Concert Review - Crested Butte Music Festival: Home Soirée "Hungarian Gypsy Jazz", with Cimbalogh Trio

     One of the main themes emerging from the Crested Butte Music Festival is that of cross-cultural connections, most strikingly, between the cultures of the music's origin, and the culture of the music's presentation. The music includes, yet also ranges far beyond, the bluegrass so home to Colorado. Looking ahead, the festival programme includes Mozart's Magic Flute, with a contemporary twist and English interspersions; as well as a "Beer and Beethoven" symphony performance, and "Gypsy Jazz in Paradise", all intertwining various cultural heritages.

     This cultural richness evident in the very first symphony concert, in which conductor and music director Jens Georg Bachmann aptly introduced a programme of classical Hungarian, Czech, and Austrian music, interwoven with traditional folk and gypsy music roughly from the same region, the latter performed by world music artists Kálmán Balogh on cimbalom, and his "Cimbalogh" trio with bassist Csaba Novák and violinist/violist Robert Lakatos. 

     In vernacular terms, the folk-influenced music had groove - and an addictive, inescapable one. In contrast to some of the classical styles on the programme, which tell a story in prose, and ask you to be very quiet and attentive to fully enjoy it, this music lures you in, seducing you to move with it until you are so engaged that it can dance with you in any direction, from sudden surges to slow and gentle slow-downs - an exhilarating feeling in many ways akin to the adrenaline the skiers and bikers in these mountains feel as they take a brilliant turn on a treacherous downhill.

     Although the folk musicians have signposts along the way, of where the harmonies change, or where there is room for improvisation, and while the groove is relentless, the melodies have an air of perfect freedom; they sound natural as in the blood of the musician, unaffected by Crested Butte's high altitude. The more I listened to the trio, the more I felt supported in my view that classical music, even art music, has its roots in the folk music of its time, and that we classical musicians have a great deal to learn about flexibility, imprecision, and even grit (true or not) in our sound and style and approach. After all, the music we've inherited as sheet music is just as much of a sketch of what we are to hear, as the words written on this screen are an indication of what you would hear if you read them aloud. The more natural, the more honest, and the more able to tell us about our humanity.

     I was so fascinated by the Cimbalogh trio, that I determined to return to their second concert, a "home soirée", in which they would be the only group performing. I was particularly interested as I have a great affinity for the composer Béla Bártok, who is also one of the first and greatest ethnomusicologists; he collected, analysed, and catalogued countless Hungarian, Transylvanian, Romanian, Serbian, Croatian and other folksongs. This deep study greatly influenced all of his compositions, and he continued his work fervently even when living in New York City near the end of his life during WWII.

     My head full of notions of modes and rhythms and melodies, I excitedly made my way to the soirée, expecting to be nearly late, and therefore to creep in quietly at the back of the audience, like a chipmunk to an errant peanut. I also expected to know virtually no-one there, as the soirée was priced as a fundraiser, meaning the likelihood of other musicians in the audience was very low, save for the festival's vibrant Artistic Director, Alexander Scheirle (who had graciously understood my excitement, and how this might be combined with the event being almost, but not quite, sold out.

     In any case, rather than at a performance in full progress, I found myself suddenly in the middle of hors d'oeuvres and cocktails, amidst some of the most generous donors to the festival. I had heard that they were lovely people, and I had met a few previously, who indeed impressed me as lovely people, and still it took me an instant to overcome my shyness, the comfort of musician mode, in which one simply takes for granted that music is precious and phenomenal and fascinating, and nerdiness can be fully appropriate. It is a shift to recognize, as a member of society, why we should and do value music so greatly, and why having a festival in which to present this great music is something to be profoundly grateful for, and proud of, at the same time. The arts are unfortunately a field in which mixing quality with a standard business model does not in any way guarantee financial success; for hundreds of years the fine arts have flourished only thanks to the patrons supporting the artists, and the stories of the greatest geniuses dying untimely as paupers, for lack of such support, sadly abound. In our own time, the news publishes many stories of a tug-of-war between rich and poor, and the resultant divisive stress on society.

      Whatever lifestyle differences may exist between artists and our patrons, we share a love of music, and, most especially at a concert, we are tied together with the common desire to be moved by it. We share something deeply human, a joy of experience and interaction. There are no boundaries between skiiers and musicians, between Arkansas and Hungary.

     This became intensely clear as Cimbalogh began to play. The music was irresistible. Not one person in the packed room could keep still - we found ourselves freeing fingers and feet from wineglasses and chairs to tap along, and many heads bobbed too. The group whirled us through dances and tales galore - Verbunkos, Hora, Gypsy Melodies, Jewish dances, Mosquitodance - fingers and hammers flying. The cimbalom's dynamic range was on full display (rendering clearly why Liszt was so inspired by this instrument); the violin and viola fiddling smoked brilliantly, and the bass kept us on a guided percussive course.

     Some songs were re-cycled from the previous evening, and some were new to us. A highlight for me was the "Tendl Pál dulcimer music", in which the melody features a classic Hungarian offbeat stress, which Kálmán Bálogh timed absolutely delightfully - the melody repeated often, and you knew to expect it, but you could never be sure just exactly when the jump would land. We were rapt. I was also very interested in the re-arranged melody from Bartók First Rhapsody for Violin and Piano, with which I am of course thoroughly acquainted - though perhaps because I know it so well, it struck me as the weakest piece of the programme. I prefer Bartók's harmonies to those the group chose, and the sound of the violin, to that of the viola, played tonight. Nonetheless, it was interesting to see which choices the group made regarding timing, and what freedoms they saw in the traditional melody, their differing interpretation of it therefore showing its intrinsic qualities from a new angle.

     The final piece on the programme was a decisive crossover - a mix of the Hungarian Verbunkos (recruiting dance) and the American Boogie-woogie with Yankee-doodle melody (recruiting melody?) The seamless interweaving of the two showed off the musicians' mastery of the styles and their similarities - true musicianship to the core.

The concert was a resounding success, and the standing ovation instantaneous. The concert's title, Hungarian Gypsy Jazz, had proven itself, not in any watered-down way, but in thorough enrichment.

     Following the performance, as Mr. Bálogh happily demonstrated the inner workings of the cimbalom, I too had a plethora of questions for the musicians - how do they notate their music? How much is free for improvisation, and how much decided in advance? How much Hungarian do you have to know to really understand it?

     As a devoted fan, recognized from the last concert, I secured myself some of this insider information ... and an invitation to chat more about it from the violinist. Still filled with questions (partially to inform this blog post, which was percolating in my head), of course I accepted. And I have to record some Bartók soon - how better to approach the subject of authenticity than ask someone playing folk music all about it?

     In speaking with Mr. Lakatos, I learned more of many curiousities about the music, of life bridging the folk and classical styles, and of life across the ocean. And once again, I gather that people are the same the world over - that the stresses he experiences are just the same as for anyone anywhere with long separations from family for touring/work, and the daily struggle to earn a living in a decent way. The trio had driven here from New York, and would be heading in that direction again tomorrow. Who drives? The violinist and bassist alternate, as the cimbalomist is prone to falling asleep at the wheel.

     - Though certainly not in concert. Tomorrow, before they leave, I'll read a few Bartók duos with Mr. Lakatos. Will osmosis transmit an authentic style? (I'm curious.)

     ... What it did was transmit the excitement of the music yet again, and show how the cultural understanding of it highlights it even more. Life is much better and easier with inspiration, and how lucky are we to be able to access it from such a vast array of cultures here in beautiful Crested Butte, whilst breathing in the natural mountain air and friendliness. As life and creativity is enriched, the osmosis is symbiotic (though my biology metaphors can doubtless use a tune-up). Through such a welcoming environment to share in, the festival enriches the lives of artists and audience alike, uniting us in all our many cultures. Come share in the fun ... this year, or next!

Concert Review: Budapest Festival Orchestra with András Schiff at Carnegie

The problematic part of writing a review, is that the problematic parts might take much longer to explain than the non-problematic parts. (As a result, I will structure the remainder of the review in pyramid style (or inverted-pyramid, if one prefers that terminology), as opposed to this outset and rather than chronologically, with the peak up top, to emphasize the overriding highly enjoyable evening.)

In tonight's concert at Carnegie Hall, by the Budapest Festival Orchestra with conductor  Iván Fischer and piano soloist András Schiff, the highlight for me, or the part which I found myself responding to with an unconditional "yes", was the first piece after intermission, Béla Bartók's luminescent third piano concerto. As Jack Sullivan explains in Carnegie's extensive and excellently organized programme notes, this piece was one of the great masterpieces Bartók wrote in the final years of his life, along with the Concerto for Orchestra, the Sonata for Solo Violin, and the unfinished viola concerto. Its characteristically Bartókian Hungarianness is suffused at times with moments of near Bach-chorale-like treatments of tonality, a sort of revisiting of the youthful Bartók who sprang from a tradition of tonality, at the same time leaving the question, What now? (The piano gives comments to this question, in Hungarian.) It is a beautiful, melodious, and exciting concerto, and Schiff played it gorgeously - it is clearly dear to his heart, and it was evident that he knows it inside out, evident from more than just his playing it by memory - I felt I could immediately understand it, as though I could speak Hungarian, even though this was my first time hearing the concerto live.
I would have liked to hear this piece directly before intermission, when the atmosphere to give a well-deserved standing ovation could be present, and the bravos could spill into the buzz at intermission. Nonetheless, the programming of the evening was interesting precisely for its non-standard format: overture - piano concerto, intermission, piano concerto -symphony. The double-concerto made the evening a workout for Schiff! (And, if one considers that, by playing the Bartók's first piano concerto, and then his third piano concerto, he'd by default also played a second concerto, it might be tempting to count three ... )
Bartók's first piano concerto was written twenty years before the third, and is entirely more percussive and primal - the programme notes mention "barbarism" and "cataclysm". Bartók wrote it for his own tours, at a time when he was still strong enough to play it. Despite the coolness of its classical concerto form, the percussive material's explosive verve leaves a sudden and immediate impression, less broad than that of the overarching third concerto. It is also played less than the third, and Schiff used the music for it (detracting nothing from his effective and impressive performance), employing a page-turner whose skin-baring formal black attire matched that of the orchestra's other women, perhaps a signature of the group's look.
The evening's first piece was Schubert's overture to "Die Zauberharfe". The orchestra's seating was an interesting touch: a row of basses brought up the rear behind the winds, who dispersed across the back of the stage. A solo quartet of strings and winds stood before Fischer, and the second violins were opposite the firsts, allowing for play with antiphony. The overture was a good length for taking in novelty, and appreciating the resultant clarity in sound, of the thought and energy that went into these decisions, along with the adjustments the orchestra members had to make to be comfortable playing far from one another, only rarely at the cost of togetherness.
The final piece, however, Schubert's songful and "most Mozartean" fifth symphony (written in 1816 when he was just nineteen), is, while almost unbearably touching, also fraught with the elements that make Schubert potentially deadly to performers. It is full of nuance, and it extends. It plays with major and minor in the subtlest but most pregnant of ways - is one to laugh, or to cry? - in some passages almost every note is fate's weighty hinge to either a joyful flight or a vale of tears. To slough over this is to miss the point, no matter how many hinges there are -  it's as though glossing over a teenager's emotionality with "never mind, his hormones will sort themselves out eventually". The second movement began to acquire this feeling, having too much idle forward direction; by contrast, the third lacked the feeling of its given tempo, Allegro Molto. I found my mind wandering away from the music and to the philosophical question, "Is 'Allegro Molto' a structural element in the symphony, and thus explicable in structural terms, or is it a state-of-being of the performers, and as such possibly intangible"? The players were clearly putting a great deal of energy into the movement, as was evident in the sound, which was vibrant though too rough for my taste, but still the music struck me as slow and dull. As if to confirm my impression, my seat-neighbour, clearly a newcomer to classical concerts (engaging in flash-photography during the performance before being advised that it's not allowed), left at the end of the movement. It strikes me that, for Allegro Molto to sound as such in character, in this movement it may need to be executed as "Presto", in the sense that it needs to be felt in 1, rather than 3, or even better, in 4-bar phrases. This is not a stretch given that Beethoven had by 1816 composed many scherzos, in place of the obligatory menuet movement, that are usually played (and indicated) at such tempos. Why is this movement not titled "scherzo"? Perhaps it is not meant to be a joke, its import serious as a menuet, though the tempo no longer danceable. The fourth movement is an "Allegro Vivace", and here Fischer picked up the pace again, though indulging in excessive and odd rubatos when transitioning between sections. I wondered if it had anything to do with the seating of the orchestra and the difficulties in communicating imposed on the players by the seating- the basses and cellos scattered at strategic places throughout the rest of the strings, for a more homogenized blend. Indeed, their togetherness as sections, in this expanded chamber-music setting, was impressive.
Fischer delighted the audience when, giving in to the three curtain-calls, he asked (in Hungarian) whether the orchestra should play Bartók or Schubert as an encore. The audience calling out alternately, he put it to a vote, which gave quite a bit more noise to Bartók than the Schubert, but enough to Schubert that they played both anyway. The Schubert was first and very short - a German dance - which one?? - and most clearly performed in Hungarian: the first beats were greatly emphasized with both dynamics and rhythm, no longer as a rubato, in which time is taken as a liberty, but as a decided change in style, which aberration the second violins, in continuous eighth-notes, amazingly adjusted to seamlessly. Schubert did live in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and the connection may make intellectual sense, though it was certainly a stretch musically.
The last two Romanian Folk Dances of Bartók rounded out the evening, with the extra players for it tumbling onto the stage as it had already begun - and a magnificent, spirited ending it became.