Reynolds Rap

Take a trip over to S21 for my review of Belinda Reynolds' CD Cover. If I didn’t already have a comped copy, I would actually shell out the cash to iTunes for it.

Now playing: Glass Cuts: Philip Glass Remixed (Orange Mountain Music). Until recently, I considered actively listening to any of Glass's music completely unneccessary. Why bother, when the soundtrack to every Hollywood drama and television commercial, for everything from insurance to energy drinks, is a blatant plagiarism of his works, with a bit of John Adams thrown in for good measure? Then something curious happened. I began learning Joan Tower's Or Like A....An Engine, included in the Schirmer compilation American Contemporary Masters. Each time I settled down to work, the score would inexplicably open not to the Tower but to Glass's Wichita Vortex Sutra instead. I began to run through it as a warm-up every day, and I soon realized I was actually enjoying it. Go figure.

This particular disc reminds me of the hip yet unobtrusive tunes played at my hair salon in Soho. If nothing else, it has encouraged me to seek out original versions of the works featured, especially Dennis Russell Davies' recording of the Tirol Concerto. I'm assuming it's even more beautiful without the drum machine.

Postscript: I normally despise chain restaurants, but I love that the Houston's in the Citicorp building on 53rd has Chuck Close's gigantic portrait of Philip Glass hanging in the dining room. Nothing complements a turkey burger better than a sleepy-eyed composer with a wildly disheveled coiffure.

West Side Memories

What's happening on the Upper West Side lately?

First it was the Time Cafe (85th and Broadway), and Fez upstairs, once the site of my now-legendary 24th birthday party.

Then @SQC on Columbus and 72nd, perfect for a late night cocktail and yummy dumplings, suddenly disappeared.

According to Jerry at S21, Tower Records is in serious jeopardy as well. I'm reminded of Meg Ryan's voiceover in You've Got Mail (which is probably showing right now on TBS) about how the closing of her independent book shop is an inevitable occurrence in this mercurial city, how change is intrinsic to the fabric of New York. Although true, this fact doesn't curb the disappointment that inevitably follows when, while walking down a familiar stretch of sidewalk, you realize that a beloved neighborhood spot now exists only in your memory.

AngloMania

Battling late summer lethargy and the post-vacation blues, I resolved to tick off some items on my “Things to Do Before Labor Day” agenda. First up was a visit to AngloMania: Tradition and Transgression in British Fashion at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I had been anticipating its opening since a selection of featured pieces by Vivienne Westwood, John Galliano and Hussein Chalayan were first unveiled in the May issue of Vogue. The July installment of that venerable publication included a multi-page spread of candid photos from the Met’s Costume Institute Gala, the “Party of the Year” attended by nearly 1000 movie stars, royalty and fashion luminaries and inspired by the exhibition.

I prefer to drop by the Met on Friday and Saturday evenings when the galleries aren’t cleared until 8:45 pm. Chamber music performances (usually by Juilliard students) can be enjoyed along with a cocktail on the second floor balcony, and the sculpture garden in the American wing at twilight is one of my absolute favorite places in the city. The Japanese area is also quite romantically lit (boys take note). Controversy has swirled of late around the raising of the museum’s suggested admission price to $20; like all good New Yorkers, I forked over a single GW and made my way to the English period rooms, once the lavish interiors of actual British estates.

A Union Jack topcoat designed for David Bowie by Alexander McQueen greeted me at the exhibit’s entrance. The theme of deconstructed convention continued throughout each display. Traditional garments from the first wave of European Anglomania in the late eighteenth century were shown alongside examples of modern British fashion, represented by Westwood, Galliano, Chalayan, Stella McCartney and Christopher Bailey for Burberry. Of course there were plenty of whimsical hats, by Phillip Treacy and Stephen Jones, and footwear by Manolo Blahnik. The floor plan and explanatory placards were haphazard at best, but the sheer beauty and ingenuity of the clothes overshadowed any presentational missteps. Ever the pragmatist, to me the most desirable pieces were the supremely wearable rather than haute couture: the caramel Burberry fox-trimmed trench from the upcoming season (very equestrian chic, like the first look Madonna wore on her Confessions tour) and a Stella McCartney three piece ivory tuxedo (perfect for onstage). I spent several rapt minutes gazing at an exquisitely detailed ivory satin and black velvet gown from the turn of the century. Made by Charles Frederick Worth, even Scarlett O’Hara would have had difficulty squeezing into its miniscule waistline.

Whether or not you're planning to view AngloMania before it closes on September 4, I recommend visiting the Met’s website to hear Sex Pistol Johnny Rotten’s hilarious pontifications on straitjackets, safety pins and the monarchy. I couldn’t resist picking up the exhibition’s accompanying CD, a collection spanning thirty years of British pop. It includes a cross section of what I consider to be the greatest songs of all time: Culture Club’s “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me”, Duran Duran’s “Girls on Film” and Thomas Dolby’s “She Blinded Me With Science”, although the Sex Pistols are oddly absent. The disc opens with “Praise You” by Fatboy Slim, a tune that became synonymous with fashion in 1999 as the soundtrack to Cindy Crawford’s runway return in the Ellen Tracy 50th anniversary show.

Later that evening, after leaving the museum, I happened to pass a woman on the sidewalk wearing a Galliano for Dior newsprint tee, a pattern featured on several pieces in the exhibit. En route to meet a friend, I dashed across Madison Ave, my black plaid Burberry umbrella shielding me from the warm summer rain.

Souvenirs de la ville Québec

Notre hotel, le Château de Frontenac

La chute Montmorency

Le jardin Jeanne d'Arc, mon endroit préféré

Dans la village canin sur Mont Sainte-Anne, avec "Muktuk", who thought my Moschino bag might make a delicious snack. Chien vilain!

Cancer Sucks

I find people who insist on sharing too much personal information on their blogs a total nuisance. That said, I promise to eventually get back to music (and shoes), but this is important, even if my only readers are the two people guarding the city while everyone else is away at the beach.

My uncle Richard was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in April. Ironically, he's by far the healthiest of my mother's large and extremely close-knit clan, running distances daily that in my book would definitely warrant a cab ride. Unfortunately I've learned during this last painful year that it's impossible to anticipate when something truly horrific is lurking around the bend for you or someone you love. Richard is a doctor who thrives on helping others, and lived for several years in places like Uganda and Croatia under the auspices of Doctors Without Borders and the Carter Foundation. He currently works at a VA Hospital in New Hampshire but is having a serious operation next week requiring several months of recuperation. Anyone employed by a federal agency is eligible to donate a minimum of 4 hours of vacation time to him (except postal workers, apparently to discourage them from "going postal") , enabling him to retain his insurance benefits. The donation process is evidently quite simple, so if you or anyone you know might be able to help, please leave your contact information in the comments section. Thank you.

In other depressing news, I hope none of you were planning to fly today. The airports look completely chaotic. I'm perfectly content to be driving... I absolutely can't live without my Charles Worthington volumizing foam.

Take That, Mr. Blahnik

“No one should do anything for more than five hours a day, whether it’s playing the piano or making shoes.”
–Lilian Kallir, commenting on my practice schedule

Rock Lobster

Due to a recent incident involving a lobster, I’m currently nursing a gruesome gash on the second finger of my left hand. Typing is quite challenging (and painful), so it looks like I'll be taking a short leave from the blogosphere. It appears that I can also forget about playing the piano for at least a week, but luckily this coincides with my prior vacation plans. Note to self: next time, use a nutcracker.

Video Killed the Radio Star

Last Sunday night, I found myself yet again bemoaning the lack of tangible air conditioning at the Stone, John Zorn’s experimental East Village performance space. Pianist Emily Manzo was presenting John Cage’s Sonatas and Interludes, but with a twist: a video by David Phillips and Paul Rowley simultaneously projected on two large screens behind the piano.

James Pritchett describes Cage's work as “a big piece with a quiet voice,” and it seemed perfectly suited to the bare-bones venue, except when the sound of large vehicles rumbling down Avenue C drowned out the music. The preparations (using assorted hardware including screws, bolts, rubber and plastic) give the piano a percussive gamelan effect, and some of the movements, especially those with repetitious “grooves,” can be nearly trance-inducing. On this night, however, I found the accompanying video incredibly distracting. Beginning with Rorschach-like ink blots, the film ran the gamut from abstract geometrical shapes to live-action home movie clips. Being obligated to follow both the visual and aural aspects of the performance was apparently too much for me to handle; at times I had to close my eyes to keep from feeling inundated by information. Manzo played beautifully on a well-primed instrument, yet I was frequently concentrating on the action on the screen instead of her efforts. I was also fascinated by the actual logistics of the keyboard interfaces Phillips and Rowley used to keep the video and music in perfect synchronicity.

Multi-media productions are becoming increasingly common, even in more traditional forms of classical music. Concert presenters are attempting to market a non-visual medium to a generation so hooked on visual stimulation that we carry our own personal TVs with us on the subway. While I believe the goals of this particular performance were completely admirable, this was one time I wished Cage’s singular music had been left to speak for itself.