies, and where a group of characters meeting in a cafe are all failures in their own way, like the 'Secretely Gay Columnist', or the 'Particularly Untalented Poet', spelt in a way that I have not seen since reading my friend Pat's book involving a dancer who was 'Not A Nijinksy'.

At the same time the book has some challenging moments, what with the two 19-year-olds both being intellectual heavyweights in their own ways, one as a nihilist (an existential one?) and the other a serious bookworm, and we get quotes from Jean Jacques Rousseau and others.

My main criticism is weight for value for reading time. I bought the hardback version, which is a huge and heavy book. But the print is well spaced out, and so I read the 450 pages in no time at all, including about 70 pages on the tram from the airport into the town. Try doing that with an Orhan Pamuk book (though I've read 100 pages of one of those by 2 pm this afternoon.....). I'm worried about a serious reading material crisis.....

Otherwise it's a brilliant book!

Live music - at last.... schleppend

Two concerts in one day in the Kemal Atatuerk Cultural complex in Taksim, Istanbul.

This morning, an offering of Beethoven by the Istanbul Municipal Orchestra, a pianist who shall rename nameless, and a conductor called Jurjen Hempel (Juergen Hempel). Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear.

The moment the pianist stepped on the stage, my heart sank. It was the schleppender way she went over to the piano. Beethoven 4 is a hard one what with the pianist having to start all alone. But it gives her to set the tempo. Right. Schleppend. The orchestra started more or less together. The fiddles were playing sotto voce whether the pianist was playing or not. The winds were sometimes inaudible (there are some fine wind lines), and occasionally rough (the horns). Emoting there was none - most of the emoting took place on my eyebrows along the lines of 'what happened there'? It was a far from inspired performance.

However, the hall was full, and she seemed to have her claque; so we got two encores. The first was something romantic, I thought, until - wait a moment - isn't that Bach? Sounds like a bit of a Bach partita or something, like a gigue/bourree/gigue kind of arrangement (I'm not so good on the piano partitas). But every single chord was arpeggiated (do you call it that, when the notes are played like on a harp -teedleleedlelee, rather than on a piano - bang). Dreadful. Off she went, and then launched into a Hungarian Dance. I am sure Jessica's book of the same name will be light years above the quality of this little effort. Not sure whose Hungarian dance it was, a Brahms transcribed by Liszt, and in this case transcribed by someone else for people like me who cannot play all the notes? I could not believe this would be played in a public concert, like this. Notes fell out all over the place; if she played 85% of the notes she did well. She did give it energy, though.

The second half of this concert was a symphony. Without a programme I was confused; I thought it was going to be all Beethoven, but this was so classical - could it be Haydn? Turned out to be Beethoven 1; practice makes perfect, eh, Mr Beethoven. The orchestra and conductor finally got themselves together well in the final movement. In other movements it sometimes seemed as if the first fiddle leader was the only fiddler who was playing - you could hear him very clearly.

In the afternoon, the opera orchestra and chorus put on a concert performance of Carmina Burana, in the same venue. What a difference! It was a huge band (to be fair, Beethoven does not always need a huge band), huge choir (with one or two unfortunate soprano warblers), big percussion section (necessarily), led by a conductor, seemingly an ageing rocker, whose hair had slipped down to around his neck, through from that he had produced an impressive curly ponytail. This orchestra played so well - the concert master (mistress) lead her heart out, the brass section was the best I have heard for a long time, and the others did well, too. Orff does ask something of his soloists, though, no? Particularly in terms of range of voice - one of the guys, who had only one solo, was fairly seriously challenged by the highness of his part. But overall it was a vastly better performance than this morning's effort.

In passing I wondered what else Orff had written? I know his operas 'Die Kluge' and 'Der Mond', both of which are on my Ipod, and of course the 'Schulwerk', an educational system involving many xylophones etc - I was involved in that as a child. From Alex Ross' book 'The rest is noise' I seem to remember that he was not a total Nazi as I had always assumed seeing he stayed in Germany during the war. But symphonies, string quartets - did he write any?

Pleasing to the eye

The policemen in Timisoara, Romania, are not pleasing to the eye whilst directing traffic, says today's Guardian. Drivers have complained of lacklustre and imprecise directions.

What is the inspired response of Timisoara Police Department?

The policemen (only men) are sent to ballet lessons run by members of the Timisoara ballet.

And no, they are not just learning to wave their arms about, but dancing to the works of Tchaikovsky, Swan Lake apparently being the best role model for this kind of work.

Feel free to feel sorry for them - they have to do this in full uniform, on account of having to wear that while on their day jobs.

The lone man

As a teenage Anglophile, when I wanted to emigrate to England, naturally I landed in Scotland - and remained for most of my life in the UK.

Recently I started studying Spanish, so what's the first book of 'Spanish' literature that fell into my hand? It's by a Basque author, of course.....solidarity of the downtrodden nations and all that, I suppose. No, I'm not reading it in either Basque or Spanish - Spanish may be easier than Lithuanian, but a language which uses 'deportisto' for 'sportsman', rather than what you might think is its meaning more logically, is a language with elephant traps.

Bernardo Atxaga's 'The Lone Man' takes me into parts of history (not that much history, really) which I have known little about. (Though sadly, I remember that my Scottish friends, with whom I spent my first years in Scotland, lost a friend in San Sebastian through ETA activities in about 1975 or so).

The book is set in 1982, during the Football World Cup which took place in Spain (how did this happen - it must have been awarded during Franco's reign which finished in 1975? They knowingly awarded the cup to a dictatorship, and a country in relatively deep decline?). In the story, the Polish team (with the real team names - gee, the research one does for a review) is staying in a hotel owned by a group of former members of 'The Organisation', presumably ETA. They are all rehabilitated, amnestified and free men - though no-one should ask about the start-up capital for the hotel; to obtain this they had used previously gained skills.

The leader of the group, a bit of a dreamer and philosopher, has got himself involved in hiding some fugitives within the hotel complex, for old times' sake, without telling his co-owners. The police is on to him, somehow, and it becomes a race against time to get the fugitives out.

The blurb says it's an entertaining thriller. Not sure about that - the book is paced quite gently with not a single car chase, and very little violence, if any. The main protagonist, known as 'Carlos' is given a book of Rosa Luxemburg's letters and spends much time quoting them and drawing parallels between her situation in prison and his current condition. He goes for walks, with his much-loved dogs (the author's much-loved dogs? They are very dog-loving descriptions), spends much time chatting to his colleagues, whose own lives are unravelling and re-knitting themselves just a little, and spends much time alone in the bake-house, where he produces the hotel's famous bread. But of course in the race against time there's the thriller element.

The book is thin on description, but heavy on relationships, and contemplation of the present and the past, including the recent past and that of Rosa Luxemburg. But it is not dense. It is much more demanding and interesting than an airport novel (though these have changed in recent years), but at the same time becomes increasingly unputdownable as you go on. It's very readable indeed.

And after getting stuck at 24 pages into Theodor W Adorno that is very nice, too!

Music - and the mind - and the body - and the science

This 'music and...' thread is rapidly developing potential for a dissertation, though perhaps not necessarily today's contributions, thank you (unless one of them gets more substantiated).

Today's snippet is contributed by my friend Pat who found this article in the Grauniad about music 'to stand bold upright to'.

Some chap in the US, called Carrick (as it happens, that's where Pat lives and where I used to live, albeit in Scotland) has found that a particular singer's CD helps people to stand upright.

So what, you may ask?

If you are an older kind of person (not mentioning any ages, but you'll probably have been drawing your pension for a while) falling over is actually quite dangerous. Ask my mum. Though in one case she was pushed - off her bike - and in another she should not have been on a piece of ice at minus god knows how many degrees...but I'm sure everyone knows of someone who fell and broke their neck of femur, and before you know it, they have a huge hospital bill (if not in Europe), a new piece of metal in their body and if they are lucky, they are back home after 6 - 8 weeks in hospital. If they are unlucky, they end up in a nursing home or dead.

So staying upright is very useful indeed.

The singer is one Nolwenn Leroy, and the effect is called the Nolwenn effect, also mentioned here, though Mozart's music features too on a CD they have brought out (but you can't call it the Mozart effect since that's already applied to young children). The latter site states that 'Only Mozart and the Nolwenn Leroy conditions improved a substantial
percentage of the subjects to the normal stability range. The success
rate for the Nolwenn Leroy treatment conditions was greater than Mozart
and all other music at 71.8% plus/minus 10.7%. If repeated samples were
drawn from the population, the expected success rate for the Nolwenn
Leroy treatment conditions would fall between 61.1% and 82.5% for 95%
of those samples.'

The site goes on to say that even a number of people without any sign of disequilibrium, when tested, were found to be at severe risk of falling. How did they test that? By poking them in the arm?

While hunting for the original article on the Guardian website I found this little audio file on music and science; all about how atoms sound. Don't find that topic altogether interesting, but noted that the composer David Horne, amongst others, had written music around this. I remember a TV programme about him as a boy at St Mary's music school in Edinburgh, and later hearing a huge and very complex piece written by him in a concert of the National Youth Orchestra of Scotland.