I meant to write about this weeks ago, but as so often happens, I got side­tracked because I was probably looking at a weird bug or some­thing. I went to this concert at Avery Fischer wherein John Adams conducted a super-orches­tra of students from Juil­liard and the Royal Academy of music. The program was: Respighi’s Feste Romane, Ravel’s G major piano concerto, and John’s new-ish symphony City Noir. I’m going to write about Respighi because I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned the man up here, and you all probably know how I feel about Ravel and Mr. Adams. 

There are certain pieces that I think should only be played by youths, and Feste Romane is at the top of the list (joining, let’s see here: The Planets, Academic Festival Overture, and most every Tchaikovsky symphony). I’m not even sure these pieces should be recorded; at least, I can’t imagine a situ­a­tion in which I would choose to listen to them. But sit me down in a concert hall in front of a hundred bristling teenagers or twenty-some­things and I’ll enjoy every minute. There’s some­thing I find incred­i­bly moving about watching & listen­ing to a young orches­tra (I sound like my mother here, shock). Perhaps I’m just project­ing my own (limited) expe­ri­ence of playing in orches­tras. It’s a defining expe­ri­ence, the first time you play one of these “hit” pieces. Sure, you’ll go on to play 4,000 more perfor­mances of Tchaik 6 but you’ll always remember the first time. It’s like watching 100 people lose their virgin­ity on stage! Always brings a tear to the eye. 

Feste Romane is a piece I’d heard only once before, and I’m in no hurry to hear it again (not sure my delicate eardrums could take it). It’s expe­ri­en­tial music, meant to be enjoyed in the moment and then forgot­ten, as tech­ni­cally assured as a Spiel­berg picture. There are all kinds of cine­matic baubles to catch your atten­tion along the way—the piece is a shoo-in for the ‘Best Visual Effects’ Oscar. The final episode feels like one of those over­whelm­ing chase sequences through a bustling market­place (bustling with stereo­types, that is): a snatch of balalaika in the left channel, and the next second we’re on to the marching band!—a kind of modernist pastiche with all that scary modernism drained away (the Holly­wood adap­ta­tion of Gruppen?). But despite all of my snobbish quibbles, I had 100% of a good time thanks to the enthu­si­asm and virtu­os­ity of these young­sters. The grown-ups at NY Phil or the BSO or even the fun-times LA Phil shouldn’t ever touch this stuff. 

Since it’s summer I’m solidly in composer-mode. Many of my colleagues have taken off for “Artist’s Colonies”. I’ve never quite under­stood the attrac­tion of such places. I think many of us were rather too deeply affected by reading about Mahler’s summer compos­ing huts, and subcon­sciously think to ourselves “I must have a hut”. If you’re a profes­sional artist I firmly believe that you should be able to work at home, or wherever else you happen to be, not have to go off to some special “artists only” place to be coddled. If you can’t work at home than you need to reeval­u­ate your living situ­a­tion, or get a studio, or something—it would make me too nervous for my produc­tiv­ity to rely on the whims of an admis­sions committee. 

The last true summer festival I went to was Tangle­wood, in 2006. There are a variety of huts on the premises but they are primar­ily used by adven­tur­ous teenaged couples from BUTI. I think Tangle­wood probably ruins other summer festi­vals for most people because it’s kind of the be-all, end-all. There­fore I am happy in my festival/colony of one, holed up in my air-condi­tioned apart­ment orches­trat­ing choral music, slowly learning some Adès ditties.