Charles Munch, "The Complete Recordings on Warner Classics"

This box covers two very different eras in Munch's career: pre-Boston, and post-Boston.  Of course, the general consensus is that his best recordings were made during his thirteen years in Boston, and who am I to argue with that.  But the main thing that attracted me to this box is the breadth of the repertoire.  The box regularly branches outside of the standard repertoire and features several then-contemporary French composers whose work has not been regularly recorded.

The first six discs are stereo recordings from the 1960's.  Munch's specialty, the Berlioz "Symphony Fantastique" was the premiere recording of the Orchestre de Paris.  This orchestra that was essentially created for Munch, sadly he passed away not long after its formation.  This version may not be his finest recording of the work, but it does not disappoint.  Munch is also excellent with Ravel, drawing energy and passion from works like the "Daphnis and Chloe Suite No. 2" and "Bolero" that many conductors fail to do.  His "Bolero" may come as a surprise to those who are accustomed to versions where the main job of the conductor is to beat time as steadily and inexorably as possible.    

I still don't "get" Roussel as a symphonist, but I discovered Dutilleux via this box and was instantly drawn to the strange atmospheres and timbres in his Symphony No. 2 and "Metaboles".

The final seven discs are mono recordings presented in variable, but generally decent sound.  There are many wartime recordings from Paris, providing some historical significance.  A triumphant Beethoven "Emperor" concerto, recorded the week after D-day in Paris, is a fascinating listen in this regard.  But these discs contain many concertos where the influence of the conductor is more obscured, all the more so because of the sound quality which can make it difficult to hear the details from the orchestra.  Fortunately, just about all of it is good.  Elsewhere, there are several works by 20th century composers (Delannoy, Halffter, Samazeuilh) that show Munch's talent as a promoter of contemporary works if nothing else.  

This isn't a set that can be easily digested in large chunks because it's all over the place in terms of styles, sound, and orchestral quality.  But as a meaningful chapter in Munch's legacy, containing many fine performances, it's an enjoyable and highly inspiring listen.      

Harry Styles, "As It Was"

In the last few years, a slew of Billboard Hot 100 chart records were broken that until recently would have been unthinkable.  Some of these new records are truly mind boggling.  For nearly twenty five years, Mariah Carey and Boyz II Men held the record for the most consecutive weeks at #1 with "One Sweet Day".  For two decades, nothing came close to matching it.  Who could possibly defeat the kings of slow jam R&B and the most successful female solo artist ever?  Destiny had seemingly taken over. But in 2017, Luis Fonzi's "Despacito" became the summer jam to end all summer jams and tied the record.  And two years later, the record was smashed by a complete unknown.  When "One Sweet Day" dominated the charts, Boyz II Men and Mariah Carey had twelve #1 hits between them, tens of millions in albums sales, and nearly unlimited promotional support behind them.  Lil Nas X was armed with a $20 beat and an obscure Nine Inch Nails sample.  If the CMA hadn't banned "Old Town Road" from the country charts, prompting a wave of free publicity and the remix with Billy Ray Cyrus, it probably comes nowhere close to topping the Hot 100 for nineteen weeks.  But it happened, and you'll never find a more unlikely megasuccess story in the history of pop.  

There are other ways to measure the success of a hit song.  The Hot 100's methodology has changed many times during its six decade history.  The 90's were a particularly confusing time.  To be considered for the Hot 100, a single had to exist as a physical product.  But since those were peak CD buying years, many artists didn't bother releasing physical singles, they simply "released" a "new" song to radio as a means to stoke their album sales.  The songs weren't new because they were readily available on the CD album, but the labels would simply signal the record stations to start playing track three instead of track six and voila, there was a "new" single.  Thus you had the strange conundrum of completely unavoidable 90's hits that didn't chart due to this bizarre technicality, at least until the rules were changed around the end of the decade.  

This is to say that prior to streaming and digital downloads, ranking chart hits by the number of radio plays was as good a metric as any, and remains an effective measure of a song's impact even today.  The record for the most weeks at number one on the "Radio Songs" chart (formerly the "Hot 100 Airplay" chart) used to be held by the Goo Goo Dolls' "Iris".  Ask anyone who lived through 1998 and they'll confirm that you couldn't go five minutes without hearing it.  It topped the airplay chart for an unthinkable eighteen consecutive weeks.  For the next twenty plus years, nothing approached this number.  Then in 2020, The Weeknd's "Blinding Lights" crushed just about every chart record imaginable.  Most weeks in the top five.  Most weeks in the top ten.  First song to remain in the top ten for an entire year.  Most weeks in the Hot 100.  And not least, most weeks atop the "Radio Songs" chart -- 26 weeks, or nearly 50% more than the ostensibly unbreakable record formerly held by the Goo Goo Dolls.  

Michael Jackson's "Bad" was a blockbuster album, all the more amazing considering it was the follow up to one of the most mythical pop music albums of all time.  Michael hit number one with a record five consecutive singles from "Bad" (later tied by Katy Perry's "Teenage Dream").  With nine singles released in all, it dominated the charts for two solid years.  And yet, those five number one songs spent just seven weeks cumulatively at the top of the charts.  Drake spent 29 weeks at number one with three songs in 2018.  It's simply an unprecedented time for chart records.  Add worldwide blockbusters like Ed Sheeran's "Shape of You" to the mix, and one could easily argue that five of the ten biggest hits ever have occurred just in the past half decade. This isn't all hyperbole, last year Billboard officially declared "Blinding Lights" as the biggest hit of all time. 

What else can possibly happen?  Well, let's take Harry Styles.  His song "As It Was" it now in its fourteenth non-consecutive week at number one, tied for fourth most all time.  But more remarkably, it set a record by hitting number one five times this year. What's more, each time it was knocked out of the top spot, it fell to number two and stayed there.  That makes a total of 23 consecutive weeks in the top two (another record), a near six month run of pure dominance. The song itself is remarkable too, and not only because its this decade's answer to Don Henley's "The Boys of Summer".  The propulsive, mechanical drumming, atmospheric keyboard in the foreground and subtle Fleetwood Mac-like guitar picking in the background, it's all there.  The song is ready to be digitally inserted into any roller rink movie scene from the 80's at your leisure. 

   

It's a wonderful song.  Just about all these new chartbusting songs are great.  This in itself feels novel.  The 90's were packed with awful number ones, the previously mentioned "One Sweet Day" is typical of sappy, tuneless R&B of the time that found success purely based on star power and vocal calisthenics.  What is happening?  Are we in a golden age of songwriting and producing?  I think we might be.  Music production has become a superstar endeavor unto itself, the Swedes and Americans who shaped the sounds of the late 90's and 00's have spawned a new generation of curious and creative disciples.  The artist-producer relationship feels more important and more symbiotic than ever.  

However, this recent article in The Ringer gives me pause.  The success of Kate Bush's "Running Up That Hill" has solidified an ongoing trend, where catalog music is rapidly growing at the expense of contemporary music. Songs might top the charts for multiple weeks but completely fail to become cultural touchstones and are forgotten a few years later.  Song and album sales are cratering, it's mostly about streaming now, which puts catalog artists on more of an equal footing.  Songs released yesterday and those released forty years ago are both one simple click away.  Does this mean that the charts are more top heavy in favour of the most popular artists?  That is, are there fewer contemporary artists competing for chart spots than before?  With less competition, it will be easier for a great song to dominate.  

Alex Ross, "Listen To This"

I have just discovered that I never wrote a proper review of Ross' "The Rest is Noise", although I alluded to the book's profound affect on me in posts like these from two years ago.

"The Rest Is Noise" was an instant classic upon release, you can easily find breathless praise for it in various corners of the internet, and somehow it took me ten years to get around to reading it.  This book was as close to a Pied Piper moment in music literature that I'm likely to experience in my lifetime.  

"Listen To This" is an enjoyable companion piece for those already enamored by Ross' writing.  Based mainly on long form pieces written mainly for the New Yorker over the years, Ross continues to make complex musical concepts accessible, all while focusing on the context behind the music and the personalities of those who made it.  The autobiographical first chapter, "Crossing the Border From Classical to Pop", provides the context behind the context.  The author grew up in a household steeped in classical music and nothing else.  He only became exposed to other genres of music (alternative, punk) during his college years, before drifting back to his first, true love once more as a writer for the New Yorker and other publications.  

I view the strengths of "The Rest Is Noise" through this lens.  The strongest chapters focus on explaining classical music and its culture to The Rest of Us.  "Inside the Marlboro Retreat" is a charming profile of this difficult to access breeding ground for America's finest young talent.  Part musical summer school, part rehearsal boot camp, Ross takes a deep dive into the environment that brings out the best in a performance artist.  Every page is packed with amusing anecdotes and wild personalities.  His essays/profiles of Schubert and Brahms closely examine the whys behind the development of their careers, while engaging in some mild psychoanalysis that illuminates more than criticizes.  

His profiles of contemporary non-classical artists were less successful.  Only in the Bjork profile did I feel that I learned something profound about the artist and their passion for pursuing musical inspiration.  Other profiles (Dylan, Radiohead, and "The Edges of Pop") come off as an outsider's view, importing musical descriptors from the classical world into the pop and rock worlds in an attempt to intellectualize the appreciation of their art.  On a somewhat unrelated note, I found it amusing how Ross interviews Dylan-ologists who analyze the minutiae in his lyrics and name drop academics who had nominated Dylan for a Nobel Prize.  The article was written in the late 90's, and the tone of the piece good naturedly plays along with these absurd proclamations.  All in good fun ... until, of course, Dylan really did win the Nobel Prize twenty years later.  

Ross is at his best as a historian, describing the evolution of a concept or style.  Equally well, he can take a seemingly well-known subject (like Brahms) and take the reader back to another, describing the real time trials and predicaments of the hero composer much like an epic balladeer would.  But sometimes the long form article comes off as merely that -- long.    

Herbert von Karajan, "Orchestral Spectaculars from Handel to Bartok" (Warner Classics)

Karajan's recorded legacy is massive, with more recordings than any reasonable human could possibly keep track of.  Box sets should simplify matters for consumers by concentrating more of the best music in one place, but there are so many Karajan sets (on multiple labels) that even collecting box sets is a daunting task.  No matter your feelings on Karajan the person or the musician, he's so ubiquitous as a recording artist -- even more than thirty years after his death -- that it's almost impossible to ignore or avoid his work.

This 13-CD set was culled from a larger 80-something CD Warner box, and represents an intriguing period in Karajan's career.  And based on the quality of the music represented here, he may have never been better.  Most of this material was recorded before he became entrenched in Berlin.  The repertoire contains a number of unusual gems that he never recorded again.  This is highlighted in the (far too brief) liner notes, in an essay that takes a subtle jab at Otto Klemperer, who became the director of the Philharmonia once Karajan started devoting most of his energies to his work in Berlin.  That is, whereas Karajan recorded a more varied selection of composers with the Philharmonia, Klemperer chose to narrow the orchestra's scope and focus on the "standard German repertoire".  Separated from the commercial intention of this essay (to hype the product you just purchased), the truth is a bit more complex.  Klemperer was also well known for playing contemporary music when he was younger.  It's true that he focused more on the standard German repertoire as he got older, but he was a master interpreter of that style and recorded countless reference recordings that entrance and fascinate even today.  Karajan, on the other hand, couldn't match Klemperer's talents in that repertoire even though he went back to the well far too often (how many Beethoven symphony recordings did he make, anyway?).  Karajan did stellar work outside of the Austro-German classics whose standards he was expected to uphold as the director in Berlin, but you have to dig a bit through his catalog to discover that.  Hence, this box.  

The first three discs are all Sibelius and they're uniformly outstanding.  Compared with many other highly regarded Sibelius conductors, Karajan ignores many of the varied dynamics and tempo changes.  Somehow it always works regardless.  He captured the raw emotion of Sibelius in a very unique way.  These Sibelius recordings, both in mono and stereo, make this box a keeper all by themselves.  

Over time I have been pleasantly surprised to discover how good Karajan was with opera intermezzi and overtures.  His disc of Rossini overture cooks, there certainly isn't a more fun disc in the set, although the Offenbach operetta works come close.  

The version of Debussy's "La Mer" is unquestionably a classic -- moody, dizzying, and grandiose in equal measures, expertly capturing the complex morphology of the work.  The two versions of Handel's "Water Music Suite" are also highlights.

Naturally there are a few misses.  Berlioz's "Symphony Fantastique" doesn't come close to nailing the manic, hallucinogenic energy toward the end.  He could have taken a pass on Czech music.  In Dvorak's "Symphony No. 9" and Smetana's "Vltava", Karajan misses the essence of the unfamiliar cultures being represented in the music.  This wasn't a general flaw -- his "Finlandia" is incredible (two versions on this set) and he was also great with Shostakovich (not featured on this set).  Perhaps there was something about Czech composers that he simply couldn't master.     

The LSO/Simon Rattle Mahler 2 at the BBC Proms -- did it live up to the hype?

The reviews coming out of this August 24 event were out of this world, with fans and critics rushing to proclaim it as one of the all time best performances of Mahler's 2nd symphony.  

With a clean 80-minute run time, this was one of the faster Mahler 2's.  That's usually a good thing with this work, because the undoing of many a Mahler 2 comes from the conductor trying to insert too much drama and sentimentality into the performance, often resulting in slow tempos that exhaust the players and the audience long before reaching the conclusion.  Dudamel conducted a very game Simon Bolivar Youth Orchestra in Mahler 2 during the 2011 Proms.  Although it brought down the house amongst the Dudamel superfans on that evening, the performance ran well over ninety minutes with several moments of dreadful stagnation, as noted by some commentators at the time.  Faster tempos can make for more "exciting" Mahler, but may downgrade the power of the symphony's most spiritual, emotional moments.  After all, this is a symphony of struggle, whose eventual resolution (we must die in order to live in order to get closer to G-d, and when we do so we all win) is the culmination of a hard fought battle whose outcome is in doubt until the very end (the interpretation of many, but certainly not all, conductors over the decades).  The faster the tempo, the quicker the struggle, and the "easier" it becomes, perhaps.  These are generalizations, but in the hands of a talented conductor almost anything is possible.  

Rattle's first movement funeral march trampled afoot more reminiscent of a rousing sports march rather than a solemn dirge-like march filled with uncertainty and dread.  By its end I managed to talk myself into believing in what Rattle was going for.  The movement was less of a mortality statement by a nervous and paranoid individual (Mahler), and more of an extended overture to a Hollywood blockbuster featuring G-d and Satan duking it out over a series of brimstone explosions and quick camera cuts.  Not my preferred interpretation perhaps, but certainly one I was willing to give a chance to.

The second and third movements were brisk, enjoyable, and thoroughly unsentimental in my view.  Just passing glimses at memories past, which is perfectly fine.  The "Urlicht" was beautifully sung, and indeed, the solo and choral singing were consistently stellar on the evening.  

The fifth and final movement was the symphony's undoing.  Rattle's strict adherence to tempo created an insistent, metronomic momentum that sapped the drama out of the music where it was needed most.  There are countless interesting moments in the finale that can be enhanced by the conductor through modifications in the mood and tempo.  By the first appearance of the "Aufersteh'n" from the chorus and the response from the orchestra, I started suspecting something nefarious was afoot, as if the insistent tempos were brought on by a curfew or a dinner reservation that nobody other than Simon Rattle was privy to.  

Many have made note of the fact that Rattle conducted without a score.  Mahler 2 is one of his signature pieces that helped grow his career in no small part.  Certainly he knows the work as well as anyone and is capable of getting by without a score.  Here I must ask -- why the fascination in conductors working without a score?  I can drive without a seatbelt, but why would I want to?  Why take the unnecessary risk?  Is it a macho thing?  What happens if the orchestra gets badly out of sync or if the conductor has a brain lapse?  Is this supposed to be akin to a soloist performing without sheet music in order to demonstrate their mastery over the material?  Because conducting is (should be) a completely different sort of performance skill compared to the job of a soloist.  My point is that when you conduct without a score, you must work more by feel and can't possibly recall all the miniscule details and adjustments that could be used to enhance the work in real time.  

Finally, the finale reached the last three minutes at which point the tempos ground to a halt and the symphony reached a monumental, cataclysmic conclusion, albeit one that felt stapled on to a completely different performance that had been delivered to that point. When Mahler 2 ends, more often than not, that the part that rings in the ears after the last note has sounded, and that singular feeling is what kept the RAH buzzing for minutes afterward. But let's not kid ourselves. This was not a great Maher 2, let alone one to be remembered for all times.  It was suitably thrilling in large chunks, and featured many heartstopping moments, but Rattle certainly could have done better.             

"Clusterf**k: Woodstock '99"

I often find myself watching these sorts of documentaries and wondering who the intended audience is.  All the advertising and preview material portrays the festival as a disaster of epic proportions.  But that's not how it comes across watching the full two and a half hour, three part series.  If anything I believe it rehabilitates the reputation of the festival somewhat.  Was the world really waiting for that?  Had Michael Lang succeeded in holding the 50th anniversary Woodstock celebration as he had intended (before his funding fell through) it would have only lent credence to the idea that the sins of '99 had been forgiven. 

The first episode is a confused mess.  Lang and promoter John Scher likely wouldn't have agreed to appear in the series if it was an overly one-sided hatchet job.  On one hand their underlings push the idea of profit-hungry management and willful neglect of the needs of festival goers.  On the other hand there are plenty of videos of era-defining bands entertaining enormous, raucous crowds.  So which is it supposed to be?  An unmitigated trainwreck?  Or a festival with some organizational snafus (which festival doesn't have a few of those?) that had their finger on the pulse of young America and gave them exactly what they wanted?  It can't be both.  The final episode even has a twist ending -- the "ordinary fans" that have been interviewed throughout the series, presumably (we assume) to testify to the horribleness of the festival, all declare that they had the times of their lives despite it all.    

The ponderous array of mixed messages even forces me to defend Korn and Limp Bizkit -- two of the most intolerable bands of all time.  Korn's Jonathan Davis and Limp Bizkit's Fred Durst whip the audience into a manic frenzy and set off mosh pits for the ages.  Despite the vague mentions of violence and danger in regard to their on-stage behaviour and the reactions of the crowds, they were absolutely just doing their jobs by trying to give the best performances possible.  Limp Bizkit's manager makes precisely this point as well.  At various points, people in the documentary try to blame the singers, their fans, and the supposed unruliness of the nu-metal genre for certain uncomfortable moments of the festival.  For decades before and after Woodstock '99, there have been hard rock and metal festivals where the fans moshed violently but didn't try to tear apart the sound tower.  Blaming the genre is silly when there are so many organizational shortcomings from this festival staring you in the face.   

They had gotten lucky with Woodstock '94.  It was feted as a major cultural event, and key sets were replayed on PPV and music stations.  At the time, reports in the British music press were incredulous.  How were they not adequately prepared for the possibility of rain?  The Brits believed that the American organizers had been to Glastonbury and understood how to organize a festival of this size.  They didn't.  The British mags credited the American fans for being cheery and compliant despite the festival grounds turning into a giant mud pit.  Had this happened at Glastonbury, they wrote, there would have been a riot.    

Lee Rosenblatt, credited as the assistant site manager of the festival, consistently comes across as the voice of reason, warning the higher ups about potential disasters only to get shouted down each time.  MTV presenter Ananda Lewis is another crucial voice who speaks forcefully and eloquently about her experiences at the festival.  

The most interesting character in the whole drama is Michael Lang, for he symbolizes the slow transformation of the dewy eyed 60's flower power kids, first into the suburban Reagan voters of the 80's, and then into the out of touch gatekeepers of the culture in the mid and late-90's.  Yes, his work on the original Woodstock makes him a legend.  But his assumption that kids in the 90's were longing for a Woodstock of their own so that they could replicate the experiences of their parents is staggeringly wrong.  The boomer generation's iron grip on everything canonical in music was fading throughout the 90's, and their stubborn assertion that the best music was made in the 60's and 70's was no longer tolerated.  In my opinion, the kids in '99 were rebelling against the peace and love festival that they never wanted in the first place.  The fact that they were being price gouged while baking on an airfield tarmac was the fuel on the fire. Lang completely lives up to his OK boomer form by being completely oblivious to all this in '99 and today (he passed away a few months ago, shortly after filming the series).  

In my view, Lang was well aware of the problems at the festival.  He knew that contracting food vendor responsibilities to outside parties left the pricing completely out of his control.  He knew that using untrained security forces was potentially reckless.  The idealist hippie in him was convinced that it would all work out in the end.  The capitalist scumbag in him knew that without cutting corners, the festival couldn't maximize its earning potential. Were these two sides of his personality in equal and enduring conflict?  Or had he fully turned to the dark side and thought his counterculture cred would be enough to pull the wool over the doubters' eyes while he walked off with millions more in profit?  It's hard to say.        

Joni Mitchell's historic concert at Newport

This was truly the most feel good moment to happen in popular music since forever.  Joni Mitchell returned to the Newport Folk Festival for the first time in over fifty years, performed her first proper concert in nearly twenty years, and the world seemed to stop.  Take the time to watch even a few minutes of her set and feel all the uncertainty and chaos in the world around you melt away instantly.

This story is getting attention for all the right reasons. After hearing that she had suffered a brain aneurysm, I was resigned to the fact that Mitchell would never appear in public again, let alone perform music.  But then came the Kennedy Center honours, and the Grammys appearance, and finally this set at Newport which sprung out of a series of informal jams she'd been having at her home for the past few years.  She nearly died and had to relearn everything (walking, getting out of bed, next to those everyday tasks relearning the guitar seems rather trivial).  She had to regain her passion for singing.  She worked on it privately, with the support of her friends through their informal jam sessions, to the point where she felt good enough to appear on stage again.  Even then, it was uncertain what she'd be up to doing once they arrived at Newport.  

When I was growing up in the 80's, Joni Mitchell and Leonard Cohen were niche artists, even in Canada.  They were years past their 70's primes and widely respected, but not considered as part of an inner circle of all-time greats.  Rock criticism was dominated by admiration of the stadium-filling classic rock giants (Led Zep, The Who, The Rolling Stones).  Rock stars in the 80's were MTV-ready celebrities with a larger than life aura.  The era of the introspective singer-songwriter writing folksy melodies and confessional lyrics was a fading memory.  

It's been wonderful to see Joni Mitchell get the credit she's due over the past few years, with her albums now frequently mentioned among the best of all time.  The appearance at Newport was the best possible tribute to her: she was feted as an all time legend, treated as a queen seated in a luxurious throne-like chair, holding court in front of thousands of her followers who will never forget those moments they got to share with her. 

The downfall of Ariel Pink

Armin Rosen's article on the rise and complete collapse of the career of Ariel pink is an exhaustive and exhausting read.  It's probably twice as long as it needs to be.  The avalanche of music insider detail will alienate most music fans, let alone the average Tablet reader.  The elephant in the room is the article's most glaring flaw: is it meant to evoke sympathy for Ariel Pink?  Is it an attempt to start rebuilding his legacy?  Do Rosen and Tablet believe that Ariel's side of the story has been misrepresented, and are providing him a forum (albeit a highly critical one) to fill a journalistic need?     

The Tucker Carlson interview mentioned in the article is a slobberfest of forced sympathy and manipulation, even by the standards of Fox News.  I have no doubt that TC had not heard of Ariel Pink the day before their meeting and has not thought about him for five minutes since, and yet most of the interview is Carlson practically weeping over the tragically unfair state of the man's career.  I will not link to the interview here, but you can easily find it.  Rosen's article is certainly not that.  But if there's one overarching narrative he presents to his readers, it's that Ariel Pink was and is a unique and even irreplaceable talent.  Rosen doesn't say that great art should be above politics.  However, he seems to spin a cautionary tale about being too quick to degrade great art.  History is full of great artists who fell out of favour because they didn't trade in the dominant politics of the day. 

I don't care one way or another about Ariel Pink.  I've never heard an album, and laughed off the term "chillwave" during the scant years when it was popular.  I recognize that Ariel Rosenberg was a problematic and controversal person even before Jan. 6 of last year.  But I don't see how anyone can defend the complete cancellation of a person and his livelihood based on his mere attendance at a protest.  He didn't storm the Capitol, didn't advocate for violence or insurrection, he just stood in place and listened to a speech.  By no measure can it be said that he committed a crime.  And yet R. Kelly was sentenced to jail time only a couple of weeks ago, after more than twenty years of second chances from critics and fans alike.

We could list off any number of artists who have been given free passes for decades: white, black, male, female.  It would only serve to prove that the line between who gets cancelled and who gets left alone is a fuzzy, even arbitrary one.   A musician might have disagreeable, or even odious opinions, and it is ultimately a personal decision whether to continue listening to them or not.  I struggle with these decisions too and don't pretend to have the answers, not when it comes to Morrissey, or Herbert von Karajan, or Brian Eno.  But I don't think cancellation or pressure politics is the answer either.     

George Gershwin's "Porgy and Bess", recorded by Cleveland Orchestra/Lorin Maazel (1976)

Gershwin's compositions straddled many genres -- jazz, classical, pop -- and some of his music continues to defy categorization even today.  "Porgy and Bess" was intended as an opera and is still referred to as such, but simple labels should always be tossed aside when dealing with Gershwin's music.  "Porgy and Bess" is no more an opera than, say, "Rhapsody In Blue" is a piano concerto.  The labels conjure up strict classical forms and styles -- they obscure rather than describe the emotional essence of the music.  

I'm no opera expert, I'm not even an opera fan, and I would consider myself an unbiased modern listener when it comes to "Porgy and Bess".  For me, it strays frequently into the realm of musical theatre, mainly thanks to its most famous tunes ("Summertime", "Bess, You Is My Woman Now", "Ain't Necessarily So") which have become American songbook standards.  In other aspects, it is unquestionably an opera, such as the turbulent subject matter (with the story unfolding in a suitably epic style), or the vocal timbre of the lead characters.   People would callously argue whether Gershwin was a "serious" composer or simply a opportunist who knew how to cater to public whims.  These sorts of arguments have always been dumb.  A couple of generations later, such polarizing rhetoric would sound silly if one was speaking about, say, The Beatles, but on the other hand, discussions of "serious" artists "selling out" still persist.  Gershwin undoubtedly has a Midas touch, by some measures, he was the richest composer of all time.

A 1975 NYT article about this recording of "Porgy and Bess", the first ever stereo recording of the entire opera, offers a fascinating snapshot of the times.  The article notes that the recording could not have been made even a few years previously due to the charged political climate.  An opera that highlights the stereotypes of South Carolina blacks, with music and lyrics written by northern Jews based on a play and libretto by white southerners?  The work had come to be viewed as racist, and there's little doubt that in today's climate, it would have been cancelled altogether.  Fortunately the citizenry of 1975 were smarter than that, which is not to say that the recording was without controversy.  The cast speak openly about the lack of career opportunities for black performers, the lack of role models, and the racial homogeneity of opera goers.  Sadly, not enough progress has been made on those fronts in the past decades, and other sectors of the entertainment industry are hardly immune ("Oscars So White", for example).    

The full three-hour opera makes for a compelling listen. Its biggest flaw is the lack of truly star-making, transfixing performances, by this cast of mostly (then)-unknown artists.  McHenry Boatwright as Porgy is the clear highlight, with a voice and presence that strongly contrasts his character's physically feeble nature.  His desperate search for Bess in the final scenes is riveting, ending the opera on a wrenching emotional high.  Francois Clemmons dominates his scenes as Sportin' Life, displaying a natural, sleazy charisma that captures the essence of the character perfectly.  Maazel and the Cleveland Orchestra hold their own, although I'm hard pressed to understand exactly what kind of interpretative vision the conductor provided.  I feel that the opera should be, for lack of a better word, bigger.  The Houston Grand Opera recording from the same year -- a proper touring stage productions -- would be my next purchase.       

Stereolab, Series En Direct volumes 1-7, live recordings 1993-2019

While he was alive, Romanian conductor Sergiu Celibidache refused to release studio or live recordings of his work, which is virtually unheard of for a major conductor. Following his death, his family recognized the demand for the conductor's work and took the decision to release some officially sanctioned live recordings through record label EMI Classics.  His son Serge justified the decision in an essay that was printed in the liner notes to these early releases (my copy comes from a recording of Schumann's 3rd and 4th symphonies, with Celibidache leading the Munich Philharmonic, an orchestra that he worked with for decades).  There is every reason to be cynical when reading the essay (i.e. there is every reason to assume they did it for the money, principles be damned) but I think he makes a number of well-reasoned and thought-provoking statements.    

The main idea is that live concerts are meant to be enjoyed in the moment, as a symbiotic experience between the musicians, audience, and the venue.   This experience is meant to be enjoyed once.   On the other hand, a recording can never be music, much like a photo of a deceased relative represents only a memory of that person.

I thought about this essay a lot while listening to a stellar archive of Stereolab live material, covering their entire career including their recent reunion (1993-2019).   The collection is easily accessible via the live music archive, Volume 1 appears here and can easily follow the links to hear all seven volumes.  I saw Stereolab play live four times, spanning most of their peak (1994, 1996, 1998, 2001).   As you'd expect from such a massive project, the sound quality of these recordings varies widely, but this rarely bothers me when it comes to collecting live recordings.  For me, the draw of the concert recording was to have a memory of the show or tour, or to hear what the band sounds like in a different creative setting.  Since gigs always outnumber studio recordings, this provides many more opportunities to do something creative, to fine tune the presentation of a song, and so on.   Does it replicate the experience of being in the club, arena, or stadium?  Of course not.   But even though the information on the recording is incomplete, the missing information can be filled in based on my own experience.  It's somewhat analogous to file or image compression, where the lost information can be partially reconstructed via algorithm during retrieval and playback.  I can hear these recordings and attempt to place myself there, see the reactions of the band members, feel the sound blasting through the speakers and washing over me.  Sometimes I prefer the grimy textures of audience recordings because they can capture the overpowering, muddy sound of many live venues, and give a better approximation of "being there" compared with cleaner soundboard recordings.  

With Stereolab's studio recordings, I always preferred the early years covering 1991-1994, from the early singles collected on the first "Switched On" compilation, through "Mars Audiac Quintet".  As a live band they peaked much later, but we'll get to that.  In the early recordings (Volume 1), we hear a band with a clear vision of what they want to do, with a fully formed melting pot of sounds cribbed from their idols.  Sometimes the playing is sloppy, the rhythms are not as taut as they should be, and the vocal harmonizing sounds woefully unpolished.  But the drive and power stands out in all the recordings from the first series, which covers 1993-1994.  

All successful and iconic bands come around at the perfect time, filling a specific niche with a sound and message that wouldn't have worked with a difference audience in a different era.  To their fans in the early to mid-90's (and of course I include myself in this grouping), Stereolab were cool because they had a better record collection than you, and you were largely helpless to do anything about it.  They namedropped Can, NEU, and other 70's Krautrock bands when they were virtually unknown quantities to most indie music fans.  Their music was unavailable unless you were lucky enough to get your hands on a bootleg CD pressing.  They talked about obscure French and Brazilian pop that seemed beguiling, exotic, and oh so mysterious -- and by the way, you had no hope of getting your hands on most of it.  

Their timing was perfect.  In the late 80's, nobody would have cared about anything so far out of left field.  But around 1990, the boomer grip on musical discourse was beginning to loosen.  Rock music of the 50's and 60's had been mined to death, collectors and hardcore fans were increasingly broadening their interests.  They looked toward other decades for inspiration (particularly the 70's), and sought out non-American, non-British bands in genres other than rock.  CD re-release and box set mania was at its peak, but plenty of great music remained unavailable on CD.  You had to be a vinyl collector, world traveler, and have good connections to unearth many lost and underappreciated treasures.  Stereolab and their influences arrived as a package deal.  They spoke about them constantly in interviews and proudly boasted of borrowing from NEU, Esquivel, and so on.  I bought the Can Anthology when it was released on CD in 1994, not only because I finally wanted to get my hands on music by this mythical German band but also based on Stereolab's indirect recommendation.  If Stereolab sounded like this other music, then I wanted to have that music too.  

By the latter half of the decade, things were different.  The flood of compilations and re-releases throughout the decade meant that almost anyone with enough money and patience could assemble an uber-cool music collection.  In 1999-2000, file sharing made the concept of a "lost" album nearly redundant.  Almost anything, no matter how obscure, could be accessed and downloaded from your desktop in minutes.  As for Stereolab, they were working with producers like John McEntire and Mouse on Mars, allowing them to reshape their sound in the studio.  Suddenly, it felt like they were chasing trends, rather than leading them.  The effortless cool that characterized their early records was slowly phased out.  The recordings sounded more polished, but also more sterile.  Fortunately, their evolution as a live band followed a different trajectory.  

Volume 2 covers 1995-1996 and incorporates a wider palate of sounds thanks to the "Music For the Amorphous Body Study Center" and "ETK" albums.  They could seamlessly vary from arty lounge pop to furious motorik improvisations. Epic versions of "Contact" and "Stomach Worm" are standouts.  The latter song was recorded in Washington, but I saw an even more mind blowing version played as the encore in Toronto just ten days earlier.  That show still stands out as one of the best three or so concerts I ever saw (shared credit goes to the opening band, Cornershop, who were very underrated as a live act IMO).  I thought I was a near completist for this era, but this volume contains two songs I had never heard of before, "Young Lungs" and "Cadriopo".  Stereolab could do no wrong during this era.  They were never animated on stage, but as a fan watching them, playing this music in this way looked deliciously fun.  The most precious find of all is a scorching version of "The Light That Will Cease To Fail" whose bursts of noise and drone gradually morph into, of all things, "Soup Groove #1", encompassing twenty seven preposterous, glorious minutes for the entire package.   

Volume 3 is the least interesting.  Electronic squiggles and odd noises appear everywhere and rarely mesh well with the music.  Presumably they were trying to stay ahead of the curve and expand their sound palate.  In principle, this could have provided almost limitless new directions for extended jams.  But the chemistry between the new and traditional instruments (including the vintage ones) rarely appeared.  Improvisational passages would check the contractually obligated boxes (since that's what the songs on the setlist mandated), even though there wasn't a cohesive idea about what to do with their time.      

Volume 4 focuses on the "Cobra and Phases Group" period, which was a study in contrasts between the overly slick, plastic-sounding easy listening pop of the album and the muscular, propulsively rhythmic jazz-funk with which they were killing it during their concerts.  After any long hiatus from this album, it's always entertaining to read the infamous 0/10 NME review from Johnny Cigarettes.  The language is crude (to say the least) and the point belaboured to the point that it undermines the review, but the sentiment absolutely encapsulates the opinions of many at the time.  Instead of borrowing sounds, transforming them, and owning them, Stereolab were now striking poses and hiding behind a wall of production sheen.  And I say that as a fan of the album.  One can't deny that it divided opinions at the time.  On stage, things were simpler -- they rocked.  The songs on the album erupted with infectious grooves that the studio versions lacked, and the early stuff ("French Disko", "Wow and Flutter", "The Seeming and the Meaning" sounded better than ever.  They'd been playing these songs long enough to iron out all the rough edges from the early years.  Stereolab were now a razor sharp, tightly synchronized unit, finally at a level that matched their motorik heroes.    

In Volume 5, Stereolab reached their peak as a live act.  Recorded in 2001-2 during the "Sound Dust" tours, this is the closest they ever got to replicating Can: metronomic drumming locked in a singular groove with the bass, rhythmic churning guitar becoming an additional percussion instrument, a perfect meshing of their two lead vocalists with the music.  The songs on "Sound Dust" (arguably their most underrated album) are captivating, otherworldly pop and each one seems to shift gears halfway through, like an album full of "A Day In the Life"s.  In concert, the band were completely up to the task of making these complex songs flow seamlessly from one extreme to another.  They ditched the frivolous electronics and achieved perfect synchronization, could break into a soothing French lullaby just as easily as they could rock out on a furious extended jam.  They never sounded this tight and professional, either before or since. 

Volume 6 spans 2004-2008 and everything sounds the same, but different.  The tragic death of Mary Hansen shook the band to its foundations.  Her contributions were not replaced, for instance, in these recordings, many of her vocal parts on the older songs are simply missing.  In addition, Tim Gane and Laetitia Sadier ended their relationship around the same time.  It's a minor miracle that Stereolab continued as a band at all.  They remained a solid, professional live act but there was a spark missing.  To my surprise, they found that spark in 2006 by touring the "Fab Four Suture" songs, which is an album I had never heard until hearing this live set.  This is as raw and grimy as Stereolab can get, each song is infused with a post-punk like energy unlike anything they had done before.  This material never entered into their regular live sets, and coupled with older rarities (e.g. "U.H.F. - MHP" from "The Groop Played Space Age Bachelor Pad Music", which was never played before this tour and hasn't been played since), it offers us a one-time alternative universe version of the band.  

Volume 7 is dedicated to the 2019 reunion.  They have slipped a tad, Laetitia Sadier's voice isn't quite what it used to be, and they play more tentatively.  At this point in their career, they don't need to take risks, they simply need to present the best possible version of themselves to older fans and newer fans who never had a chance to see them.  It doesn't detract from their legacy, but it doesn't add anything to it either.  

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"The CD will slowly kill one's spontaneity, indeed, every time it is played, it reduces the opportunity to participate in the event.  One hears the exact same development again and again, a fact which encourages a passive listening attitude"

I have written that the extended jams and improvisational moments are hit and miss, but the above quote reminds us that they were never meant for repeated home listening, they were spontaneous musical expressions meant to be enjoyed exclusively in the concert hall.  In their proper context they were thrilling and rarely excessive.  They were usually played at the end of a set packed with shorter, poppier songs.  As counterweights to the bulk of their songs, these epic jams gave the band and audience a chance to zone out and get lost in the music. Even the Mouse On Mars/electronic squiggle era made sense in their late 90's context.  These were musical experiments that were worth trying out. 

Is this seven volume set a fair representation of Stereolab?  I think so, although Serge Celibidache's quote gives me pause.  The complete set totals 232 tracks and about twenty hours worth of music.  The breadth of material is astonishing, covering dozens of deep cuts and miscellaneous tracks that weren't on their albums.  Stereolab were famous for being a record collector's dream, releasing many limited edition EP's, standalone singles, and tour singles (i.e. music sold at the merch booth at their concerts and nowhere else) and this collection of live tracks manages to cover just about every niche and dark corner of their career.  Sure, there are far too many versions of "Percolator", but who cares when there are so many other rare and wonderful tracks included.  The sheer volume of great material, spread over a couple of decades of incredibly varied creativity, is enough to offset an alleged loss of spontaneity through overfamiliarity.