Elektra at the Lyric

I cannot understand people who consider opera to be boring. Well, no, that is not true at all: there are many examples of opera that can be boring, I readily admit. But this is not an inherent flaw of the genre; indeed, opera, when it approaches the ideal of Gesamtkunstwerk, is perhaps the most captivating of all things. (Several months ago I made an offhand remark to a fellow opera buff and church-musician that liturgy should be like opera. This is not to say that I esteem opera above liturgy, but rather that what is effective in one can and should be effective in t'other. But that is another discussion.) Yesterday's performance of Elektra at the Lyric, which I attended, instilled in me a fascination that straddled the line between rapture and disgust. One may therefore say that it succeeded unequivocally as art. I am getting dangerously close to pontificating about the nature of art; let me restrain myself.

Strauss's score for Elektra, though now more than a century old, still sounds fresh. (His dissonances are thrilling; perhaps this is because we'll never overcome a natural inclination for functional harmony? Certainly we won't, as a culture, if our popular music remains limited to four different chords.) The performances, instrumental and vocal, were uniformly excellent, though Christine Goerke, in the title rôle, deserves special praise. The costumes and set resonated with the ghastly splendor of the the plot and music; the Tribune review quite rightly notes the "beautiful ugliness" of the experience. Altogether it was like something out of a fever dream — unnerving, but riveting.

Letters from Flannery

Though real work, as I mentioned, is satisfactory, it leaves far less time for leisure. This is particularly true in this particular month, as I have three important Sundays in a row (St. Luke, transferred from today; Reformation; and All Saints) and that upcoming recital, as well as planning for Advent Lessons & Carols and a chamber music concert in December. And I am attending Lectures in Church Music, again, and helping to tune the instruments at my two churches. Why, it barely leaves time for my wonted hobby of late, preparing editions of Hassler motets for CPDL.

Books have begun to pile up. There are, of course, the dozen or so that I have already begun reading and have not finished. (Most of these, at least, are not novel-length fiction.) But people persist in recommending books unto me. I appreciate this very much, but feel I am being set up like a protagonist in a Greek tragedy, doomed to some miserable end. (It remains to be seen what my ἁμαρτία is. Perhaps it is a susceptibility to distraction.) Alas, but oh well. For the meantime, I am occupying myself with the letters of Flannery O'Connor, whose spelling is rather haphazard but whose observations are keenly informed and whose sense of humor is inimitable.
On suffering:

I believe that everybody, through suffering, takes part in the Redemption, and I believe they suffer most who live closest to all the possibilities of disbelief.

On modern education:

I have what passes for an education in this day and time, but I am not deceived by it.

On librarians:

Librarians are the last people you can trust about the insides of books.

(I hesitate to add, in deference to any dear reader of mine who may be a librarian, that doubtless Miss O'Connor was referring to a very particular sort of small-town — possibly southern — librarian. Surely.) There's much to unpack in O'Connor's letters; one wishes for the other half of some correspondences. But at least they provide interesting background about her stories, which I find to be consistently good.

In other news, today I encountered a fine recording of the Bach B-flat Partita (BWV 825). Here it is. I have mixed feelings about playing harpsichord music on a modern piano — it seems as foolish as playing gamba repertoire on a cello — but while listening to such a recording I can suspend my objections.

A Reformation Sunday Recital

Much like having regular examinations in school, I find that regular recitals provide a certain measure of motivation. (Is this due to a certain lack of self-discipline on my part? Or is self-discipline merely knowing what sorts of tricks to play on one's own mind?) To that end, I will be performing a recital on October 28th in Dixon; it oughtn't be more than an hour, I hope. You are, dear reader, of course invited.

Recital on the Karstens organ at St. Paul Lutheran Church, Dixon
28 October 2012, at 3pm

J.S. Bach (1685-1750):
        Prelude and Fugue in C Major, BWV 547
Hymn: ELW #308 "O Morning Star, How Fair and Bright"
Dieterich Buxtehude (c.1637-1707):
        Wie schön leuchtet der Morgenstern, BuxWV 223
Hymn: ELW #839 "Now Thank We All Our God"
Sigfrid Karg-Elert (1877-1933):
        Nun danket alle Gott (Marche Triomphale), Op. 65, No. 59
Hymn: ELW #488 "Soul, Adorn Yourself with Gladness"
J.S. Bach:
        Schmücke dich, o liebe Seele, BWV 654
Hymn: ELW #504 "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God"
Cor Kee (1900-1997):
        Een vaste Burgt
Chant: "Te lucis ante terminum" (Mode VIII)
Jehan Alain (1911-1940):
        Postlude pour l’Office de Complies, JA 29
Louis Vierne (1870-1937):
        Symphony No. 1, Op. 14 – VI. Finale

The astute reader will notice that some of these pieces may look familiar. Indeed, I have played many of them over the past fifteen months in Dixon. But most of them warrant a more careful listening (as well as, I should admit, a more careful performance). I wouldn't close with the Vierne, but for the fact that I was deprived of my chance to play it for the Lutherans at Easter. Easter morning I turned the organ at St. Paul on, only to discover that the entire swell and choir divisions were out. If that happens again, I shall take it as a sign that I ought not to play Vierne for Lutherans.