Category: music Page 17 of 20

I Will… Follow.

On February 24, 2011

One of the most delightful evenings in theater in recent memory began with a chat about Spider Man: Turn The Dark Off. My companion had seen the much-gossiped-about Broadway show in December, and … she had a few opinions. I haven’t seen the show, and in all fairness, it hasn’t technically opened, so I’ll refrain from commenting, but I will say that our conversation ended with the lights going down, and there beginning a show that couldn’t have been more different in terms of its technical demands.

The Fantasticks doesn’t have any high-flying stunts or special effects. At one point, a painted wooden moon is hung by hand and later flipped, to become a coppery, painted sun; in another moment, a quasi-Spanish would-be kidnapper makes a dramatic leap off of a less-than-perilous (try three inch) perch. And in a piece of absolute stage hilarity, we witness a grand (if joint-challenged) stage actor making a slow exit… out of a wooden box. As I said, hardly high-tech. But it’s these small moments that makes the show so special.

The Fantasticks emanates joy. That simple quality is frequently the hardest thing to try to get right in musical theater, especially without looking like you worked for it; as Michael Cohl et al might tell you, you can go through millions trying to make things look effortless, but that one quality – joy -can remain frustratingly elusive. Simplicity -or the illusion of it -can be a powerful element to making an audience believe in the magic of live theater. Toronto company Soulpepper Theatre are currently staging a gorgeous, elegantly simple production that plays up the meta-theatrical elements of the 1960 piece while simultaneously reveling in the joyful heart that beats, quietly and consistently, at its center.

The work, with book and lyric by Tom Jones (not that Tom Jones) and music by Harvey Schmidt, is the world’s longest-running musical, with an off-Broadway run of 42 years (or 17,162 performances). It’s loosely based on Edmond Rostand’s first play and concerns two lovelorn teens and their dueling fathers. Now, you may be scratching your head (as I admittedly did) and saying, “But how can this be so successful? I don’t know the music!” Ah, but you do. Try to remember the kind of September / when life was slow / and oh-so-mellow… and if you remember / then follow…

See? You do so know it. The Fantasticks has become so ubiquitous culturally that it’s almost taken for granted. Almost. In director Joseph Ziegler‘s careful, capable hands, no small detail is overlooked, no moment overplayed, no pause too long. Everything in the Soulpepper production (running through March 24th) feels simple and effortless. It undoubtedly isn’t -musical theater is always hard -but we, the audience don’t see that. Result? Joy. But you knew that.

Krystin Pellerin, perhaps best-known in Canada for her role as the tough-as-nails cop Leslie Bennett on CBC TV’s Republic of Doyle, plays the young, wide-eyed Luisa in The Fantasticks, with the kind of exuberant zeal that you can’t take your eyes off of. Along with her impressive theater CV, Krystin has done a raft of film and TV work -and, as I found out, has one hell of a good singing voice. The Newfoundland native and I recently exchanged ideas about love, voice, and the joy of being a Fantastick.

What was your first thought when you were approached to play Luisa?

I was thrilled when (Soulpepper Artistic Director/actor) Albert (Schultz) and Joe (Ziegler) asked me to play Luisa. I was a huge fan of the musical and I couldn’t wait to be a part of it. I was immediately on-board. One of the biggest challenges for me was balancing all the different elements in my mind and in my body.

Initially it felt quite daunting but luckily (musical director) Paul Sportelli and (choreographer) Tim French were there to help us all along and explain how to live within the convention. I learned that I need to keep three brains at work through out the show for singing, acting and dancing and that at different times in the show I need to negotiate how to spend my energy and thought in order to fulfill all the elements involved.

Playing Luisa, one could easily fall into a pastiche of “cute young singing girl” or an ironic winkyness; what did you feel was important to emphasize in terms of making her sincere?

I felt it was important to connect with Luisa’s sense of wonder and determination and her elation that comes with being in love at 16. She also experiences great heartbreak and confusion in her growing up with El Gallo (Albert Schultz). These are all feelings that I was able to identify with and it helped me to stay anchored in the role.

Was there any one role you drew from in approaching this role?

I’m also playing Emily in Our Town this season so she has been in my mind through out the whole process. Her and Luisa sort of co-exist in my brain. I feel that there are a lot of similarities between them. They live in completely different worlds obviously but they are both strong young bright passionate women who learn that what they had longed for most was right in front of them the whole time. They both experience a rough awakening: Luisa, when she is shown the world and abandoned by El Gallo, and Emily when she is allowed to return to her life for one ordinary day. Luisa and Emily inform and complement each other a great deal I think.

I haven’t heard you sing before – what’s that like?

It feels wonderful to be singing again. Luisa is a big sing but the amount of growth that I experienced in rehearsal was amazing and Paul Sportelli was such a huge support to me.

I would love to do more, absolutely 🙂

How does your stage history with Jeff Lillico (who plays Matt, Luisa’s love) influence your interpretation?

Jeff and I will also be playing opposite each other in Our Town and that will be our third time playing lovers together. I feel like we know each other really well in a very specific way. We’re usually on the same page when it comes to scenes, we can talk things out very easily and get to the bottom of it a little quicker maybe because we’ve worked together so much. I’m finding that our stage history allows us to play more freely. I feel at ease with him and I think that helps the performance.

When you go from TV and back to the stage, is there a certain amount of nervousness, or nervous anticipation, at performing live in front of people again?

I was really excited to shift from playing a cop to playing a princess. It’s a complete reversal of roles and media and I think it’s the best thing I could have done. There are a normal amount of nerves that come with performing live again but I think it’s invigorating and I think it’s important to come back ‘home’.

I am loving the bouncing back and forth right now. I feel like I am being stretched and I think a lot of good comes from being out of your comfort zone.

Artists. Period.

By Catherine Kustanczy

On February 1, 2011

In art, interviews, music

After trying desperately -and unsuccessfully -to think up a suitable introduction for this blog, voila… The New York Times did it for me.

The grey lady of print featured an article relating to a highly contentious art exhibit in Zimbabwe. I had read the piece recently, but stupidly hadn’t bookmarked it for a second go-through. When I wanted to find it again, I looked, naturally, under the Arts section. And kept looking. And looking. A meticulous comb through the Art and Design section produced a frustrating zero. Forty minutes of fruitless searching came and went, and then, finally, I found it -in the Africa section. Because why would an Arts story that happens in Africa be classified as anything other than “African news“?

Teddy (TMS) Ruge is working to change this perception, one story at a time. Born in Uganda and educated in North Texas, Teddy’s impressive online presence, including his dedicated work with Project Diaspora and Villages in Action, has played a huge (dare I say life-changing) role in opening up my eyes to the complex realities surrounding trade, development, and the outmoded, dangerous perceptions of Africa as a gigantic, monolithic continent of pain, suffering, AIDS and poverty.

Along with running a photography and design business, Ruge has an indigenous farmers’ business in Masindi, Uganda, and also advises a women’s jewelry-making co-operative in Kampala. I never fail to be astonished and inspired by his activities, whether it’s blogging, tweeting, or even interacting and commenting on others’ posts. I’ve had the pleasure of exchanging ideas with Teddy and have always been compelled by the thoughtfulness of his responses. The ones below, on the role of the arts in development, are no exception.

But a confession of sorts is in order before getting down to business. This blog has taken a long time to produce, partly because I was toying with the idea of starting another development-focused blog centering on women’s issues (something close to my heart), and partly because I worry about being seen as tokenistic in my interest. But I realize, after much soul-searching (that, I should add, is ongoing), it’s my wish to blend my passion for the arts with my passion for development issues.

And so it was that Teddy and I exchanged thoughts about the role of the arts in bringing about change. I’m going to post our discussion in two parts, because there are so many good ideas here, and it’s worth digesting them all fully. See what you think about what’s being said. You might look at those charity singles -and that big, monolithic thing we North Americans think of as “Africa” – a bit differently afterwards. You’ll want to know more about artists like Fred Mutebi too. I fully expect to see his name in the Arts section in future, by the way -him, and his fellow artists. Because that’s precisely where they belong.

The arts is my passion, as you know, and I was thinking a lot lately about culture’s connection with social issues: artists’ roles in trying to instigate change, if artists should feel compelled to make their work political, what kind of responsibility exists to their communities.

It leads me to question what role art might play as it specifically relates to the work you do with Project Diaspora.

I think artists are unnecessarily encumbered by social issues, and they bend towards that will for fear of not being accepted anymore. They are turned into mouth-pieces and spokespersons when their greatest weapon of choice should have been their unadulterated interpretation of what art is through their chosen medium.

Some artists choose social commentary as their subject matter, like Fred Mutebi here in Uganda. Others choose to be unbending in their adherence their artistic style like Bjork, Radiohead and hopefully Uganda’s Maurice Kirya.

I think the best thing artists can do is continue to focus on being the best you can be at your chosen medium of expression. Don’t be something you are not because you are looking to score cool points. It is okay if you are a movie star and you do a piece that highlights the plight of a marginalized population of the human race, but I think it is going too far if you are all of a sudden packing heat in Haiti, and trying to make a difference because you are trying to feel good about yourself. Some things aren’t your responsibility.

We had student performances at our first Villages In Action conference. Their piece dealt with the cultural perception of polygamy and its effect on children and their education. The kids did a really good job of expressing the current socio-economic pressures placed on the balance between tradition and the demands of modernity. It was topical and relevant, where as the band that performed later that evening was purely entertainment and added little to the topical conversation.

Why do you think there’s a Western insistence to keep referring to Africa as a whole, and to Africans as one giant collection of peoples and perceived problems?

Because it easier to say Africa than to name 53 countries or make the distinction between North Africa and where the sub-Saharan states begin. It’s that place over there full of famine, hunger, genocide, and militaristic genocide. Isn’t one poor malnourished African as true as the next? What does it matter what country they are from? They are from Africa, aren’t they?

I am not really sure how we got stuck with that homogenous identity, but if anyone is going to change it, we have to do that and demand that our voices be heard. Each individual nation has to stand up and say, “Our Identity Counts” and defend their country’s right to exist, not simply as an afterthought, but as an integral part of a whole.

You don’t simplify Europeans into one description or all of North America as Americans; Mexicans and Canadians have a problem with that. So why should we be ok with simply being African?

How do you think art can help to improve the economic development and social welfare of the community?

From an artistic stand point, I think it is important to show that those called to be artists are still able to create even without the access, the privilege, or the fancy tools. We had a kid that had a full-size replica of a motorcycle. I asked him what he needed to keep creating. He said, “I need an engine to put in there.”

This was topical social commentary on how life was going on around him. Because of economic development brought on by subsistent farmers turning to commercial sugar cane farming – a lot more of them were buying motorcycles.

As mentioned before, Fred Mutebi has great woodcut pieces that are basically two-dimensional documentaries on various social subjects. If VIA had happened in his village, I would have loved to have him give a talk about the life he documents.

____

The next blog with Teddy will feature more of Teddy’s thoughts on the West’s perceptions of Africa, how Villages In Action (which happened last November) might help to change ideas around development there, and why TED isn’t always as welcoming to new ideas as you might think. Stay tuned.

What Is.

By Catherine Kustanczy

On January 23, 2011

In art, music, popular culture

It’s sad if inevitable that I didn’t get to any museums or galleries during my brief time in New York City. To quote a friend who lives there, I became an “appreciative inhabitant” – fully cognizant the Whitney, the Guggenheim, MOMA, the Met (et al) were there, but not running to them. Art does take time -time, patience, attention, energy, the very qualities I listed yesterday required to fully delve into Byron’s work, in fact -and I simply didn’t have enough of it this time around.

There is a certain presence and grounded-ness required in art-making itself -something that always drives me back to the easel, that gnawing hunger for being fully present for your art and what it’s asking of you. It’s something I witnessed last Monday at the Zinc Bar, experiencing Eric Lewis live. And it’s something I also feel whenever I see the work of Adam Vollick, a Canadian filmmaker and artist, and the man behind the 2007 documentary, Here Is What Is.

Stating that he’d like to “use a camera like a paint brush”, Vollick has carved out a name for himself as a go-to-guy visuals guy for musician/producer Daniel Lanois. Along with Here Is What Is, Adam has done Le Noise, a work related to Neil Young’s latest album, which was produced by Lanois; Adam provided the imagery for the CD, LP, DVD and Blu-ray versions. He filmed last February’s Black Dub show at the Bowery Ballroom for live online broadcast too, and has been working with the Lanois-lead collective visually. He also filmed the magical, shamanic video of The Birth of Bellavista Nights.

I intensely admire the way Adam seamlessly integrates so many influences into his work and yet makes it entirely, fully his own, bringing a beautiful, meditative quality to his shots and their magical dance with sound. Watching Adam’s work, you begin to realize just how intimately his work is connected with sound, with music, and with the act of creation. I had the opportunity to have a Q&A around his ideas and approach to art, and the act of creating it.

How do you see your role relating to the creation of Daniel Lanois’s music?

I’m simply a dedicated observer. Sometimes that can be catalyst to getting a good take -usually when the hair on my arm is standing up (the Vollick emotional barometer) we unanimously agree that we got something. I try to keep the visual as parallel as possible to the expressions in the music. We never sacrifice the power of the sound for superficial image considerations. Without a powerful musical performance a great film is useless. I’ve really got to be on top of my game 24/7.

Who are your visual influences? I see a lot of Pennebaker, Maysles, Viola, & Corbijn.

I’ve got my head in the sand most of the time which I think helps the naivety of my work. During my formative late teens and early twenties I spent about a decade in the darkroom working on my own photography, barely eating and barely sleeping so I missed a lot of pop culture education.

I see the Pennebaker reference and I love his work although it makes me anxious, and Anton (Corbijn) has always been a hero of mine. He actually shot part of Here Is What Is -what an honor for me that was! My first love was and is still photography; to me the absolution of a single perpetual frame, in its structure and timeless broadcast of a brief moment in space, carries infinite mass. I find more inspiration in photographers.

A guy like Ansel Adams is very inspiring. His lifelong dedication to hiking through national parks, pre-visualizing grand images into his ripe old age. He carried 100+lbs of large format gear into his 80s and would sit and wait for days on end for the perfect light. Not only was he a compositional master, but a scientist responsible for modern densitometric roadmap of the medium. The man is a role model in all departments, patience, grace, dedication, understanding, excellence, and intuition.

Another photographic hero as well is Henri Cartier Bresson, a purely instinctual and patient operator who was a conduit to the seemingly impossible “decisive moment” frames he made. I also just read a book called In The Blink Of An Eye by Walter Murch, an amazing film editor and analyst of the human experience. Just last night I watched a mystifying Jacques Perrin / Jacques Cluzaud film called Oceans.

I love expressionist painters and some part of my shooting is alive, like the paint dropped from Jackson Pollock’s stick: initiated in a gesture and momentarily guided through flight by chaos before being cemented on the canvas.

How have you seen the role of visual interpreter in music change? How much do you think that relates to the change in the way people discover & share music?

I have a very different mode of operation than most. I try to do as much as I can myself, with as little as possible… usually with one camera, one light and one crew member. The role of the interpreter has changed drastically with the proliferation of handheld digital devices connected to the internet. In some ways it’s fantastic: everything becomes accessible to everyone almost instantaneously. All one has to do is say “Hey, have you seen Bill Withers do ‘Use Me’ acoustic?” and seconds later you can look at it on YouTube, even if you’ve never heard of Bill Withers. Anyone can post footage from a show that they are at and the same night have there friends experience it through their Facebook or blog or Myspace or whateverothersocialservice.com.

It’s revolutionary that everyone has a voice that can fall on the world’s ear, it’s just hard to hear the meaningful messages over all the chatter. I try and remain hopeful that the cream will continue to rise to the surface. Maybe google will invent a taste meter for rating versions of things in your search results, or a sample identifier that links back to the original sources, so people can educate themselves.

The downside of the media trend (parasitically attached like a cannibalistic Siamese twin) however, is the diminished quality we have to accept in internet media, sonically and visuallyl. It really negates the excellence of talent in my opinion. I mean, Al Green on Soul Train via Youtube still gives me shivers, and as grateful as I am to have access, I often wonder what it would have felt like to see it broadcast in full fidelity back in the day.

The medium is a part of the message for me, and I can’t watch things out of sync, and all choppy looking for very long without getting agitated and removed from the moment. I hope it’s a momentary bump in the road for us as a species, but I know that there is a whole generation of young people out there who think of music as disposable mp3s on laptop speakers now. I just hope they grow up to realize what they have been missing and buy a good turntable and amplifiers to play tangible records with tangible artwork that they paid fairly for.

The art of the album cover has really faded; do you see other form taking its place? How much do you see your work filling that void -or do you?

The art of the album cover has changed, but I hope it’s just a passing trend. I hope we come to our senses and reinstate it. Would you eat digital food? Sustenance needs to be tangible. What you feed your souls should be no different -we, as a people, are starving ourselves on empty carbs of pop fast food. I don’t think that what I do is replacing the album cover at all. I am just a witness for the ages to virtuos musical moments much like a stenographer would be in a court of law. Leave the rest up to the jury.

True Star

By Catherine Kustanczy

On January 7, 2011

In books, interviews, music, popular culture

I first met Paul Myers when I interviewed him for CIUT’s morning show back in 2007. He and I spoke about his incredible book on the life and times of Long John Baldry, an under-appreciated musician who cast a long shadow over popular music.

Myers is a true music afficionado. As well as being a musician and songwriter, he’s a damn great music journalist, and has written for the San Francisco Chronicle, the San Francisco Guardian, the Georgia Straight, and the Globe and Mail, among others, keeps a very fine blog where he offers a mix of observation, wit, insight, and just plain love for the hybrid beast that is rock and roll.

Paul’s latest work is called A Wizard, A True Star: Todd Rundgren In The Studio (Jawbone Press), and it documents the incredible, incredibly under-appreciated legacy of musician and studio magician Todd Rundgren. The title is based on Rundgren’s much-loved 1973 album of the same name. Now, I admit that I knew precious little about Rundgren when I began this book, but by its end, I was more convinced than ever of his large, vital footprint on popular music. Most people only know his name from the Liv Tyler connection, or from his producing (and playing on) Meat Loaf’s monster hit album, Bat Out Of Hell.

Rundgren is a multi-faceted, multi-talented person who’s difficult to get a handle on. He produced albums by The Pursuit Of Happiness, Steve Hillage, the New York Dolls, Grand Funk Railroad, The Band, Cheap Trick, The Tubes, as well as Hall and Oates’ War Babies and XTC’s Skylarking (which features their mega-hit, “Dear God”). He released a ton of his own material including Something / Anything? , which contained his best-known work like “Hello It’s Me” and the classic-rock-radio staple”I Saw The Light“. He revolutionized studio technologies and instrumentation. He appeared on Saturday Night Live in the 1970s with Prince. His anthemic, catchy “Bang The Drum All Day” is used widely in commercials. People know his work, but they don’t know him.

Myers’ work gets no closer to really knowing him or plumbing the depths, but it does dig (deep) into his methodologies and techniques within a studio context -an approach that illuminates the hard work that goes on in the rock and roll world, past the boring media stories of drugs and debauchery. Mind you, this video, with Rundgren sporting theatrical costuming and makeup, implies a kind of gritty-glam debauchery that has a direct connection to none other than Lady Gaga herself. Rundgren, influential? Durrrr.

Fabulousness aside, it was the chapter detailing the making of Patti Smith’s Wave that I found most enthralling. Featuring interviews with group members Lenny Kaye, Iva Kral, Richard Sohl, Jay Dee Daugherty, plus producer Rundgren, and the lady herself, it’s a fascinating portrait the ties that bind people, creatively, personally and professionally. Myers’ approach is very detailed and thorough here, as through the entire book; his examination of tunes I’ve long loved -like “Frederick” and “Dancing Barefoot” -were fussy, yes, but they were also genuinely thrilling, and shot through with a musician’s instinctual understanding of the finer points of sonic creation. A Wizard, A True Star is a mix of clinician and musician, mixing the creative and the technical into one fascinating, heady mix.

Paul was kind enough to offer up his own insights into his latest work, and its subject.

Describe Todd’s ultimate role in rock and roll in one line.

My whole book kind of makes the case that Todd Rundgren’s best instrument is the recording studio itself. Sure he’s a great vocal arranger and powerful singer, not to mention a flash guitarist and serviceable drummer, but if you look deeply at his entire 40 year career, there’s a very identifiable way in which he sculpts and blends performances (his own and his clients’) together into something that sounds, for better or worse, like a ‘Todd Rundgren Production’. Oops that’s more than one line!

Why do you think Todd isn’t in the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame?

The Rock And Roll Hall is a very political body, a lot of great rock artists don’t (or didn’t) have the political capital to grease their nomination into Cleveland. And, of course, Todd has a kind of Orson Welles reputation; there’s much respect for his craft but on a personal level he has been known to bend a few noses out of joint over the years. Maybe Jann Wenner, who has a lot of pull on the RRHOF board, doesn’t like him. Who knows? Also, Todd has often exuded a kind of “who cares” attitude about the whole thing, so maybe they’re put off by that and would rather induct ABBA, whom I love, but can’t see as “rock and roll”.

Why did you decide to do a studio-focused book?

Todd has two parallel careers, as an artist and as a producer of other artists, so once I decided that the studio was his milieu, if you will, it seemed like that was the best setting to tell this incredible story of album after album, and I knew I had to get both Todd AND the artists he produced to tell their story incredible stories. I’m reminded of Hollywood producer Robert Evans’s autobiography and film “The Kid Stays In The Picture”, which opens with a great quote: “There are three sides to every story: my side, your side, and the truth.”

You go into a lot of detail in the studio in terms of production and instrumentation; for instance, when I read the chapter on Patti Smith’s ‘Wave’, I came away with a whole new appreciation of her work and the dynamic within her band. How does this kind of detail help the average music fan get to know Todd’s art?
I make no secret that I am a musician who has also produced recordings, but I am married to a woman who is not a musician but who loves a good story. So I write a little bit for her, as a test “layman”. I tend to split the difference, conversationally, when I tell music stories to her and that’s what I wanted to do here. I don’t make movies, but I love hearing how “green screen” and CG effects are done. My goal is to give the layman just enough information to understand the significance of what is being discussing. Having said that, one of my favourite passages is where Todd describes the effect on Grand Funk (Railroad) singer Don Brewer’s voice on “We’re An American Band”, the Cooper Time Cube. It’s a delay effect that I’d never heard of before, and Todd had to Google it during the interview to see if he even had the name right.

You explore the role Todd played in music / studio technology; how much do you see his influence in things like Autotune, and even something like GarageBand?

I say in the book that over the last decade Todd became less involved with bands, probably due to the fact that the technology for self-recording (some of which he either designed or requested) is so advanced that it has reduced the ‘perceived value’ of a producer. I say ‘perceived’ because I think, just as a bunch of great actors can read surely read a bunch of great lines from a great script without a director, in the end a good director is always welcome. I don’t think Todd had much to do with Autotune, but definitely the spirit of Todd’s original experiments with multi-tracking lives in digital recording software of today. A band like Pomplamoose, who openly film themselves overdubbing all the instruments might appeal to Todd, I’ll have to ask him.

What do you think Todd’s legacy will be 100 years from now?

I would hope that Todd’s legacy will fall into the pantheon of similarly adventurous recording pioneers such as Les Paul, Brian Wilson and the later artists such as Trent Reznor and Prince (both of whom have cited Todd as an early influence). Musically, I think his piano based ballads on Something/Anything? and Hermit Of Mink Hollow will be re-appreciated by the coming crop of bedroom musicians.

“It’s Changed My Life”

By Catherine Kustanczy

On January 2, 2011

In music, video, writing

A lot of people whose work I adore passed away last year.

People I’ll very much miss speaking with, listening to, and/or drawing inspiration from include Lhasa de Sela (my blog here), Peter Christopherson, Ari Up, Louis Bourgeois (more on her in a future post), Sylvia Sleigh, Mira Godard, Elaine Kaufman, David French (my blog here), Graham Harley, and Gina Wilkinson. Jazz giants Abbey Lincoln, Lena Horne, and Billy Taylor, as well as photographer Herman Leonard, also passed away in 2010.

Abbey Lincoln’s voice was the second female jazz voice I ever heard, the first being Ella Fitzgerald. Her mix of sexy and mournful, expressive and restrained, operatic and plaintive, all wrapped up in a deep caramel tone, stopped me in my tracks at seventeen. When everyone else was moshing to Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit”, I was lying on the floor of my bedroom sighing to Abbey and her masterful recording of ‘Bird Alone’.

Lincoln wasn’t solely a singer; she acted in film and TV, and was especially active in the civil rights movement. Equally, Lena Horne, who passed away in 2010, was well-known as a singer, actor, and civil rights crusader. She blazed a trail for people women like Halle Berry; Horne was smart, tough, and ridiculously talented. Her voice always had a sexy smirk that makes listening to her recordings joyful and dramatic- but behind the smirk was (and lives) a resolution and confidence as strong as steel. Horne was a siren, in every sense, and she knew it.

Every bit as joyful is the work of jazz pianist and educator Billy Taylor. He was a vital figure who felt compelled to make jazz more than a brew of pretty sounds -who, in fact, viewed jazz as America’s cultural legacy and gift to the world. I took for granted just how influential he was, how vital a figure in broadcasting and education -and just how many recordings he’d actually written and been on. His Jazzmobile idea was genius, and one could argue it has a corollary in the work John Legend is doing with Show Me. In fact, Legend calls education “the civil rights issue of our time.” His work with The Roots (“Wake Up!“) suddenly begins to make a lot of sense on both sonic and social levels.

I came across this fantastic clip of Taylor chatting with Charlie Rose; his comments around the role of music in his life are illuminating, and, like his work, continue to inspire.

“Quiet” is probably too mild a term to use when describing my public adoration of jazz and its role in my life; looking through old posts and other work, the silence is positively deafening. Why? There’s a perception that enjoyment of jazz implies an intellectualism I feel totally bereft of. I don’t get out to see a heck of a lot of live jazz -though it’s my favorite music live -and I know very few people with whom I can share my love. As a child piano player in the Royal Conservatory System, the thought of improvising scared me to bits, even as it thrilled and fascinated. Kind of like the way I feel about painting now.

The passings of Taylor and Lincoln last year were wake-up calls to announce, and express, my love to the world -love of jazz, love of noise, love of motion, love of integrating all my artistic passions. The outcome? Unclear. The process? Delicious.

Photo (top) by Herman Leonard.

December, Baby

By Catherine Kustanczy

On December 14, 2010

In art, music

Birthdays are always time for me to reflect. This one feels better than others, probably because I’ve been thinking I am the actual age I’m turning through most of the year. Always being one step ahead makes the actual date feel like less of a shock. Birthdays as a kid -complete with party dress, streamers & ice cream cake -are fun but their effect feels less temporary; the older one gets, the more one feels the wear of time bearing down, and the feeling one ought to be doing something awfully important -or at least, focused. Right now I’m focusing on the champagne that’s being uncorked at the end of the day. It’s a start, right?

I’ve also been thinking of the events that have colored many a December -deaths, both recent and not, as well as births. Sharing a birthday month with Christmas, no matter your religion, is a d-r-a-g. I used to tell my mother as a child that I wanted to celebrate my birthday in July with a pool party; now I’m overjoyed if people even remember, let alone take the time to write me, or to write on that eponymous modern mode of communication, the ever-present Facebook wall (which many have done, and thank you very kindly). It’s cheering and surreal, all at once.

Two of my favorite artists, people who music I grew up with, were born this month. Though the exact date of Ludwig van Beethoven‘s birth is disputed (possibly December 16th; he was baptized the 17th) his effect on the music world… well, earth-shattering. Plunking at the piano as a kid, LVB was always my go-to guy; I aimed to, and eventually did play Fur Elise and Moonlight Sonata, along with other (very hard, but very awesome) works. I struggled to manoeuvre my small hands over the wide swaths of ivory; I swore and gnashed teeth when I couldn’t put this note down with that one, let alone reach that other one. Ouch.

At some point, I knew my hands weren’t made to play his work (or indeed, much classical at all) but that realization didn’t dim my passion for those beautiful, indescribable sounds. I loved the energy and anger of his work; as an adolescent I swooned over the romantic melodies and dramatic qualities. I’d write great swaths of poetry while blasting the Seventh symphony, or one of the Concertos, especially the onerously misnamed Emperor. Really, I loved it all. I had a gigantic poster of Beethoven on my bedroom wall. He was my rock star. Dead? Whatever. Ugly? Whatever. I skipped my high school prom to go to a big symphonic gala featuring the famous (and mysteriously powerful) Ninth. LVB understood the frustrated anger seething through my veins and expressed it in powerful, bang-whoosh flights of orchestral mastery.

While I still love the manic, raging energy that emanates from his work with the force of a million waterfalls, I also adore (and swoon) over his capacity for tenderness. The second movement of Beethoven’s Fifth Piano Concerto has been a favorite for over fifteen years, and indeed, it still is. I’ve done a lot to this piece of music: sighed, cried, drawn, written, meditated, driven in the dead of night, walked on an autumnal afternoon, cooked, and stared out windows on silently-falling snow. I should probably do that last one again before the season ends. I’m especially happy to share Daniel Barenboim‘s interpretation (above) as I think he really, truly captures the intricate beauty without getting bogged down in technicality; there’s a lovely blend of poetry and fussiness here, but ultimately, as you’ll hear, one definitely trumps over the other through sheer emotionalism. The charming unconscious-eyebrow-raises of Barenboim’s tells you everything you need to know about how deeply this piece reaches into the nether-regions of the soul, pulling out things you didn’t know, or want to acknowledge, gently, if firmly, ever profoundly plumbing depths that may not see the light of day again -or until you listen to it next.

That sense of keen emotional beauty is what makes my second December-born artist so special. He excelled at it, just as much as he excelled at joy. Frank Sinatra would’ve been 95 on December 12th. More than any other, this man profoundly shaped the way I experienced popular music; he opened doors into expression and interpretation not using any external instrument (as I’d been trained to do), but via his own body -via that remarkable voice he’d been blessed with, which alternated between tenor and baritone with effortless ease, wrapping like a cashmere glove around songs notes, and octaves, caressing ears, minds, and hearts across generations.

My first exposure to Sinatra (and to much jazz, both vocal and instrumental) was as a teenager. I was at the house of my mother’s smart, cool, downtown friends and looking through their CDs (remember those?) when I came across his stuff. Naturally, I’d heard of Francis Albert. I’d heard his work, and I knew him from the celebrity roasts on television. My mother was (is) a bigger fan of Dean Martin‘s work, so it was familiarity-via-association. Once I put on the CDs … that was it. I was hooked. My Sinatra obsession continued well into my twenties (and beyond), when I picked up his masterful, profoundly sad, hugely powerful albums from the 1950s: Only The Lonely, In The Wee Small Hours, Where Are You?. His poetic, masterful singing of “I’m A Fool To Want You”, written about Ava Gardner (who subsequently took her place among my gloriously surreal, beautiful collection of heroes), as well as songs like “Lonely Town”, “Angel Eyes” and the famous “One More For My Baby (And One More For The Road)” still stop my heart in my chest. Each is a revelation, a prayer, a blessing, darkness, and light, all at once.

Much as Sinatra excelled at expressing pain, he was equally good at doing happy, something a lot of singer and artists don’t succeeed at; as I recently said on television, painting in white is hard. Few do it well, with any effect that isn’t sickeningly saccharine or cloyingly cheesy. Sinatra pulled it off with just the right mix of joy and smarts. Albums like Swing Easy!, Come Fly With Me, Ring-A-Ding, and Nice And Easy demonstrate a man who can just as easily access pure, simple joy -in singing and in sound -as fear, anger, and loneliness. Sinatra-Basie and It Might As Well Be Swing (with Quincy Jones) are landmark recordings; they also have a place as two of my most cherished albums, ever. Musical mastery has never sounded better, or more obvious.

I had a recent upset at not being able to find my treasured collection of Sinatra holiday hits, if only because I love –love -his interpretation of one particular winter classic. Thank goodness for the internet:

Silly, smart, smarmy, playful, loving, celebratory… I hear a full embrace of life when I hear this song.

Maybe that’s why I love both LVB and Sinatra so much: they represent the pinnacle of artistic mastery and creative human expression, integrating all the colours of the human experience with a zeal I, and many, can immediately recognize and occasionally identify with. As to December babies… we might forget their birthdays, but we never forget them.

Watching The Wheels

By Catherine Kustanczy

On December 8, 2010

In music, popular culture, writing

Thirty years ago today John Lennon was shot by Mark David Chapman.

Along with local events, memorials, specials, a loving tribute, and, of course, music, everyone who was alive then remembers where they were, and/or what they were doing. Because the shooting happened in the evening, I only heard about it the next morning. As a child, I grew up thinking of John as an acidic solo artist with a strange wife who was once in a cool band that wrote really catchy tunes. He was the guy with the crooked smile who had strong opinions and an unusual voice. He wasn’t Paul’s cute, smooth operator but rather, an eccentric, subversive bad ass whose influence, I later realized, was much, much bigger than I could ever fully understand.

Even now, I can’t wrap my head around it -this amazing life, this unique voice, this consummate artist, this motherless hell-raiser, this husband, father, icon, Beatle, not-Beatle, this gifted man creating and defining a new universe, happily moving between the world of stardom and the gritty 70s streets of New York City. I want to think of him holding his infant son’s hand walking through Central Park; I want to think of him smiling and chatting with a friend of mine who’d regularly run into him in the neighbourhood; I want to think of him snuggling with Yoko, or playing the piano, or singing, or jamming with his bandmates, or going to see new bands, or drawing, sketching, jotting down words and ideas and speaking out on things he believed in, even if it made him unpopular. I want to humanize him, even while paying deference to his status and acknowledging the long, skinny shadow he casts, even -or especially -now.

John’s passing was different than that of Elvis Presley (whose death I also remember); Elvis was, and will always be, the quintessential rock and roll icon. Trying to humanize him feels, for me, rather difficult, even when I’m told stories by those who knew the Memphis Flash personally. Elvis wasn’t as direct (or angry) when it came to his art, and besides, I didn’t grow up with someone named after him. My best friend growing up was named after a Beatle; it wasn’t John, but easily could’ve been.

I don’t remember his reaction that fateful day thirty years ago. All I remember is pulling on my ever-uncomfortable tights the morning of December 9th and hearing the news, repeated over and over, about how Mark David Chapman called out to his “hero”, about the blood, about the mounds of flowers placed outside the Dakota. And “Imagine” was played over and over, along with so many beloved Beatles hits. I didn’t get it, but I couldn’t get over it.

By the time I reached my late teens, I asked for, and received, the CD box set of John Lennon’s solo work. Now, many years later, I still listen to them, on and off, and try not to think about “what if” -because really, that feels like a creative and spiritual dead end. Patti Smith, reflecting on the passing of her longtime friend Robert Mapplethorpe, then later brother, mother, and husband, said she didn’t like to think of death as a “loss”, but rather, as a “gain” -for what the deceased offered the world during their brief time.

And so to John Lennon I say: thank you, times a million. You are here, and you are everywhere, and even if I didn’t know it that cold December day, you were right there with me, and you still are with us, all of us, as we shiver, and cry, and laugh, and sing, and paint, draw, and go about our lives. You’re not here -but you are.

Imagine; I have. And it’s good.

Healing

By Catherine Kustanczy

On November 20, 2010

In music

Music has played a large role in my life lately. In the weeks leading up to the Grinderman show last week, I interviewed Laila Biali, Micah Barnes, and James Di Salvio (Bran Van 3000) about their respective new releases, received the new album from the fabulously-rockin’ Preachers Son, and have been diving headfirst into the work of recently-deceased composer Henryk Gorecki. I’m also been looking into attending more live shows, trying to get more familiar with the massive Sondheim catalogue, and preparing for the Einsturzende Neubaten concerts here in Toronto next month.

Amidst all of this, the gorgeous, babbling trumpet of Hugh Masekela has been reigning like some supreme being, dancing and swirling with magical silvery notes and the soft-sheen of hand-claps and rising voices. Masekela’s music is rich but spacious at the same time, and he gives a show like no other; his warm smile and funky dance moves leaves a trail of inspiration, and I think I can say with some confidence now that seeing him here a few weeks back marked the beginning of my musical renaissance of late.

It was a miserable Saturday night when Masekela came to Toronto to complete his latest North American tour. Cold rain fell hard and noisy across the concrete slabs and high scaffolding dotting the city-scape. Crowds huddled together under the tiny awnings outside restaurants and shops, barely daring the wind and the wet, and I arrived at Koerner Hall with pant legs soaked and in a slightly chilly mood. The new space put me somewhat at ease, though. The architecture is so… pretty, all glass angles and soft colours and grand open spaces. The hall has been creatively fused with the rambling old architecture of the old Royal Conservatory building, a place I shuddered to enter as a child.

It was in the fusty old Conservatory building that I would take my dreaded yearly piano exams, and it’s there I have an ashen collection of singed musical memories. Between the glaring, smile-adverse examiners, the creaky floors, the yellowed keys of ancient pianos, and the sheer terror of waiting outside a closed door as piano-playing way, way better than mine emanated from within, it’s a spot I was convinced I’d always despise. It’s no exaggeration to state that the Conservatory system pounded out whatever sonic creativity I had in favour of more rigorous, “proper” sounds. Stop fooling around, play what’s in front of you, technique over emotion, no improvising allowed, ever. Don’t do that to Bach/Beethoven/unheard-of-people-I-didn’t-give-a-toss-about-anyway! Hardly worth mentioning: I don’t play the piano anymore.

The building itself, which I remember as a fusty, cold, old space, has been fused with something warmly modern and welcoming; the regal (if equally cozy) Koerner Hall has top acoustics, comfy seats, and a nice smattering of old instruments in the basement, museum-style. Along with featuring Masekela that particular night, the Hall also hosts classical concerts (duh) a well as local groups like the excellent Art of Time Ensemble. Next year’s lineup includes jazz, Indian sounds, and blues shows. That eclecticism is a great reflection of not only the city, but the approach the Royal Conservatory is now taking to shape the nature of cultural experience in the 21st century. It’s not all poe-faced, serious, miserable, head-down-and-shut-up-ness stuff. Gosh, I almost wish I was playing piano again. Almost.

So what to say about Masekela? The term “legendary musician” feels incredibly trite for someone so multi-talented. Human rights crusader, politician, artistic ambassador, showman, loverman… where to begin? With a mellow touch, of course. Hugh and his five-man band gave one of the most beautiful concerts I’ve ever seen. Liberally mixing old and new favorites, Masekela proved himself a master of many sounds and emotions, from the sexy growls of his famous trumpet to yowling imitations of a steam whistle, and even to his funky dancing, Masekela proved he’s a supreme entertainer and musician of the highest order.

With the accompaniment of a strong, intuitive five-man band, Masekela worked the crowd with a gentle wit and highly watchable style. He took the time to include Toronto in his roll-call of cities in “The Boy Is Doin’ It”, and chatted to the audience with much familiarity and warmth, easily blending humour and politics. Between quick comments on the rainy weather (which seemed, to my ears, to be a chide to the numerous latecomers) and amusing references to the G20 debacles of earlier this year (“I hope we’re safe here?”), Masekela appeal to the collective conscience of his spellbound audience, wondering aloud if the natural calamities of this year were the result of the Mother Nature taking revenge against an ignorant populace. He then spoke about the history of “Stimela (Steam Train)”, how it referenced South African coal mines, and how the numerous troubles of his home continent require the world’s attention.

“Stimela” is a powerful evocation of time, place, and circumstance, and its live version was a wholly moving blend of sound effects, native South African rhythms and … frankly, rock and roll. I couldn’t help but think of how much the middle instrumental section resembled various favorite rock tunes (especially favorite live tunes), and I marveled at this spry, funny, smart, accomplished 71-year-old for being able to channel so many different energies and styles simultaneously, via his innate, if finely-honed ability to integrate dance, voice, and presence.

But perhaps that’s the special magic of Hugh Masekela. The second half of the program was chalk-full of fun, upbeat numbers, which inspired much dancing of the onlookers in the cheapie seats, located directly behind the stage. There was something wholly encouraging about watching the skinny-tied/ironically-bearded/thick-framed-glasses hipster set sway, swivel, and shake to the earthy, sexy sounds of “Happy Mama” and the famous “Grazin’ in the Grass” (which he played at the 2010 FIFA World Cup). Music makes the people come together indeed. Masekela and his band acknowledged the dancers as well as the numerous audience members familiar with his numerous references to South African culture. During “Kauleza” Masekela instructed us to call back the song’s title (which translates to “Police!”), noting it was what he and his siblings would shout growing up in illegal drinking establishments. “You’re not shouting loud enough!” he chided, “The police are coming!” My favorite moment was during the legendary Fela Kuti song “Lady”, when Masekela imitated a haughty woman, shaking his hips, pursing his lips, cocking an eyebrow. It was a hilarious, playful blend of satire and musical mastery, and completely spellbinding.

Indeed, the whole evening seemed to be a balm to soothe my awful Conservatory memories. Musicality takes all kinds of forms, of course, but it’s hard to flush bad energies away in one go. Attending Masekela’s concert in my old horror-movie stomping grounds felt like a good first step toward creative musical rehab. 2011 could be the year of Koerner Hall, both for me and many others seeking the kind of inspiration -and liberation -only music can provide.

And Back Again

By Catherine Kustanczy

On November 13, 2010

In music

Twelve years on and here I am, I thought as I stood outside the Phoenix Concert Theatre Thursday night, shivering and thirsty and impatient. Here I am again to see this man and his noisy band. Well.

It was at the exact same location that I experienced the wonder of Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds in September 1998. That was a different time, and a vastly different place for me emotionally and spiritually, but experiencing the wonder of Grinderman live was a beautiful kind of awakening and embrace -of age, maturity, confidence, and the keen understand that rock and roll is not, in fact, a young man’s game. The raucous four-piece band started their North American tour here in Toronto, and what a holy noise they made. There was a mix of dread at my own sentimentality coupled with an intense curiosity, mainly because I am a new convert to Cave’s “side” project (I write it that way because the band feels more and more like a main event, musically and creatively) and I haven’t been following Cave’s work as keenly as at the ass-end of the 90s. In fact, the last time I saw Nick Cave perform live was in 1999 as part of his own programmed Meltdown festival at the Southbank Centre in 1999. Lives change, tastes shift, other experiences come and go. And yet and yet.

In seeing this same group of men perform together in the past, comparisons are inevitable. Cave, along with percussionist Sclavunos, violinist/guitarist Ellis, and bassist Martyn Casey, formed Grinderman in 2006. Now touring their second album, the band’s sound conjures a surreal if wholly intoxicating combination of old-soul confidence, middle-aged angst and youthful musicality: turn it up, balls out, blindfold on, 100 miles an hour, wear something smart, don’t do anything stupid. And if you don’t like it, get out hell of the car. The ride Grinderman provides -as listeners, though moreso, in a live setting -is thrilling, and utterly enveloping in its monstrous magic. It’s one ride I was horribly overdue in taking, and all nerves aside at going to a rock show solo, I’m so very, very glad I did. Huzzah for inspiring friends and the kindness of strangers.

Still, I was reminded more than once I’m not that young girl from 1998. Some of us folk at the front had been standing about four or five hours by the time Grinderman took to the stage. Ouch. I can relate to the frustrated disgust in Grinderman’s “No Pussy Blues”: “I must above all things… love myself!” Ha. There’s something about Cave’s wry observations on aging and attraction to (and of) the opposite sex I find comforting to hear, especially amidst the sonic cacophony that howls over having “no pussy blues.” Semantics aside, it’s a sentiment many -especially those in the mid-30s-and-up crowd Thursday -could relate to.

Thankfully, the physical discomfort melted away, slowly but surely, over the course of the show. With stage crew flashlights providing tiny points of light, Sclavunos, Casey, Ellis and Cave, all stylishly attired in beautiful, tailored suits, came on to thunderous cheers and clamour. “Mickey Mouse and the Goodbye Man” was a blistering, brutal opening. “And he sucked her /and he sucked her /and he sucked her dry…” That nasty, repeated refrain spat out with aplomb by Cave and crew was possibly the best revenge on a world where cinematic vampires are sugary-safe and vamps are princessy teens with raccoon eyes. Cave slung his guitar like he was born to do it, and any sentimentality over his Seed-y times playing a grand piano was quickly erased by the look of determined, comfortable confidence he wore as easily as his natty dark suit. Dressed in black, with silver strands of charmed necklaces dangling from his neck, his left hand adorned with jeweled rings, Cave (now 53, and handsome as hell) was the picture of supreme rock and rollery, by turns theatrical, boyish, leering, scary, and always, always utterly magnetic.

Watching him work the room, mere feet (sometimes inches) away from me, I had a moment of questioning whether this was an act, this scenery-chewing, Artaud-like rioting. Real? Not-real? All the lines get so blurry in live performances, and over the course of ten years, those lines have shifted and moved in sometimes thrilling, sometimes bewildering ways for me. I know this much: Cave is a supremely good frontman. His exchanges with the audience were both sincere and enigmatic. Like the good rock and roll man he is, he likes to keep a bit of mystery intact, but there’s no denying the push-pull of fear and attraction within that onstage persona. Like in 1998, the audience noticeably leaned back whenever Cave came a-clomping, in shiny black patent-leather shoes, to proclaim his Grinderman gospel. Hot damn, we couldn’t take our eyes off him, and he definitely fed off us; venturing onto a side speaker to shriek the spoken-word intro to “Get It On” was like a profane pirate mass, with a chorus of voices all shrieking the same words, or playing call and response to his every gesture. During “Heathen Child”, Cave prowled along the edge of the stage, pointing, grabbing hands, shaking hips. At one point he took the hand of a very short girl who was behind a very tall man and dragged her up to the front. She looked up and, blushing, smiled in gratitude, but Cave kept on going, not looking down to meet her blissed-out gaze. Lesson? Do the right thing and get the hell on with it.

That mystery-man persona cracked somewhat in Cave’s onstage chemistry with his bandmates. There was something undeniably beguiling about the tiny smiles that would come bubbling up or bursting out, whether it was playing the keyboard, or (usually) guitar, or (most often) exchanged between he and Ellis. This came to the fore during “Get It On”, the third number played live, when Cave, lost in the song’s aggro-sexy groove, literally shoved Ellis to the ground, mosh-style. It was a weirdly comic moment, and totally indicative of the good-natured fellowship between the band members. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Cave smile so much, so naturally, onstage, ever. Dark Lord, my ass. The words to the songs might be dark, but they’re one aspect of a very complex, deeply curious mind. The mind that produced the gory fairytale of “Mickey Mouse and the Goodbye Man” and the restless drama of “Love Bomb” (not to mention the depraved surrealism of “The Death Of Bunny Munro“, a book I liked a lot) also produced “The Palaces of Montezuma”, with beautiful lines like “a Java princess of Hindu Birth / a woman of flesh / a child of earth / I give to you“. This was easily one of my favorite songs live – the marriage of noise, melody, words and beats was perfect. It felt like a melodic, gentle grace amidst the yowling feedback and aggressive stomping.

What?, you’re saying, grace? Grinderman?! Never the twain would’ve met within the world of the first album (from 2007) but, as the band’s members grow and change, so does the music. This is good. It’s not all thudding boom-boom-boom and static-like feedback, though those still play hugely important roles sonically, and I’d argue, spiritually. It was the kind of booming thud you felt within the depth of your spinal column, going straight to that strange, intangible thing called “soul.” Again, this is good. The stage featured an extensive array of percussive equipment which Jim Sclavunos and Warren Ellis whacked with great enthusiasm and skilled showmanship, but it’s notable how much the other instruments contributed to the percussive sound of the band too: guitars, pianos, even sequenced loops were all used to great percussive -and, it must be noted, theatrical -effect to create a sound I can only describe as raw, primal rock and roll. (Sidenote: CIUT‘s Chris Berube did an interview with Big Jim, which you can listen to/download here. They talk about how that primal sound got created -and it sounds like fun.) This clearly isn’t meant to be a band of high art or instrumental virtuosos (not that they all aren’t a hugely, ridiculously talented bunch -they are) -but perfection and tidiness aren’t the point at all. Noise is. And sometimes, subtlety makes it in there too. It’s all about balance.

Which is why I couldn’t help but think of Blixa Bargeld, who sits in my head as the godfather of the noisy feedback-meets-percussive-ear-bleeding chaos-meets-creepy-subtlety sound that emanated from the stage of the Phoenix Thursday night. Blixa was the longtime guitarist for the Bad Seeds until his departure in 2003, and is now touring with his original band, the hugely influential Einsturzende Neubaten (they’ll be in Toronto next month; yes, I’m seeing them). So does this audible influence take away from Grinderman’s originality? Not one bit. What separates this band from its Teutonic forebears is the blood-and-guts emotionalism its members put into every moment, combined with a palpable sense of theatre and a wrenching forward-sweeping sonic momentum that combines deep dread and high exuberance in one thrilling ride. Warren Ellis is one seriously talented (and prolific) man. I’ve seen him play many times with renowned band The Dirty Three, and while his musical forays into crazyman-land may seem loopy half-cocked, they’re all carefully, meticulously considered, and executed with a maximum of compelling kick-ass mayhem. Really, there’s nothing quite like the brilliant cacophony Grinderman creates live. No wonder their North American shows have sold out. This is rock and roll at its best. I’m so glad I was there. It was a return, and a new beginning, all at once. My ears are still ringing, and my heart’s in knots. Hail hail, the Grinderman. I thought you’d never come.

Big And Proud

By Catherine Kustanczy

On October 11, 2010

In music

You’d expect opera to be “big” but… in some cases, you’d be wrong.

As I detailed in my last blog post, the grandeur normally associated with the opera Aida has been unceremoniously stripped away in the most recent production from the Canadian Opera Company. This would be noble, but for the fact that the concept itself trumps the heart of the piece, rendering it a hollow, pretentious shell, and giving it the sort of empty grandeur director Tim Albery was purposely going against. That doesn’t mean I didn’t have a super-thrilling, emotional experience involving grandeur the very-same night, though. Quite the opposite.

“Big” as a concept (specifically applied to a live musical event) was openly celebrated once outside the Four Seasons Centre the night of Aida’s opening. My opera-mate and I walked into the start of Nuit Blanche, the fifth annual all-night celebration of all things artistic. Now, I railed against the event in this blog last year, but having spoken with several people who both work inside of it and/or adore it, well… my position has somewhat softened. I have to admit, it does offer a cool experience, though I wish it was more than once a year (say, in the summer, during or just before Luminato) and not just a single all-night, foot-wrecking event. This year I was eager to see Daniel Lanois‘ brilliant, beautiful Later That Night At The Drive-In, held at Toronto’s Nathan Phillips Square, directly in front of City Hall. The space is normally a huge, empty expanse of concrete, with a functioning ink rink in the winter, but during this year’s Nuit Blanche, it was utterly transformed into… well, a drive-in. Kind of. Together with local artists and a team of talented organizers, Lanois had transformed the space into a truly communal setting where the idea of “spectacle” (whether it be drive-in, rock concert, whatever) was being mocked, milked, celebrated, and shared.

As if in direct opposition to Albery and his pretentiously over-wrought ‘concept’, here, the sense of civic grandeur was played into and played with; to quote Madonna, “Music makes the people come together“, or, of course, the man himself, “I’m not a stranger in the eyes of the maker” -and the maker was us, him, the night, the light, the shadows, the speakers, the sets of eyes and ears and hearts, beating together and out-of-time, in-time, with music, beats, and angles. The maker was the place itself and the people filling it. Visually, ‘Drive-In’ was intoxicating: a series of geometric screens were set up all over the square, on scrims and tall screens, offering live feeds of action happening further inside -but this wasn’t a glorified concert experience. The visuals portrayed dancers, prancers, techies, hanger-ons, and onlookers. If there’s one word to describe the experience, it’d be “immersive” -one was literally immersed in sound, light, colour, and the experience of togetherness within the grandeur of a large outdoor music thingamadoodle. Really. I got the keen sense Lanois et al were purposely keeping away from easy definitions in their presentation, that they were going after something already extant within Lanois’ music: the magical, the meditative, the intimate and the epic, all at once.

So it was no accident the music emanating from Later That Night At The Drive-In was audible three city blocks away. That’s not to say it was L-O-U-D in the rock concert way; rather, there was a feeling of intimacy and sharing amidst the Nuit Blanche crowds, and surrounding this most grand of events, in one of the city’s biggest outdoor public spaces. Instead of shunning the idea of “big”, Lanois and his team were openly embracing it, using the intimacy and immediacy of live music to draw people together. A huge mirror was mounted above the small, Arabesque stage on an extreme angle, so that the small square became a kind of hallowed, silvery frame, bathing everything -and everyone -both in and outside of it in a holy, haunting light that whispered, “you are here, I am here, we are all together… “

Whatever expectations onlookers may have brought were both exceeded and gently, deftly, pushed to one side. Big isn’t always bad; there just has to be a big heart behind it, one to make all the others feel they’re somehow a part of it -singing, playing, dancing, moving and being moved. At the end of the day, Big Idea has to equal Big Heart, and sometimes, with the right amount of care, it also equals Big Art. Bravo Monsieur Lanois.