Notes from North of the Border: A Travelogue (Day One)

The CN Tower, Toronto, Ontario.

Last weekend The Wife and I enjoyed a three-night getaway to Canada. We hadn’t been to Toronto in way too many years, even before COVID made crossing the border impossible, and we were excited to return. Our plans were all in Toronto, but I learned a valuable lesson as a kid from my parents: when visiting a very large city, it’s best to stay well outside the city and use the public transportation and your feet to get around. Driving around in an unfamiliar city is never a great idea. (The object lesson as a kid was several trips to Boston, which is a uniquely devilish city to try to drive around, but it applies to Toronto as well. We only drove into the city once on this trip, and that was our first night there, because the place we were going isn’t easy to reach via public transport and The Wife is currently experiencing some mobility issues.)

So we crossed the border Friday afternoon and drove to our hotel in Mississauga, which in America would be cheekily called “Toronto’s biggest suburb”, but Mississauga is a huge city in its own right, with a population almost three times that of Buffalo. It always feels like something of a mental re-calibration of my concept of a “city”, whenever we go to a significantly larger (and more healthily urban) place than Buffalo. There are clusters of residential towers all over the entire greater Toronto region that dwarf the entirety of Buffalo’s skyline, and with that many people and a robust public transport system*, it must be nice to be able to see news of something new being built and not see all the comments in the replies to the effect of, “But where will we park?” (Seriously, any time anything is announced in downtown Buffalo, the questions of parking come up, because nobody in this region has any idea what a healthy and dense city is supposed to be like, in terms of parking and driving. People here glaze over at the very thought that you’re not actually supposed to always be able to park within fifty feet of the front door of wherever it is you’re going.)

Our hotel was very near Toronto’s Pearson Airport, and our windows faced south, giving us a nifty view of both downtown Mississauga to the west:

And downtown Toronto to the east.

Our hotel had no free breakfast (you could pay for a buffet, but these are always dicey in terms of gluten), so we made the Starbucks across the street our first stop each morning.

On the first full day there, we drove to the GO Station to catch the train into Toronto’s Union Station, which is the city’s major transportation hub, at the very foot of the financial district. We enjoyed the GO Trains, which are clean and comfortable.

What we didn’t enjoy quite as much was navigating Union Station, which is quite the complicated warren of tunnels and passages. Toronto’s downtown core–the area in the Financial District and some points immediately surrounding–is all connected underground through a system of tunnels called PATH, and it has all developed over the years to the point where it’s basically a giant subterranean shopping mall beneath the city. The problem is that it is highly confusing, with signage that isn’t entirely clear. We got lost twice down there in one day! Not badly lost, mind you–it’s not like we were suddenly six blocks off our intended location–but we did have to do some backtracking to figure out just where we were in relation to where we wanted to be, and that was annoying (particularly when The Wife is having a hard time getting around). Add to that the fact that apparently nothing in the PATH “mall” is open on weekends, and the whole atmosphere was like walking through a sterile, closed environment. And that’s not the reason we go to dense, vibrant cities! If I want to walk through a deserted mall, I can go to the dying mall ten minutes from our house.

Union Station is quite beautiful, though:

Another contrast with Buffalo, I suppose: Toronto actually uses its grand train station as a train station. Buffalo has a big gorgeous train station, but refuses to use it as such. Anyway, our initial destination on Full Day One was the St. Lawrence Market. This is a big public market that is a major food destination. Think of the Pike Place Market in Seattle…or Buffalo’s Broadway Market, but, well, consistently packed and successful.

The very first thing we did when we entered the Market was to buy a couple of coffees, since (a) it was cold and drizzly out and we needed the warmth, and (b) we were hit by the smell of the coffee the second we opened the outer doors. This particular coffee place is tiny–your house probably has at least one bathroom that’s larger than this place–but it was packed as tightly as possible, spilling out onto shelves outside the location proper, with coffee beans and coffee supplies and also tea and tea pots and whatnot. The joint is run by an elderly Asian couple, and the coffee was wonderful. We ended up coming back to buy some whole-bean coffee (“Maple Cream” flavored, if you’re wondering).

(By the way, on the topic of coffee: you know what we saw far fewer of than we’d expected, given that we were in Canada? Tim Hortons locations! They exist, but they do not seem to have the “Tim’s on every corner” thing going on that Buffalo has. We even saw a closed Tim Hortons! Like, an empty storefront with the signage removed but you could still make out the logo from the pattern of dirt on the terra cotta!)

Since The Wife is celiac, we had to get a little creative for lunch, since the many sandwich joints and pasta joints and whatever else were pretty much out of the running. We ended up getting a chunk of cheese and some cured meat sticks from a cheesemonger, which was lovely anyway. Dietary restrictions certainly do lend an investigative air to finding food in unfamiliar locales; you can’t just say, “Ooooh, that looks good, let’s eat there!” In addition to the cheesemonger (there are several of these in the Market), we also found a stall in the basement making crepes, and they had a gluten-free crepe available, so we got one to share (apple and cheese-filled, if you’re wondering).

We’ve found a liking for crepes in recent years, partly because we discovered a lovely restaurant near Rochester that has gluten-free crepes.

I generally try not to partake of gluten-filled goodies in front of The Wife, because that’s mean, but I did have to give in at this patisserie:

I mean, look at that stuff. I got a single Coconut Rum Ball.

Not a great photo, admittedly. I took one shot and started nomming.

I ate it on the spot, and it was good, and I regret NOTHING.

After we were done at the Market, we walked back the way we had come, heading for Ripley’s Aquarium of Canada. On the way we came to Toronto’s Flatiron Building, which is appropriately pointy on one end, and flat on the other, with one of the niftier murals around:

Just beyond the Flatiron Building is a lovely park with a fountain of fantastic whimsy:

The fountain’s jets are all dogs!

Note that one figurine is a cat, who is totally ignoring what all the dogs are focused on…

…and note that at the top of the fountain, drawing the attention of all those spouting dogs, is a bone! The fountain wasn’t running, unfortunately–it’s probably too early in the season for such things yet–but here’s a bit of info on the fountain, which we found utterly delightful. (Apparently the cat is staring at a couple of bird statues, which we didn’t realize at the time.)

The walk from the Market to the Aquarium was longer than we would have liked, owing to The Wife’s difficulties; in normal times it would have been fine, but I did find myself wondering why Toronto has no streetcar line running between the St. Lawrence Market area and the CN Tower area (the Aquarium is literally right next to the CN Tower; I took that photo at the top of this post from the Aquarium’s walkway, very near the front door).

As for the Aquarium itself? It’s a fantastic facility, full of exactly the kind of exhibits you expect at any fine aquarium. Since Toronto is a Great Lakes city (by population, it’s the largest city on the Great Lakes!), there are a lot of displays of Great Lakes habitats, but they also have large tropical fish displays, too. The Aquarium’s main event is a huge tank , mimicking a tropical reef, through which visitors can walk (or ride, via moving walkway) via a submerged tunnel that’s surprisingly long, and this is all suitably amazing. We do wish we’d attended to Aquarium on a school day, though–the place was loaded with kids and their often beleaguered parents. A few thoughts here:

::  Look, aquariums are awesome places to take your kids. I get it. I loved those places as a kid myself. But prepare yourselves, wouldja?

::  That said, your one-year-old baby is not going to remember any of this, so maybe spend a bit less time hogging the space right in front of a particular tank or exhibit because you’re trying to get that perfect photo of your baby in front of a shark or ray or eel or whatever. It’s obnoxious.

::  And ferchrissakes, please brush your kid up on the concept of personal space. Because if your kid reaches forward and touches the guy in the overalls in front of you, repeatedly, eventually that guy might well turn around and give your kid an impromptu lesson in how to incorporate the F-word into the sentence Keep your hands to yourself and do NOT touch me again!

::  You may wonder, at some point in your aquarium experience (any aquarium, not just the Toronto one), if Finding Nemo has been out long enough that kids won’t lose their shit and start shouting “DORY!!!” the second the spot a Pacific blue tang. The answer? No, it has not. Be warned. (Oddly, they don’t get nearly as excited about clownfish.)

::  They should keep human-sized lobster traps on hand, in which to lock people for one hour any time they start singing “Baby Shark”. In fact, this rule should exist outside aquariums, too.

All this sounds bitchy and whiny, I concede, but Ye Gods, folks. It’s an Aquarium, not an amusement park.

But still…what an aquarium it is!

With friends like this, who needs anemones?

“People will come, Ray!”

The jellyfish displays were surreal. The blue water was so blue and featureless that it actually felt like an extremely high-resolution video display.

Yes, I know, there are a couple of “Dory” fish in there. Squeal to your heart’s content, folks!

Apologies for this…they have a dark tunnel where the only light is simulated “rippling light on the ocean floor” and I wanted a selfie in that light, not realizing it would make me look like the person waiting in the dark to murder you.

I mean, in normal light, I actually quite like the look I had going on that day!

I continue to wish I’d discovered the “Renfest shirt with overalls” combo earlier in life, as I do think it’s pretty much my definitive look at this point.

(Also, the entire time we were in one of North America’s biggest cities, I saw exactly one other person wearing overalls, and that was an Asian guy on the streetcar in Chinatown. And I only saw two people wearing the “Canadian Tuxedo” look, so…what gives, Toronto!)

After we left the Aquarium we struck out again back for Union Station (the same walk as before, sigh, only I have found that a long walk often feels a bit shorter the second time because you know how long it is, if that makes any sense). This time we hopped aboard the subway, heading north up Yonge Street to a gluten-free Chinese restaurant we had read about online. This trek also turned into a thing, because the subway is actually closed beyond a station that is three stations shy of where we were going. Luckily Toronto is running shuttle buses to the remaining stations, but the going is a lot slower as now you’re at the mercy of street traffic…and the station where we were getting off was six or seven blocks south of the restaurant’s location, as noted by Google Maps. (Hold onto that last point.)

So off the bus we went and we started walking up Yonge Street. Yonge is one of Toronto’s major north-south streets; in fact, at one point it was held to be the “longest street in the world”, as the way it was formerly rendered on maps it literally went north all the way around all of the Great Lakes’ north shores, terminating near Minnesota! That’s not the case now, but Yonge is still very long, and walk we did, and walked, and walked. Which by this time was quite hard on The Wife. This is unfortunate, because quite honestly, I wouldn’t mind someday taking a day in Toronto in which I go up quite far on Yonge and walk all the way back down to Union Station. There’s so much fascinating stuff along Yonge as you go from neighborhood to neighborhood.

And, for all you Bill and Ted fans, strange things are afoot on Yonge, as well!

But finally we reached the address where Google said our restaurant was located.

Guess what.

Not there.

I remembered then that the restaurant had announced on social media several months before that they were moving to a new location on Yonge, which was another four blocks north…but Google Maps had not updated. So walk more, we did.

By this point my poor wife was suffering.

But we got to the restaurant. It’s called Riz, and we had a lovely time here.

An admission of ignorance: we weren’t sure how to eat these. We cut open the leaves and ate the filling (chicken and rice), which I think may have been incorrect.

We didn’t actually order meals here. The appetizer menu looked so good that we just ended up kind of replicating a dim sum meal by ordering a bunch of apps, along with a couple of cocktails. I felt a little bit bad about this, because the person who sat us at our table made an impressive pitch about their Peking Duck Dinner for Two. I think he really wanted us to try the duck. We were a bit gunshy about that, neither of us ever having actually had Peking Duck. (In fact, I don’t actually know that I’ve ever eaten duck, “Peking” or otherwise.)

Once we finished eating, we struck out again, heading back south down Yonge to the bus stop. Unfortunately the restaurant is almost exactly in between two subway stops, so it wouldn’t have saved us anything to walk north to the next one. (What I should have done was find a bus stop and then take the bus to the subway station, instead of walking all the way back to catch the buses that were only doing shuttle runs between subway stations. Again, when you’re not in a city with a robust public transport system, you don’t end up taking advantage of the one you’re visiting to best effect. Live and learn. We’ll be back.)

The day ended with our staggering back through Union Station to board the GO Train back to our car, half an hour away in Mississauga, so we could rest and recuperate for Day Two.

And that will be another post. Day Two went better, transportation-wise, than Day One did, because I made some adjustments…but Google Maps did us dirty again! How? Stay tuned!

 

* I don’t know a whole lot about the particulars, but I know that the Ontario government, currently run by Canada’s conservatives, has not been particularly supportive of public transport and that apparently the system has suffered as a result. We did not notice any problems, save one time when a station along the subway line we were riding had to be closed due to a violent incident. This did not inconvenience us, as we were not stopping at that particular station, but it did cause some consternation to other passengers near us.

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The Clearing of the Tabs

Time to clear out some open stuff in my browser!

::  Jamelle Bouie on the apparently uncheckable Supreme Court:

[O]ur Supreme Court does not exist in the constitutional order as much as it looms over it, a robed tribunal of self-styled philosopher-kings, accountable to no one but themselves.

I’ve been noticing this increasingly of late. Of course, Republicans have no intention of checking the courts, as they determined years ago that the courts were their clearest route to a complete usurpation of power in America, but it still galls me to see this system of “checks and balances”, which we were all taught in grade school is the most ingenious system of government ever devised by humans, has devolved into no checks of any kind, assuming the ideology is correct.

Checks and balances should work, to draw a rough metaphor, like Rock-Paper-Scissors, in which each move defeats one other move and is defeated by the other. Our judiciary now is like the logic applied in an episode of Seinfeld, when Kramer and his friend Mickey are playing Rock-Paper-Scissors, and Mickey claims a victory by playing rock while Kramer plays paper:

KRAMER: I thought Paper covered Rock?
MICKEY: Nah! Rock flies right through Paper!
KRAMER: Then what beats Rock?
MICKEY: [shrugs] Nothin’!

They resume playing, to no result because they both keep playing Rock.

::  No itinerary needed: the case for unplanned travel.

As luck would have it, The Wife and I took a short trip just last week (post forthcoming). While our trip wasn’t quite “unplanned”, we did leave enough room in the journey for a bit of “Let’s turn here and see where the road goes”. For years we couldn’t afford much by way of travel at all, and I think it did hamper our mental acuity.

::  Defunding Public Libraries: Republicans’ war on reading goes nuclear.

Scary reading, there. I will never stand with book-banners of any type, because they will never, ever, ever be content to just remove these few books because they’re inappropriate for “children”. You let these people ban one thing, and tomorrow they’ll look to ban something else. It will never, ever stop.

::  “Phantom Ballplayer” no more, Maggi makes MLB debut after 13 years in the minors.

I love this story:

After 13 seasons, 1,154 games and 4,494 plate appearances in the Minor Leagues, Maggi was finally going to have his opportunity to step into a Major League batter’s box to enjoy his first at-bat, to take his first swing. He had envisioned how this would play out on countless occasions, but as the fans at PNC Park rose to honor the journeyman, Maggi found himself unsure how to proceed.

Maggi got called up when there was a sudden need on the roster (Bryan Reynolds went on a bereavement leave), and Maggi was the closest option, playing with the Pirates’ AA team in Altoona, PA. He struck out in his first at-bat, but so what? He got that at-bat, after 13 years of toiling in the minors. He has already been optioned to go back down–he was never going to be sticking around, everybody knew this–but it’s still a great story. Maybe he’ll get a “good guy promotion” at the end of the season when rosters go to 40 players for the last few weeks. He seems to have earned it.

(Maggi was called up to the Majors a couple years ago while with the Twins’ organization, but in two games up with them he never left the dugout.)

::  Finally, Willie Nelson turns 90 years old today. I firmly believe that Nelson is one of the great Americans to come out of the 20th century. On this occasion I present again one of my favorite pieces of music writing ever, Trigger: The life of Willie Nelson’s guitar.

The guitar—a Martin N-20 classical, serial number 242830—was a gorgeous instrument, with a warm, sweet tone and a pretty “mellow yellow” coloring. The top was made of Sitka spruce, which came from the Pacific Northwest; the back and sides were Brazilian rosewood. The fretboard and bridge were ebony from Africa, and the neck was mahogany from the Amazon basin. The brass tuning pegs came from Germany. All of these components had been gathered in the Martin guitar factory in Nazareth, Pennsylvania, and cut, bent, and glued together, then lacquered, buffed, and polished. If the guitar had been shipped to New York or Chicago, it might have been purchased by a budding flamenco guitarist or a Segovia wannabe. Instead it was sent to a guitarist in Nashville named Shot Jackson, who repaired and sold guitars out of a shop near the Grand Ole Opry. In 1969 it was bought by a struggling country singer, a guy who had a pig farm, a failing marriage, and a crappy record deal.

Willie Nelson had a new guitar.

Forty-three years later—after some 10,000 shows, recording sessions, jam sessions, songwriting sessions, and guitar pulls, most taking place amid a haze of tobacco and reefer smoke and carried out with a particular brand of string-pounding, neck-throttling violence—the guitar looks like hell. The frets are so worn it’s a wonder any tone emerges at all. The face is covered in scars, cuts, and autographs scraped into the wood. Next to the bridge is a giant maw, a gaping hole that looks like it was created by someone swinging a hammer.

Most guitars don’t have names. This one, of course, does. Trigger has a voice and a personality, and he bears a striking resemblance to his owner. Willie’s face is lined with age and his body is bent with experience. He’s been battered by divorce, the IRS, his son Billy’s suicide, and the loss of close friends like Waylon Jennings, Johnny Cash, and his longtime bass player Bee Spears. In the past decade, Willie has had carpal tunnel surgery on his left hand, torn a rotator cuff, and ruptured a bicep. The man of flesh and bone has a lot in common with the guitar of wire and wood.

Read the whole thing! It’s just a wonderful piece, and I never tire of linking it.

 

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A song

I happened on this artist yesterday via social media. I liked this song a great deal, and I plan to explore her music more. Her name is Áine Deane (the first name is apparently pronounced “Onya”), and she is from the UK. Enjoy!

 

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Something for Thursday: Rachmaninoff at 150

Two syrupy 1970s love ballads today!

The lead artist here is singer-songwriter Eric Carmen, who was a big star in the 70s and has had a good career all along. You generally can’t go wrong with the 1970s, where power ballads are concerned. The first, “All By Myself”, is actually one of the iconic power ballads of that era. The second, “Never Gonna Fall In Love Again”, is probably less well-known, but it’s a very representative song of its genre.

I remember hearing “Never Gonna Fall” the first time…on the Muzak system at work. I wasn’t really processing the song playing in the background, because that’s the whole point of Muzak: it’s background music you don’t process. It’s aural wallpaper. We can discuss the virtues, or lack thereof, of Muzak another time…but I remember walking along, vaguely thinking about the song that was playing. Then, it suddenly snapped in to place.

And this is where our 150th Birthday Composer comes in to play.

Both of these songs take their main melodies from Rachmaninoff.

“All By Myself”‘s main tune (not the chorus, but the verses) is from the second movement of Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2 and “Never Gonna Fall In Love” gets its tune from the third movement of my beloved Symphony No. 2. Carmen apparently had classical training before he switched to pop music, and thus his familiarity with those two works and his decision to use them in two of his songs.

Unfortunately for Mr. Carmen, he also made some incorrect assumptions regarding the copyright status of Mr. Rachmaninoff’s music. Rachmaninoff was dead by this point and his music was public domain in the USA, but not abroad, where he eventually had to agree to share profits with the Rachmaninoff estate to be able to sell and perform those records. This does not seem to have been a particular contentious affair, but it explains why you might see Rachmaninoff, who died in 1943, credited with a couple of 1970s power ballads.

I’ve seen some arguments occasionally that the suitability of a couple of Rachmaninoff’s melodies to such a use demonstrates their lack of seriousness, but…that’s just goofy. I ignore that stuff. Who’s got time for any of that?

More on the Second Concerto and the Second Symphony to come. In the case of the Symphony, much more to come. That one’s been percolating in my head for years….

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Rachmaninoff at 150: The Towering Third

Sergei Rachmaninoff proofing the published score for his Piano Concerto No. 3. Via Wikipedia.

If you remember the movie Shine, for which Geoffrey Rush won an Oscar, you may remember something of the reputation of Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concert No. 3 in D minor. I’m no concert pianist–hell, I’m not a pianist of any kind, so I am in no way equipped to assess the degree to which that movie mythologizes the phenomenal difficulty of Rachmaninoff’s Third Concerto. The film, for which actor Geoffrey Rush won an Oscar, tells the story of concert pianist David Helfgott, whose mental illness was exacerbated by his obsession with the Third Concerto and the work he had to endure to be able to perform it.

David Dubal writes, in The Essential Canon of Classical Music:

The Third Piano Concerto was composed at Ivanovka [Rachmaninoff’s country estate in Russia, a place for which he pined all his life after he and his family fled the country forever in 1917] for Rachmaninoff’s first American tour in 1909. It is terrifyingly difficult, and its challenge has become a legend among pianists. Only a hero of the keyboard should think of working on this exhausting piece, with its huge load of notes and dense harmonies. The pianist Gary Grafmann wishes he had learned it as a youngster, stating that “probably the only time when I could have learned that magnificent knucklebreaker would have been when I was still too young to know fear.” The work also needs a superlative interpreter who can fully project the almost unbearable nostalgia of Rachmaninoff’s lost Russia.

The Concerto’s first performance was conducted by Walter Damrosch, but the second was conducted by no less a figure than Gustav Mahler, then in the days of his ill-fated stint atop the New York City musical world. Even so the Third Concerto languished somewhat in popularity behind the wonderful Second, until Vladimir Horowitz came along and championed the Third with all his unique star power.

By the time Rachmaninoff was writing this work, his musical eye was focused entirely backward. Russia had not yet entered the throes of its revolutionary phase, but the cracks were certainly showing; and in the arts, Rachmaninoff was already the last of the living Russian Romantics, with Tchaikovsky gone, Rimsky-Korsakov in his last days, and the remaining “old guard” quickly aging out. Stravinsky was already pushing his Modernist vision, Sergei Prokofiev was coming of age, and though he was still a child, Dmitri Shostakovich was on his way. And in a world of his own stood Alexander Scriabin, by the 1900s and 1910s becoming more and more devoted to his own mystical vision of a world transformed by his own music.

Rachmaninoff had not left Russia by this time, but he could sense the ending of an era and the shifting of the world into something he felt ill-at-ease to recognize. Thus his music stands at odd contrast with what his contemporaries were producing…but for all that, the audiences remained on his side, for the most part; the Third Concerto, with its soaring melodies and thrilling pianistic pyrotechnics, is still a rollicking, thrilling listen.

Bonus: here’s a video that excerpts 30 different pianists, starting with Rachmaninoff himself, as they all play the exact same passage of wicked difficulty. The level of precision dexterity required to successfully navigate that passage, and make it sound good, is just mind-bending:

 

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Tone Poem Tuesday: Rachmaninoff at 150, the many lives of “Vocalise”

There are some pieces of music that take on lives of their own, extending far beyond their origins to become something bigger. Rachmaninoff wrote a song cycle in 1915 called 14 Romances, op. 34. We’ve already noted that Rachmaninoff was one of the great Russian masters of the art song (a facet of his output that is underappreciated by many, including myself), but one of the songs of this cycle transcended the other thirteen and has become not just one of Rachmaninoff’s most well-known works, but one of the most well-known works of classical music…so much so that it is heard far less often in its original setting.

The song is the last in the cycle, called “Vocalise”. It has no words. The singer is instructed to sing the entire melody on the vowel sound of their choosing. The melody’s swirling nature takes over the song to almost hypnotic effect when unfettered by words and their tendency to impose meaning on things. “Vocalise” becomes a tone poem in itself, in which a pianist and a vocalist work together to make something rather magical.

Here’s “Vocalise” in its original form:

The story of “Vocalise” doesn’t end there, though. The melody and feeling of “Vocalise” has proved too tempting to the music world to just leave it to the sopranos of the world, or the pianists. So, this one song has been set and re-set and re-set again, arranged for every combination of musicians you can think of. In this way it’s not unlike Pachelbel’s Canon in D, which everybody has heard in some version or other, but almost never the way Pachelbel originally wrote it. (Does that make you curious? Here you go!)

Some versions expand the piano accompaniment to a string orchestra:

Once you go that far, it’s easy enough to just give the whole thing to the orchestra!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ImjVPONGIa8

Or you can make it a piece of chamber music, this time for string quartet:

Or you still do it for string quartet, but differently:

This one is near to my heart, for obvious reasons. I wish I’d known this existed back in my trumpet playing days:

How about a saxophone? Don’t laugh! Rachmaninoff himself appreciated the saxophone, using it to great effect in his Symphonic Dances, one of his last works. I have a feeling he’d appreciate this one.

How about a British brass band?

You can go down quite the rabbit hole looking for new and different renditions of this one song. (Electric guitar, anyone?) But I’ll feature just two more. First, almost bringing it back to the original version, this time keeping the piano all by itself:

And finally, returning to the orchestra arrangement, this time in conducted almost a hundred years ago by Rachmaninoff himself. This video uses old film footage of Rachmaninoff and family, making it something of a time capsule:

Why is “Vocalise” so enormously effective, to the point that everyone wants to play it? I suspect the answer is a simple one: that gorgeous melody, dreamy and slightly melancholy, is just appealing on a gut level, and it’s a long melody that weaves an almost hypnotic spell on the listener. There are a lot of emotions expressed in this short work, and I think that’s at the heart of its appeal to both audiences and performers alike. In the end, I think that many times, if not every time, we want our music to express something, even if we can’t quite put in words just what it is that’s being expressed.

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Mr. Klepper speaks

Someone asked Jordan Klepper for his most memorable moment from all of his “Man on the Street” interviews of MAGA types, and his answer gives some fascinating food for thought:

 

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Writing in a hotel room

Never a day without lines, friends. Never a day without lines.

 

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A snoozing puppy

It’s a dreary, rainy, overcast day where we are. In that spirit, here’s Carla. This is from the other night. She didn’t even let the laptop cord hanging across her head bother her.

 

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Rachmaninoff at 150: Not an easy interview, that Sergei (but who would be, over breakfast?)

One thing I’ve discovered in reading a lot about Sergei Rachmaninoff over the last few months is that while he led a rich inner life, he didn’t really like to talk much about it. Interviews with him tended to be taciturn affairs, or they would be exercises in frustration for the interviewer in which the subject would avoid any topic that might be of interest to anyone but the subject.

Here’s a case in point that ran in a Minneapolis newspaper one hundred years ago!

Transcription:

Rachmaninoff Likes Yankee Griddle Cakes, Scorns Eggs

Russian Pianist More Interested In Breakfast Than In Interview

The name of Sergei Rachmaninoff is written high in the gallery of modern musical immortals–but as he stirred his coffee at breakfast this morning in the Radisson hotel, and liberally deluged his stack of wheat cakes with maple syrup, there was nothing of the great artist about him except for his long, graceful fingers. Tonight, at the Audtorium, those same fingers will do incredible things on the piano. This morning, they grasped a coffee spoon with firmness, and stirred the contents of the cup until the coffee slopped out into the saucer.

Rachmaninoff, pianist-composer, is about as easy to interview as a Russian blizzard. He arrived at 7:30 a.m. today from Winnipeg, and at 8:30 he was still in a state of complete frigidity, so far as interviewers were concerned. It was not that the famous artist was discourteous, but simple that he appears to have a sincere distaste for being interviewed.

Likes Minnesota Pancakes

He answers questions in monosyllables whenever possivle. Only twice did he show signs of loquacity–and then not about himself, but about his personal friend Bruno Walter of Vienna, orchestra conductor who will direct the symphony orchestra a week from Friday night, and about his other conductor-friend, Henri Verbrugghen.

“Walter is a superb conductor,” said Rachmaninoff. “I expected to meet him here, but learned to my disappointment that he will not arrive for a week.”

After this burst of gossip, Rachmaninoff busied himself again with his pancakes, and took a tentative spoonful of soft boiled egg. He pushed the egg cup away.

“Your pancakes in Minnesota are all right, but I cannot say as much for the eggs,” said Rachmaninoff. “Your soil here, too, is remarkable fertile.”

Wants to Tour Lakes

This observation, in view of the fact that the soil hereabouts is covered with a foot, more or less of now, seemed rather far-fetched until Rachmaninoff, forgetting his reticence again, explained that he learned all about soil when he was personally managing his estate in Russia. He has been in Minnesota in the summer, and expects to come back next summer, if possible, for a month or so of vacation in the state of pines and lakes.

“Do you drive?” he was asked.

“Always,” replied the composer, with the greatest vigor he displayed during the entire interview. “Do you think I would trust myself to a chauffeur? Indeed not. I have no use for them, and if I tour Minnesota, I will drive every foot of the way myself.”

Again the great Russian, who has been living in New York since the revolution exiled him from his native land, applied himself to his pancakes, and further questions elicited nothing but sounds which, coming from a less distinguished personage, would have been called grunts.

Thanks to Fillyjonk for calling this to my attention! I’ve had the picture opened in a tab for about six weeks now.

My favorite part of this is when Rachmaninoff starts to open up on the subject of driving. Rachmaninoff loved cars and would often go on long drives to calm his no-doubt jangled nerves. In this he has a major point of commonality with another of my heroes, George Lucas. This particular degree of being less-than-open for an interviewer does seem a bit extreme, even for Rachmaninoff, so one wonder just what the interviewer’s in-person deportment might have been like; the resulting article, while amusing, does seem to walk right up to the line of being rather, wall, jerkish.

But you know, I’m not sure how willing to talk I would be if someone was asking me questions while I was trying to enjoy a stack of hot pancakes, either!

It’s worth remembering, too, that Rachmaninoff was as renowned in his day as a performer as he was a composer, if not even moreso, so here’s a recording of Rachmaninoff performing not his own music, but a Nocturne by Chopin. (Opus 9, No. 2 in E-flat Major, if you must know. This is one of Chopin’s most famous works, and one with which I struggled mightily in my piano playing days. The runs in the last few pages just would not inhabit my fingers at all.)

 

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