New Opera in Brussels: Julie

Other Reviews: Pierre Gervasoni, "Julie", mélodies aériennes et êtres mobiles (Le Monde, March 13) Christian Merlin, Strindberg, musique mélancolique (Le Figaro, March 15) Caroline Alexander, Mise en épure d’une tragédie (Webthea, March 16)

There is a new opera in production right now at the Théâtre de la Monnaie in Brussels. Belgian composer Philippe Boesmans, that theater's composer-in-residence for the past twenty years, has premiered his new opera, Julie, as adapted from Strindberg's play Miss Julie by Boesmans's Swiss librettist, Luc Bondy, who has also directed the production. (Mike Figgis made the very same play into a movie in 1999, with Saffron Burrows.) There were lots of articles, starting with an interview with the composer by Marie-Aude Roux (Philippe Boesmans dévoile ses recettes d'opéra, March 13) in Le Monde:

Are the opera's intentionally reduced musical forces—three vocal soloists and eighteen instrumentalists—linked to the play's suffocating nature?

Not exclusively. For me, what is most important is the narration and its understandability. That's why Julie and Jean—a mezzo soprano and baritone, respectively—have tessituras close to the spoken voice. So that everything is understood, I favored writing in the voices' middle register, reserving the high range for repeated phrases. As for the orchestra, it's more like a group of chamber soloists, where each player has a specific role. Some synthetic sounds come from the middle of the group, but there is nothing electronic. I believe that opera should use the natural sounds of opera.

Is that why opera has such an important place in your composition?

In the 1960s, postserialism gave us some beautiful works, whose presumed lack of expression was based on a certain bleak view of life. Deconstruction was where we were. Certain composers went too far into complexity and noise, but the music itself was dying. When you write an opera, you have to be sad or joyful, you have to tell a story. That aesthetic did not allow that. But something rose out of it. Peter Eötvös, for example, after having been a Stockhausen follower, took this new path in his opera Three Sisters [1997], based on Chekhov. I am looking for this path. A part of the avant-garde likes my operas, as does the larger audience. As for the rest, perhaps I betrayed something, and ideologues will surely label me postmodern, but music is not a combat. You write what you are, with your culture, and also in the context of music history.

The reviews are universally laudatory, both of the production and the cast. I will just quote one section from the review by Martine D. Mergeay (Les séductions fallacieuses de «Julie», March 9) for La Libre Belgique:

The staging of Luc Bondy, who also contributed the libretto, is in the mold of Richard Peduzzi's stylized and suggestive sets: a cold kitchen, high walls and murderhole-like windows, an abstract and contemporary aesthetic softened by sensory accessories (apples, flowers, pets) and 19th-century costumes. The lighting is superb, and the acting direction of a detailed realism, also helping to bring the characters closer to the viewer. As we see it, there are many good qualities to this production. Still, it lacks two elements that would make it more convincing: radicality (you might say "cruelty") and complexity (how sounds are "layered"). The mixture of Bondy's visual realism and Boesmans's sensual sound keep the piece in a climate of quotidian niceness, with no individual release toward something invisible (or ineffable), with no revelation, no pain. In this context, Julie's death, overdramatized, falls flat, and we do not understand the reason for giving such a luxuriant form to what does not manage to make an impression, no matter how moving.

Another reviewer called the decoration "pure Ikea," noting that Strindberg was Swedish. The photographs of the production are beautiful (although they do give the impression that the opera is taking place in an Ikea catalog). Performances continue through April 1.

New Work by Pierre Henry

For whatever reason, the name of Pierre Henry (b. 1927) is usually mentioned second, or not at all, after that of Pierre Schaeffer (1910–1995) in discussions of the development of what they called musique concrète. Schaeffer was a radio engineer, but Henry was the trained musician (including formal study with Messiaen and Nadia Boulanger) who collaborated with him in the organization they founded together, the Groupe de recherches musicales (GRM). They broke new ground in electronic music, by remixing found sounds, in their Symphonie pour un homme seul (1949-50) and other works.

Well, Pierre Henry is now in his 70s and is still going strong. (See Ios Smolders, Interview with Pierre Henry [Vital Magazine, issue 44, 1995], for more information.) In fact, he is premiering his new piece, Voyage initiatique, at his home in Paris until March 27 (this Sunday, which happens to be Easter). (When you order a ticket online, they will tell you where to go: it's in the Picpus neighborhood, and that's all I know.) This is the third such home concert for Henry, after Intérieur/Extérieur (1996) and Dracula (2002).

The first review I read was by Pierre Gervasoni (Pierre Henry, musique d'intérieur, March 17) for Le Monde. He says that about 50 people are allowed into the apartment building for a half-hour. They are allowed to walk freely about the building and choose a room to hear the new piece, with a break about halfway through if they want to switch rooms. The composer himself remains in his ground-floor studio, where the audience is not allowed to enter. Henry's assemblage pieces (he is also an artist) are displayed on the walls, including one described by Gervasoni:

These systematic assemblages of various objects (screws, magnetic tape spools, transistor circuits, copper wires) recall the work of Arman, sometimes with a musical theme, like the collage of Wagner portraits accented with kitchen knifes and the warning "Sonnez SVP, chien méchant!" [Please ring the bell: beware of dog!]

Bertrand Dicale also wrote an article (Pierre Henry: La musique concrète à la maison, March 14) for RFI:

Pierre Henry does not speak of notes. He speaks only of sounds. These days, he is premiering Voyage initiatique in his extravagant house in the 12th arrondissement of Paris. "I wanted my sounds to be closer to the heart and soul and less close to the body. With Voyage initiatique, I'm looking for truly happy music, truly calm, a music that has to do with the thoughts of Marc Aurèle, with Zen meditation, and with a personal peace that I am learning little by little—by necessity, since my sixty years of music are going to lead me inexorably toward death, at least to physical death. Voyage initiatique is a way to comfort myself." To the ears, we recognize a sanza, sounds of pygmy polyphony, traditional drum sounds, which seem to come from Far East devotional chant, fragments of ethnic or religious music from Africa and Asia. Plus there are cracking sounds, clicking, whistling, fluids sounds, croaking, the usual stuff, one might say, in the music of Pierre Henry, the most famous composer of musique concrète.

There are two other articles about the new piece: Bertrand Dicale, Pierre Henry, en complicité (Le Figaro, March 10); and Eric Dahan, Pierre Henry se patine sans lâcher les platines (Libération, March 14). The CD of Voyage initiatique is already available from Amazon.fr. On April 3, Pierre Henry will present another new work, Comme une symphonie at the Amiens Jazz Festival, as part of the celebrations for the Jules Verne Year (he died in 1905), being celebrated in Amiens and Nantes.

St. Matthew Passion

Sometimes a performance, a certain music, can impress in us the dawn of understanding why music is; what music means to us; why it has been composed, performed, discussed, written, and commented about since time immemorial. It taps into the deepest parts of our brain or emotions (others might like to say, soul); it shakes us to the core. Any work that makes me cry from the first bar on for the next 15 minutes must be such music.

Johann Sebastian Bach's St. Matthew Passion is of such perfection, beauty, and spiritual purity that any good performance should be enough to communicate the sublime and the eternal. Still, it goes to the credit of the Choral Arts Society of Washington and their director Norman Scribner that from the first notes of the orchestral introduction the music bypassed mental processing and went straight to my innermost, leaving me a weeping mess. Palm Sunday (March 20) with the St. Matthew Passion seems to be too much even for my hardened atheist self. Memories of my father giving me my first Matthew Passion at the age of five—meticulously copied from a radio broadcast, neatly labeled, on three cassette tapes—came back with almost disturbing vividness.

The fact that I was unable to taken notes and unable to focus much on the performance when the whole was so overwhelming should probably be comment enough in and of itself about the job done by soloists, choir(s), and orchestra(s). If not, I can call eight soaked Kleenexes to witness the subtle excellence of the performance. Pronunciation and diction were consistently good to excellent, especially among the soloists, whose every word I understood whenever I paid attention to the text.

J. S. Bach, St. Matthew Passion, Karl Richter

The almost 200-head strong choral forces (including 30+ trebles) were a visible sign that this was a big-boned performance, mildly informed by the success and discoveries of "authentic performance practice" over the last 30 years, but much more in the vain of a Karl Richter (or Helmut Rilling) than a Sir John Eliot Gardiner or, at the small-scale extremes, a McCreesh or Junghaenel. Soloists employed their vibrato, and the orchestras were big enough to hold their own against the eager throats.

The performance of viola-da-gambaist Jay Elfenbein demanded special mention for his beautiful accompaniment of "Geduld! Wenn mich falsche Zungen stechen," though tenor Stanford Olson had trouble in this particular aria. Similarly, Eva Cappelletti-Chao's violin solo and accompaniment were outstanding, especially coupled with the outstanding mezzo Stacy Roshoi's "Erbarme Dich, Mein Gott, um meiner Zähren willen." Exquisite oboes and oboe d'amores contributed to the overall excellence that, for the band's relatively big size, managed to keep the textures clear and the musical lines audible. The combination of soprano Ellen Hargis's "Aus Liebe will mein Heiland sterben" and Karen Johnson's flute was yet another gem among the many highlights.

The Evangelist was a wonderful Alan Bennett, Christópheren Nomura was Jesus, while multi-tasking baritone Steven Combs was Judas, Peter, the High Priest, and Pilate and thus got to betray, deny, accuse, and sentence Mr. Normura, respectively. He did so in great vocal style. Bass-baritone Michael Dean was the fourth aria soloist and did not disappoint, either. The continuo players constantly tugged on my heartstrings, especially William Neil, whose organs blended very much with the lower strings, sometimes to near-indistinguishability.

The continuous stream of late audience members—especially after the first chorus—was lamentable. I am usually all for late seating, but five dozen people taking several minutes to find their seats disrupted my enrapture regrettably. Another, albeit very minor, negative element was the realization that unfortunately we live in a country and in times in which a St. Matthew Passion's performance needs a disclaimer. Printed on the inside of the text of the Passion according to Matthew, the Choral Arts Society of Washington felt compelled to point out that

every work of art is a product of the time and place of its creation and that its meaning and relevance change through the ages. We have included the text and translation of the Passion according to St. Matthew for your review and we hope that it will assist you in your appreciation of this performance.

Now there are moments in Christian history that merit apologizing. The current pope, for example, has done so on more than one occasion now. But there is nothing about Bach's St. Matthew Passion that could justify such politically correct babble. If anything, it is insulting to music lovers and Christians alike that we have become so spineless about anything associated with religion that a Passion on Palm Sunday ought to be inoculated against the accusation of anti-Semitism or the Choral Arts Society against spreading the gospel by including the text. (For all I can tell, they don't receive any public funding, in which case the very performance of a sacred work by Bach would probably be unthinkable.) Finally I am convinced that to many listeners—believers and nonbelievers alike—Bach's work has changed little, if at all, in "meaning and relevance" since his time. If musical works can claim timelessness, the St. Matthew Passion surely would be among the first to deserve that distinction.

That is a nonmusical qualm, though, and could not distract for long from an incandescent performance of one of the finest works in Western Civilization, a work that, when compared to the recent Messiah, made clear why some people get angry when Bach and Handel are mentioned in the same sentence. A stone could have been moved.

¼ Emerson

The Smithsonian Associates present recitals with the individual members of the Emerson String Quartet—one each a year. Perhaps because "Emerson String Quartet" sounds better than "Dutton/Ilic Recital," the information focused on the former aspect and was somewhat confusing. I am sure that if I now go back to the concert's description, I will find mention of its exact nature, and subscribers surely know. But casual ticket purchasers, including acquaintances of mine, have called the billing everything from "misleading" to "bait and switch" to "false advertising."

Possible false expectations aside, there was still a fine recital to enjoy, namely that of pianist Marija Ilic and violist Lawrence Dutton. The perfection of execution and intonation that always marks the Emerson Quartet's recordings were oddly missing from Brahms's Viola Sonata, op. 120, #2 (E-flat major), though the sonority of Dutton's instrument was amply present in the good-sounding Baird Auditorium of the National Museum of Natural History. The young Serbian pianist accompanied him perfectly adequately and often with considerable rhythmic insight, though a slip in the op. 120, no. 2, seemed to affect her security and resulted in the remainder of the Brahms being played safe.

The Brahms also raised questions about the viola as such. Daring the scorn of already much (and unfairly?) maligned viola players, I dare say that there is a reason as to why there are more viola jokes than there are about all other instruments in the orchestra combined. (And that includes the bassoon, a highly silly instrument!)

Mozart's favorite instrument, unless exposed to its most refined advantage by composer and soloist alike, has a few problems to overcome. Its sound can be less than ethereal. Where the cello yearns, the viola's low passages sound like a cicada in love. Where the violin sings, the viola imitates an 80-year-old mezzo soprano. Where either cello or violin laments, the viola whines. There are, of course, players who can make me eat my words. In a case of most delicious irony, violinist Pinchas Zuckerman is one of them, Roger Tapping and Anita Mitterer others. At least in the first half of the recital, Lawrence Dutton was not one of them.

But in my book, most everything is forgiven when you program Hindemith. The Viola Sonata in F, op. 11, no. 4, deserves to reach many more ears than it does. Exposing it to the audience at the Museum of Natural History made more than up for quibbles about intonation and unpleasant rawness of tone. Thus kindly disposed to Dutton/Ilic (even though I received the icy stare of death from Mr. Dutton when I audibly blew my nose while he was tuning between Brahms's movements one and two, which felt like a Nažgul had flown by), I went into the second half of the program that started with Gardens and Pools by John Patitucci, a jazz bass player.

"Crossover in the best sense of the word," according to Dutton, it comes fresh off the composer's desk, the ink still wet. What the audience got was the unofficial world premiere of a work that didn't strike me as being "crossover" at all, whether in the good or bad sense. It was an excellent, tonal, mildly modern, spiky here, lush there work for viola and piano. The remotely jazzy elements were more subtle than many a Russian classical composer's over the last 80 years. It was accessible without pandering, sweet and short, and the most charming part of the recital.

Brahms bookended the concert with the first of the op. 120 sonatas in F minor. I find it the more pleasing of the two, but it was also noticeable that most of the intonation and sharpness had dissipated from the performance. Indeed, there were moments of true beauty in this performance that had been conspicuously absent from the E-flat major sonata.

With Hindemith and the lovely discovery of Patitucci to the rescue, with a consoling closing Brahms, the recital of the "Emerson Quartet minus three" was a fine Saturday afternoon well spent, after all. The first of the four Romantic Pieces of Dvořák's, transposed down to the viola's level, err, range, made for an encore where, finally, Dutton showed that the viola does have a lyrical side, making it more than the Sancho Panza of the Orchestra.

Orchestre de Chambre Français at the National Gallery

The new exhibit Toulouse-Lautrec and Montmartre opened yesterday at the National Gallery of Art here in Washington (open through June 12). The exhibit's main creator, Richard Thomson from the University of Edinburgh, gave an introductory lecture at 2 pm, which I did not attend. (He is also behind the upcoming exhibit Degas, Sickert and Toulouse-Lautrec, cosponsored by Tate Britain and the Phillips Collection.) Some part of the considerable crowds must have stayed on at the gallery (as I suggested to readers of DCist on March 15) to see the first free concert in honor of the new exhibit, the Orchestre de Chambre Français (.PDF file) with violinist Kyung Sun Lee. When I got into the line to find a seat, it stretched from the West Garden Court into the rotunda, around the circle under the rotunda, and almost all the way back to the West Garden Court, the longest I have ever seen the line for one of these concerts. Never fear: I did find a seat, close to the musicians but on the right side, with a column blocking the sightline.

The original information on this concert touted a program of "Ravel, Magnard, and other early 20th-century composers," the idea being, I think, to provide a musical soundtrack that might have accompanied the artist creation of Toulouse-Lautrec and the other artists in the exhibit, in the neighborhoods of Paris around the turn of the 20th century. The works chosen (sadly, no Magnard) were indeed the sonic counterpart of the art—thought harsh and cutting edge at the time but, to our tastes over a century later, now merely colorful and broadly appealing. The group that offered us this smorgasbord of treacly amuse-gueules, the Orchestre de Chambre Français Albéric Magnard, is based on a great concept: playing orchestral repertoire with what is essentially a chamber music group. For this concert, there were twelve string players at the stage end of the West Garden Court, arranged in front of a multipiece acoustic shell, which considerably helped to dampen and control the din of reverberation in this unusual sonic environment.

The program opened with conductor Brian Suits's arrangement of Claude Debussy's Petite Suite (1889). This sent me back to my undergraduate piano major days, when I had the good fortune to have as a teacher a pianist who was one-half of an excellent piano duo team. She insisted that I and a recital partner perform four-hands or two-piano repertory on our recitals every year, and this was one of the pieces we did. Petite Suite is a hell of a lot of fun to play, and it worked quite well in this arrangement, where the violins take most of the melodies in the primo part and the cellos those in the secondo part. The only Ravel on the program came second, the mutely tragic Pavane pour une infante défunte (1899), arranged by the group's director, Christian Raverdel. Ravel himself arranged the piece a number of different ways but apparently not for this combination.

The rest of the first half featured the evening's soloist, violinist Kyung Sun Lee, who just happens to be married to conductor Brian Suits (a fact acknowledged in the program notes). The Canzonetta movement from a Concerto romantique, op. 35 (1876), by minor composer Benjamin Godard, is a simple piece with a cantabile melody in the solo violin over a mostly guitar-style pizzicato accompaniment in the orchestral parts. It was overshadowed by the truly lovely Saint-Saëns Romance in C Major, op. 48 (1876), arranged again by Christian Raverdel.

Another unusual composer featured on this concert was Guillaume Lekeu, who composed his Adagio for Strings in C Minor (Les fleurs pâles du souvenir) in 1891. At intermission, enough people had left that I was able to move from my mostly obstructed view to a more comfortable bench seat. Lekeu's piece is tortured and somewhat morose, and I thought it would never end, although the crowd seemed quite pleased, judging by their applause. Conductor Brian Suits whispered something to his musicians right before the penultimate piece, an arrangement of Debussy's La fille aux cheveux de lin (The girl with the flaxen hair, 1882), from the first book of preludes for piano. Perhaps this piece was under-rehearsed, which seemed to show in the performance. Fortunately, the program ended on a stronger note when the orchestra was joined again by Kyung Sun Lee for Saint-Saëns's Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso, op. 28 (1870). This was a great vehicle for Ms. Lee's technical prowess, and it was a predictable crowd pleaser. She also joined the orchestra for its encore, a wide-ranging arrangement of Gershwin's song I Got Rhythm, made for Ms. Lee by her husband.

This orchestra played very well, with admirable consistency and nearly flawless intonation, in spite of the challenging acoustic of the West Garden Court. If there was a problem with this enjoyable concert, it was the uniformity of tone in the choice of programming. The Lekeu piece was strange and rarely heard, yes, but why did they not play any Satie? The portrait of Satie at the top of this post, by Ramón Casas (El bohemio; Poet of Montmartre, 1891), is in the exhibit. The little write-up on the exhibition in the program says the following:

It was in the early 1890s that the painting's composer subject, shown impeccably attired and casting a quizzical sideways glance at the viewer, began frequenting Montmartre in the company of his close friend, the poet Contamine de Latour. The two men took up lodgings there, but neither could afford the gentlemanly lifestyle to which Satie was accustomed. Eventually he exhausted his resources and, to make ends meet, began to play regularly in the cafés-concerts, an uncomfortable fit for a composer whose aspirations were formed in the Paris Conservatoire.

Another piece that would have been perfect for this concert is related to the exotic dancer Loïe Fuller, shown in the second image here (and several others in the exhibit). According to Edgard Varèse, Fuller was the inspiration for the prelude named "Voiles" (Veils) in Debussy's Préludes pour piano, Book 1. I don't know how that piece, with its shimmering whole-tone scales, would sound with strings, but it would be great to have heard it.

Exhibit on François Villon

Ballade des Femmes de Paris by François Villon Quoy qu'on tient belles langagières Florentines, Veniciennes, Assez pour estre messaigières, Et mesmement les anciennes; Mais, soient Lombardes, Rommaines, Genevoises, à mes perilz, Piemontoises, Savoysiennes, Il n'est bon bec que de Paris. De très beau parler tiennent chaires, Ce dit-on, les Napolitaines, Et que sont bonnes cacquetoeres Allemanses et Bruciennes; Soient Grecques, Egyptiennes, De Hongrie ou d'autre pays, Espaignolles ou Castellannes, Il n'est bon bec que de Paris. Brettes, Suysses, n'y sçavent guères, Ne Gasconnes et Tholouzaines; Du Petit-Pont deux harangères Les concluront, et les Lorraines, Anglesches ou Callaisiennes, (Ay je beaucoup de lieux compris?) Picardes, de Valenciennes; Il n'est bon bec que de Paris. ENVOI. Prince, aux dames parisiennes De bien parler donnez le prix; Quoy qu'on die d'Italiennes, Il n'est bon bec que de Paris.

Before Charles Baudelaire in the 19th century, there was another great Poet of Paris, in the 15th century, François Villon. You can read all of his poems online, in the original Renaissance French (Oeuvres complètes de François Villon), but only a few in English translation. There is a new exhibit on Villon at the Bibliothèque historique de la Ville de Paris, called François Villon, poète de Paris (open until May 22), including maps, photographs, and old books relating to his life. Since the BHVP does not have a Web site, there is not much more I can tell you, except to mention an article (Il n'est Villon que de Paris, March 12) by Anne-Marie Romero for Le Figaro, of which I translate a few excerpts here:

Outside of Paris, there would be no François Villon. Outside of this tumultuous Paris of the 15th century, just coming out of the Hundred Years' War and an interminable civil war, outside of this Paris of Louis XI that was beginning to take on the characteristics of a capital with its court, its chic neighborhoods, and its dangerous places, this worthless "schoolboy," this philosopher-thief would never have written "Il n'est bon bec que de Paris," one of his funniest poems, so much was his life tied to his city. It is after all to "François Villon, Poet of Paris," that this new exhibit wants to honor, as the first example of urban poetry in Europe.

To make a museum exhibit about a poet is always difficuult. Jean Dérens, curator at the BHVP and chief of the exhibit, pulls it off well by evoking—through a sober setting, with large photographs of the old roofs of Paris dominating the treetops of light wood—the familiar places that united the "poet-scholar" and his Latin Quarter. These photos are enlargements of Marville's shots in the 19th century, taken before Haussmann carved up the Sainte-Geneviève Hill. Several other maps show us the Paris within Charles V's fortified wall, all oriented with the east to the top, including two from the Bibliothèque nationale (Sainte-Geneviève and Saint-Merri) and parts of the famous map of Truschet and Hoyau (1550), in color, bristling as well with truculent names of disappeared little streets. You can read there, on the Left Bank, realm of clerics, students, and rascals, a gritty urbanism, crisscrossed with tiny, tight streets, overlooked by churches and convents, a city within a city with its own places, morality, and secrets.

The library itself owns several editions of Villons works and is showing its only early printed edition of Villon's great poem, the Testament, printed before 1500. It is also exhibiting the edition of Villon's first great champion, Clément Marot, who rescued Villon from literary oblivion in the 16th century. François Villon, poète de Paris will remain at the Bibliothèque historique de la Ville de Paris until May 22.

My Big DC Adventure

As the president was rushing back to DC to reinsert the wooden stake in Tom Delay's heart—wait, that's not possible—I was taking a look at the 48th Corcoran Biennial: Closer To Home. I don't get to the Corcoran very often, so this was a good excuse. If they would include me in an exhibit, I'd surely show up more often and even spend some money in the gift shop: nice T-shirts.

Closer To Home is a small show for a biennial, which is a good thing. The work is nicely laid out and given a lot of breathing room. There's nothing ground-breaking and Congress won't have a special session to decry the end of our moral values (we're in DC): it's too late for that. The artist getting the most print from the exhibit is George Condo and his wildly distorted portraits. After the initial jolt from the imagery, his work holds up: he's a skillful painter.

Kathryn Spence created colorful piles of thread (bird nests) accompanied by a series of graphite drawings of birds, and some quite stunning hand-embroidered rolls of paper towels. Another painter to note is Dana Schutz. Paintings bursting with this much florescence don't usually work for me, but these are solid, enjoyable paintings. Here is a list of all the artists in this exhibit: if you're in the area, check it out.

While you're there, the permanent collection has some 14,000 pieces, including a beautiful Bierstadt (no image available), and right next to him is Sunset In The Woods by George Inness. The Corcoran is planning a Frank Gehry addition someday [which I dubbed the Powerbook Wing last March—CTD], so there is an exhibit of architectural models and drawings of past and future projects. It's amazing that it's possible to actually build these sculptural feasts. I'm concerned about the multimillion dollar debt loads on museums due to a rash of expansions, but this would be a great addition to the Corcoran and DC.

I've been anxiously awaiting the opening of the National Museum of the American Indian. The beautiful organic form in sandstone has been growing on the mall for several years. It's as far removed from the gray granite and marble government buildings as it can be, and I love it. My love wanes inside though. It's a stunning, as in stun gun, overload of graphics and electronics, and the collection that I could find was weak. This could be a fabulous place. Get rid of harsh advertising graphics, open up the spaces, and focus on the objects and art. Where are the dancers? The story tellers? The totems? (The main hall should be filled with totems and large sculptures). There's so much rich heritage to pull from: this is a weak beginning. A bright spot is the media room. It's a great curved bank of some 30 computers in front a wall of glass overlooking the Capitol and the mall. This would be a fabulous place to spend research time. Come on, NMAI, you've got prime real estate: open this place up! You've just had over one million visitors in your short time open: give us a reason to return over and over. I know I sound harsh, but I expect much from this museum. There is a powerful story to tell.

I agree with Mark. For example, I don't understand why there is not something along the lines of this exhibit (mentioned here on January 7), which is coming to the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History, and not the National Museum of the American Indian.—CTD

"Weinen, Klagen..."—Herreweghe's New Bach

J. S. Bach, Cantatas BWV 12, 38, 75, P. Herreweghe / Collegium Vocale Ghent C.Sampson, M.Padmore, D.Taylor, P.Kooy Harmonia Mundi

Weinen, Klagen, Sorgen, Zagen (BWV 12) is one of Bach's 1723/24 cantatas that deal with sorrow and consolation, based on or relating to Psalms 22 and 130 (De Profundis and Luther's German popularization thereof, Aus tiefer Not). The other two cantatas on Philippe Herreweghe's new Harmonia Mundi disc are that very Aus tiefer Not (BWV 38) and Die Elenden sollen essen (The Miserable Shall Eat, BWV 75). Aus tiefer Not is set not only to the words of Luther but also on the melody of his hymn. Though sparse as few other of Bach's cantatas, it impresses with its fine and meticulous weaving of vocal lines, doubled by the accompanying instruments.

All three are masterly performed by Philippe Herreweghe (back in more familiar territory after his recent foray into Bruckner: see Ionarts review), his Collegium Vocale Gent and the outstanding Bach singers Carolyn Sampson, Daniel Taylor, Mark Padmore, and Peter Kooy. Especially the latter two are exquisite, not surprisingly, as Bach cantata veterans who may be familiar to the listener from their collaboration with Gardiner's and Ton Koopman's respective cantata projects.

Herreweghe must have "secretly" climbed a good part of the way to a complete cantata cycle by now. That he does it—if he has any such aspirations—without fanfare and announcement would make sense if one considers that neither Sir John Eliot Gardiner nor Ton Koopman were allowed to finish their traversals with their original labels Archiv and Erato. Koopman cofounded Challenge Classics in order to finish/reissue his cycle. And just this month the first Bach cantata CDs on Gardiner’s own new label (Soli Deo Gloria) came out to much acclaim, suggesting that he, too, may yet complete a project. Otherwise the field of complete cantatas would be left to the old and scarcely available Harnoncourt, Haenssler's Rilling, or the excellent Suzuki on his loyal and enterprising BIS label.

Of course choosing and sticking with a cantata cycle is one thing: grabbing this disc for the sheer enjoyment of lamenting is another. The no vibrato style delivers the cleanest held lines, and assuming one likes it that way, the contributions leave no musical wish unfulfilled.