Your John Hancock, Dmitri

For those of you who were living in caves last week, on Sunday Houston played host to the 2006 NBA All Star Game. It was another opportunity to showcase our great city and more aptly to this blog, the Houston Symphony. A small percentage of the orchestra was lucky enough to be there to represent (along with another famous local group by the name of “Destiny’s Child” ) the myriad of talent this city has to offer.

I could go on and talk about the production, the music, the special effects, even- gasp—the GAME--- but let’s face it, that’s all secondary to the REAL show- the celebs. There they were in all their bling-bling, bodyguarded glory…the Hollywood types, the tall athletic types, the Presidential types.

I’m not the kind of gal that feels comfortable asking for autographs. But when a colleague managed to get Shaq’s signature, I admit to feeling a pang. I mean, the guy is a huge presence, a huge sports hero, just plain HUGE. She showed off her trophy at the crew dinner before the game. “Look, he signed it right over the part (of our artist access pass) that says ‘NO AUTOGRAPHS ALLOWED DURING MEDIA ACCESS PERIODS.’” “When did you get it?” I asked. She shrugged. “During the media access period.”

She confessed to have an autograph collection. Remember those autograph books? In the dark days before the internet, children, people used to have things like photo albums and autograph books. Never heard of them? Oh, just go Google it. Anyway, my colleague had grown up in Louisville near a concert venue that hosted some of the greatest musicians of the last century. She told me about meeting Dmitri Shostakovich.

Shostakovich (1906-1975) was a Russian composer of the Soviet period. We played his Symphony No. 10 in Carnegie Hall last month. He had a troubled relationship with the government, which included two official denunciations of his music; in public he remained loyal, joining the party in 1960. The biting irony and dark moods of his works are said to harbor the seeds of his unspoken rebellion and dissent. One can be both deeply moved and horribly depressed after hearing a work by Shostakovich; you may feel like you need a dose of flowers, bunnies, and puppies afterwards, to snap out of it. Or just hit the Prozac.

“They kept telling me not to speak to him, that he didn’t understand English, but I could tell he understood everything perfectly. He was just so quiet, so oppressed, so beaten down. He kept his head down and didn’t say a word.” She described her meeting with one of the most tragic figures of the 20^th century.

Now the world has moved on, the Soviet bloc has been shattered, and it’s fairly easy to get into the McDonald’s in Moscow. What would it be like to meet Shostakovich now? Instead of KGB, it would simply be bodyguards and possibly his agent that surrounded him. “Keep the line moving folks…pay your $75 right here…no, Mr. Shostakovich does NOT personalize..no, we do NOT provide EBay authentication……”

Anyone have a Sharpie?

Thoughts of love and the macabre

Let me preface by saying that I HATE Valentine’s Day. It is not my present situation but past events that led me to my current stance on this “Black Tuesday.” Still, time heals all wounds, and I was willing to try and get into the spirit this year by writing a blog about Valentine’s Day and how love, requited or unrequited, is the greatest muse, inspiring many composers and songwriters, blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda…

Then I went and got myself locked out of my house, trapped on my second floor back balcony, 30 minutes before a HS rehearsal, and all that changed. Things really weren’t dire-I had a pot of herbs, grill scrapings, and the outside cat water bowl for sustenance, and someone was bound to come looking for me at some point. But as the hours, yes, HOURS* passed, I was refused help by three people, and my efforts to pick the lock, kick in the door, jimmy the windows, or cry for help, went in vain; my thoughts turned darker. “Body of Symphony Violist Found on Balcony- Story at 10.” My life, well, actually, other musician’s deaths began to flash before my eyes.

The Baroque composer Jean Baptiste Lully (1632-1687) came to mind. In that era, using a baton (the stick conductors use; but the root of the word is similar to the French verb “to beat”) meant conductors literally "beat" time on the floor with a heavy wooden staff. In a concert, Lully accidentally brought his staff down so hard on his right foot that he crushed his big toe. He refused to have the toe amputated and the infection turned fatally gangrenous. Then there’s Anton Webern (1883-1945), a composer of the “second Viennese” school, shot dead by a American Army soldier during Allied occupation of Austria, following the arrest of his son-in-law for black market activities. How about that Mozart (1756-1791)? Latest theory: he died from a bad pork chop. He would’ve been 250 years old on January 27^th . Like elsewhere in life, many musicians have tragic deaths to mirror their tragic lives. But what about the happy ones? Mendelssohn (1809-1847) was certainly one of the most successful musicians of the 19th century. Pretty happy guy- you may know him from his wedding music from a “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” played on about 99% of American weddings these days. I would’ve been playing his First Symphony today, and his Violin Concerto will be played on the next Wavelength concert on March 24th. His career showed none of the disappointments and delays that were the rule for the other great Romantic composers; yet it was the overwork and exhaustion to meet the demands for his performances and compositions that led to his untimely death at the age of 38. Death…from success.

Enough death? About love, then: Mahler, whose Sixth Symphony we are playing the end of this month, was desperately in love with his wife, Alma. Unfortunately, Alma Mahler has also been called “the greatest femme fatale of the 20^th century.” She had affairs with the artist Gustav Klimt, composer Alexander Zemlinsky, and architect Walter Gropius, among others. Mahler actually went for a consultation with Dr. Sigmund Freud to try and save that relationship.

Tragic lives, tragic loves, tragic deaths. Tragic lockouts from houses. Do we as artists embrace the trials and tribulations? Probably. Me, as soon as I get myself off this balcony, I will embrace a bottle of something, cross this day off the calendar, then go practice my trials and tribulations away. Can’t waste a perfectly good horrible experience! Happy BLACK TUESDAY!!!

*six hours total

Houston Symphony went to Carnegie!

A tourist stops a cop on the streets of New York. "Excuse me, officer, but can you tell me how to get to Carnegie Hall?" Well, we all know the punchline to that one, ha-ha, it's PRACTICE, ba-da BUM... It's funny because it's TRUE, though not only was it lots of practice that the orchestra had to take before we got there last month, but 3 separate flights as well!

A whole posse of patrons, family, and various other well-wishers and thrill seekers accompanied us on the trip. It's pretty special to see your home team play on different turf, and orchestras are no exception. It was great to have so many of "Y'all" in the crowd, and one of the New York reviews of the concert even mentioned the hootin' and hollerin' in the audience.

For me it's always fun to play with my team in the Apple. I'm a transplanted Yankee myself, born in one of the boroughs (Queens) and schooled at the fabled Juilliard School, one of the most famous music conservatories in the world. And no, it's NOT true about the razor blades hidden between the keys of the practice pianos at the school. Urban legend! I also teach at NYU in the summers, so am fairly "up" on the latest and best. This trip had my cell phone ringing off the hook when my HS buddies wanted in on restaurant tips, subway routes, shopping.

One thing about orchestra tours is that no matter how big the city, you always run into one or more colleagues. This "world-colliding" can be pretty entertaining. One time on tour in Japan a few of us ended up at the same laundromat and even pooled our whites to make up a load. Sorting out the underwear afterwards was quite the bonding experience. In New York I have to be careful because I can get my "New York walk" on. In New York, you learn to avoid eye contact. In Houston, I learned to make it. So being on a Houston Symphony trip to New York, my eyes were all over the place- didn't want to scare a colleague but don't want to encourage a mugger, either. Solution: sunglasses. All in all though, we in the HS family like to hang out together wherever we are, so I happily played tour guide, we went around in our own unruly mob, and my New York friends marveled that we all WANTED to stick together. But hey, the orchestra that sticks together, does laundry together....no wait, I meant PLAYS together. Yeah, that's it; plays together.

Me (Rita Porfiris - Viola)