# continuation of concerts attended in Prague, Budapest, and North Carolilna



## SCHLEMO

Two Operas in Two Days, What’s not to like?
It’s not hard to figure out how much it would cost to get a prime ticket to see a high-quality opera in America: at least one-hundred dollars. But in Prague during the last two days my wife and I spent there, the National Theater Opera Company’s matinee performance of The Marriage of Figaro cost us thirty dollars apiece; and for only fifty dollars apiece, the next day we attended an evening performance of the State Opera Company’s Rigoletto. In each case, we had choice orchestra seats in the third row.
In The Marriage of Figaro, the cast, besides having superbly nuanced voices, played the comic misadventures of the sets of fickle lovers to the hilt. In fact, at one point, there was a food fight with real food flung with so much verve that some of it landed in the orchestra pit and at the side of the aisles. 
In the tragic Rigoletto, the hunch backed court jester, Rigoletto, had magnificent emotional surges as an outcast, a protective father, an avenger, and a broken man who inadvertently causes his daughter’s death. In all of these encounters, he incredibly stretched his baritone range to the max whether he was satirical, submissive, fearful, wrathful, or piteous. 
To see on two consecutive days two tremendously performed operas was a fitting climax to our stay in Prague. And in each case, the two venues, the Theater Estates and the State Opera House, were studded with just the right amount of baroque atmospheric trimmings to enhance our enjoyment of the operas.
We will be in Budapest for the next and last three weeks of our European vacation. I wonder if Budapest can match the architectural and artistic marvels of Prague. After the glorious esthetic sendoff the two operas afforded us in Prague, it might be a tough act to follow. 


Two Clarinetists for All Seasonings
I had figured that the concert on Thursday night at the Liszt Academy that my wife and attended would be pretty tame: Mozart’s Overture to the Marriage of Figaro, Beethoven’s Piano Concerto #3, and Dvorak’s New World Symphony are warhorses of the repertoire that it would be hard to enliven. Not only that. I didn’t have any idea how good the orchestra was because its name was missing from the Academy concert brochures. All that I knew was that the conductor was a newcomer, Dara Andrea. But the concert was free, so why not give it a try; at least, I had heard that the acoustics were good at the Academy.
Well, it turned out that good is a misnomer. Even words like fabulous, incredible, marvelous, and uniquely outstanding, while true, can’t adequately capture what it’s like to have been there on Thursday night. We were transfixed: the sound was utterly alive, pure, and incandescent from the rollicking cadences of the violins in the Mozart overture to the wistful piano riffs in the slow movement of the Beethoven concerto to the bellowing flourishes of the trombones in the last movement of the Dvorak symphony. I don’t know how to account for this acoustical cornucopia. It could stem (in whatever proportion) from the massive renovations of the concert hall, from the strategically placed microphones, and from the gifted musicians themselves. The anonymous orchestra retrofitted these old warhorses with renewed life: they nuzzled, they roared, they soared, they pranced.
Watching the rhythmic motions of one of the clarinetists in particular was also a delight. While most of the musicians had appropriately professional demeanors, this young man had uninhibited enthusiasm that I didn’t notice until the last piece, Dvorak’s New World Symphony. When he wasn’t playing the clarinet, he swayed with the beat, bobbing his head up and down and tapping his knee with his left hand either slightly or more vigorously, depending on the pace of the passage that so enraptured him. Even when he was playing, he showed lots of emotion. At times, in a dramatic gesture, he would momentarily flick his left hand off and on the keys. Nor did he remain still while both hands were moving over the keys. He repeatedly bowed as he blew into the clarinet with religious devotion (resembling an orthodox Jew davening) and then, with his eyes closed, nudged it from side to side as much as he could without bumping into another musician.
There were some other memorable features of the concert. The pianist soloist in the Beethoven concerto was blind, and to prepare himself each time he got ready to play with the orchestra, he’d scramble his fingers over the keyboard to find the proper notes. While most of the musicians were relatively young, there was one gaunt violinist who appeared to be in his eighties, yet he played with as much precision as the other musicians surrounding him. Right behind him was an extremely overweight middle-aged violinist who also had no trouble blending in with her section of the orchestra.
The next night, my wife and I attended a much different kind of concert, one given by a virtuoso four-member Klesmer band. When the ensemble played traditional Yiddish melodies, I was poignantly reminded of my Jewish heritage. The clarinetist was especially superb. He had tremendous range. With remarkable dexterity, he could play soft reverent slivers of notes and a moment later let out piercing, wailing tones. He cavorted about the stage as he performed his riffs. He was charismatic, and the audience loved his showmanship as much as I did.
But when he was offstage, the band did some things that I didn’t find so attractive. At one point, they gratuitously added dissonant passages to a traditional Klesmer tune. I was unmoved. Later on, the accordionist in an unexpected and unnecessary diversion concocted a pseudo-Klemerized rendition of Rossini’s famous Figaro aria from The Barber of Seville. He was brilliant, but I was unnerved. Nor was I particularly pleased with one of the band’s antics: as the bass player was doing a monotonous dead-pan solo, the guitarist and violinist tried to rattle him by simultaneously sawing away on his fiddle. But when the clarinetist returned, all was well again. 
My wife and I will be going to three more concerts at the Liszt Academy in the next two weeks, highlighted by cello finalists in an international competition, a Russian pianist, and a baroque ensemble playing on original instruments. In between, we will attend two operas and a ballet at different venues. Let the classical music bonanza at Budapest continue!



Winsome Winners
Last night in Budapest, my wife and I attended a Gala concert for the Pablo Casals International Cello Competition Winners. Of the 157 young contestants, four were chosen: third place went to Santiago Canon-Valencia from Colombia; two cellists were tied for second place, Ildiko Szabo from Hungary and Tomasz Daroch from Poland; and Taeguk Mun from South Korea took first prize.
Before the concert began, the three runners-ups and the four winners were introduced and given awards and invitations to study and perform in Budapest. For the most part, the judges, business donors, and contestants were patient, cordial, and appreciative as the ceremony progressed. There was a runner-up, however, who seemed as if she didn’t have any use for the proceedings. When her name was read, she hurriedly came to the front of the stage, pursed her lips, gave a perfunctory bow, and strode back to her seat; and for the rest of the half hour, she scowled and tightly folded her arms. Maybe she was unhappy because she didn’t win a trophy or because she, unlike the other three runners-up, received no extra gifts. During the intermission, I saw her going down some stairs. She still looked the same: unthankful, unimpressed, uninvolved, and spiteful.

While she was a downer, the four winners who performed during the concert were a delight. Santiago Canon-Valencia amused himself and the audience as he romped through fast-fingered, lighthearted short pieces by D. Popper. 

The female who had tied for second place, Ildiko Szabo, performed a Beethoven sonata with dramatic flair. When she played lyrical passages, she closed her eyes and appeared to be in a trance. When more vigorous effort was required, she played as if possessed by a demon. Her frizzy hair, which sorely needed lots of conditioner, whirled about as if to complement her fierce bowing. She played so intensely that I was afraid she might mangle the bow. In less serious moments, she playfully smiled during the rare fanciful spots in the sonata. Although Ildiko was perhaps a bit too theatrical throughout her performance, she was very talented. In the future, however, she needs to control her unruly hair. It was almost a comical distraction from her otherwise flawless debut.

The other second-place winner, Tomasz Daroch, masterfully played a very complicated and heavy-duty Chopin sonata. He was so focused that he worked up quite a sweat (I could see every drop of it from my third-row center seat); his handkerchief came in handy. He had impeccable control and craftsmanship. Yet he allowed his emotions to seep into the sonata. At one point, he beatifically looked upward while playing a brief but touching meditative melody. At other times, he rivalled the speed of Santiago and the passion of Ildiko. Although he was an amateur, Tomasz was brilliantly adept and consummately professional. The only drawback to his performance was that the pianist accompanist played so loudly at times that it was hard to adequately hear the cello. She also was somewhat of a prima donna, histrionically raising her hands after playing some resounding chords and making bravura head movements as if she were the soloist. In response, I shifted my posture so that the man’s head in front of me shielded me from her. It worked. I could hear the cello better when I couldn’t see the hotshot pianist. 

After the intermission, the first-place winner, Taeguk Mum, was featured in the Schumann cello concerto. He effortlessly meshed with the Hungarian Radio Symphony Orchestra. Although he was not as consistently expressive as the two second-place winners, he was superb. I never was too enthusiastic about the Schumann cello concerto. It always seemed pedestrian. But watching and listening to Taeguk as he expertly navigated through all of the intricacies of the piece changed my mind, especially considering the candenza, his solo interlude near the end of the concerto. It was a tour de force. Taeguk's technical virtuosity was quite impressive, but what thrilled me was the burst of emotion that he displayed, which had evidently until then slowly but inexorably simmered. He received tons of richly deserved bravos.
All of the four winners have the potential to become stars within a few years, particularly Tomasz and Taeguk. My wife and I will be periodically checking their careers. They have immense talent: they have honored Pablo Casals, and if they continue to improve, they might even be as great as he was. Incidentally, when asked why he still practiced at the age of 90, Pablo Casals said that he was still trying to get it right.


A Delightful Diversion

My oldest granddaughter and I thoroughly enjoyed the classical music concert we recently attended at the American Music Festival in Morehead City, North Carolina. The Horszowski Trio was top notch, whether performing a standard Romantic piece or an offbeat modern selection. The versatile Trio was always in sync, whether luxuriating in the exquisitely tender and profound moments of Beethoven’s “Ghost” Trio or tenaciously attacking the grueling, hyperkinetic sections of Tchaikovsky’s mammoth string trio. The Horszowski Trio is outstanding, rivalling the chamber ensembles whose concerts my wife and I attended in Vienna, Salzburg, Prague, and Budapest.


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