We all agree that the music critic position is not considered a “dangerous” one. No chance to step on a mine, to receive a lost projectile in the heart or to be imprisonned in a forgotten jail. Nevertheless, ten days ago, Donald Rosenberg, music critic of the Plain Dealer, Cleveland eldest and most respected paper, was more or less sentenced to silence.

Let’s recall that at the end of 2008, he was politely “reassigned” to opera and ballet, after having covered for 16 years the concerts of the mythical Cleveland Orchestra (and even written a book about it). Rosenberg’s virulent reviews – mainly destined to Franz Welzer-Möst, music director of the orchestra, who is far from having a stellar reputation in the international press – caused much turmoil and the editor of the paper considered that Rosenberg, blinded by resentment, was unable to write a fair review.

Claiming age discrimination (he was replaced by Zachary Lewis, 25 years younger) and the damage of his reputation, the 58-year old journalist filed suit in court against the paper as well as the orchestra. After close to four weeks of trial, that included testimony and depositions from Welser-Möst, Christoph von Dohnányi and the music critic Tim Page, an eight-member jury ruled against Rosenberg on all claims on August 6.

The critic is still unsure if he will appeal the decision. One thing is for sure: this outcome once again addresses the very touchy question of freedom of the press.

An article from the Los Angeles Times on the matter and another one from Politics Daily…

Everyone knows that divas constantly throw tantrums and are impossible to handle, right? Well, of course, not quite. I know a few that are very professionnal and, most importantly, real sweethearts. But I must admit that I just love anecdotes that grant me a chance to laugh (just a little bit) at some of their foibles. When, on top of it, we are talking about real stories that happened to superstars, I can’t resist… Don’t worry, I have no intention of keeping them to myself and I am sharing.

• Near the end of a performance at Albert Hall one evening, the famed soprano Luisa Tetrazzini missed a top note. Greatly distressed, she ran off the platform, literally wringing her hands. Then, suddenly stopping, she raced back and, without saying a word, simply sang the single bungled note. The audience erupted with delight.
• When Stella Roman was playing Tosca in Puccini’s opera she was supposed to leap to her death from a prison parapet and land safely off-stage on a mattress. Roman, feeling insecure one night, demanded two extra mattresses. She leaped, and the mattresses bounced her back on stage. She had to kill herself all over again.
• During a performance of Rigoletto in Chile one evening, the audience was mesmerized by a feather floating down, languidly circling, from the building’s rafters. At the critical moment, Louis Quilico threw back his head in song, swallowed the feather, and promptly fainted.
• So total was the absorption of Tito Gobbi and Maria Callas in their roles that when, during a full dress rehearsal three days before opening night, Maria’s wig brushed against a lighted candle and caught fire, she went on singing and continued to do so even as smoke poured from behind her head, and Gobbi rushed across the stage to put the fire out.

Alborada del gracioso (Morning Song of the Jester) is famous among pianists for its impossible to muster double-note glissandi and very arduous repeated notes. Alborada is Spanish for “dawn” and refers to music performed during those hours, especially at festive occasions such as weddings. `

Manuel de Falla talks about Ravel’s Spanish music in these terms: “Ravel’s was a Spain he felt in an idealized way through his mother.” Many experts agree that Ravel’s attachment to his mother was undoubtedly the deepest emotional tie in his entire life. It is not surprising, then, that the Spanish character of Alborada is wholly genuine, with a percussive, insistant rhythm in the outer sections and the reflective lone guitar in the middle section.

It is played here with much conviction by André Laplante. To listen to the other pieces of Miroirs…

You never go to sleep before singing E lucevan le stelle or sing Carmen‘s Habanera in your head every time you meet a new man? Your friends constantly remind you that you should have completed your Cegep in music instead of administration? You prefer Broadway musicals? No problemo! I’m expecting you to show up, tomorrow night, 7 p.m., place Émilie-Gamelin, for Karaoke Opera, an event organised by Opéra de Montréal and The KARAOKE Channel, as part of the Montréal Pride Celebrations 2010.

The press release states: “Whether singing solo or with a group of friends, singers will choose from a selection of operatic arias in the style of Verdi, Bizet, Puccini, Mozart, Saint-Saëns and Rossini from works such as Carmen, Aida, La bohème, Tosca and others. Broadway selections include songs from West Side Story, Rent, My Fair Lady and more.”

So, I’ll see you there? Don’t count on me to step on the stage though and sing at the top of my lungs. (I’d be perfect in the accompanist’s role but I’m off the hook, technology will replace me!) I’ll be there to cheer you on though.

Lucie

The film had been loudly saluted in Europe so I seized the first chance I got to see The Concert (with English subtitles in some cinemas), a Radu Mihaileanu movie.

The story is as as extravagant (some moments are truly unplausible but we go to the movies to escape the real world, right?) as it is delicious. The movie is essentially the story of Andrei Filipov (Aleksei Guskov, particularly expressive with his eyes and hands), the once famour conductor of the Bolshoi orchestra, whose carreer was abruptly interrupted 30 years ago under Brejnev when he refused to let his Jewish musicians go. He is still on the paylist of the Bolshoi however, but this time as janitor. One late night he is stuck cleaning up the director’s office, he intercepts a fax from the Théâtre du Châtelet, an invitation for the Bolshoi to become quick replacement for the Los Angeles Philharmonic. He gets the crazy idea to make this opportunity his own, and to bring his own team of old friends (who all have tedious jobs) on a Parisian tour.

Together with best friend Sacha (endearing Dmitri Nazarov) and the help of one time adversary Ivan Gavrilov (Valeriy Barinov), an ex-KGB agent who ruined Filipov’s career, they raise funds and sponsorship and finally make it to the stage of the mythical French hall. Will Filipov be able this time to lead a complete performance of the Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto, with the help of Anne-Marie Jacquet? That is the (easy to answer) question.

The Concert won the Cesar for Best Music Written for a film and Best Sound, and it’s not difficult to see why. The ensemble cast is more than convincing (François Berléand as Châtelet’s manager Olivier Morne Duplessis is a pure joy to watch), the music is of course great (and made me love  Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto once again). Through the laughs (numerous), the director was clever enough to integrate a (soft) critique of the communist system, a reflexion on the neccessity of filiation (the young violinist has never known her parents) and, of course, the importance of music. The scene in the restaurant in which Filipov explains what the concerto and music mean to him is remarkable in that sense.

I was certainly not as shaken when I left the theater than after viewing Polanski’s The Pianist (a very different story, of course) or even as sweetly moved then after Les Choristes. Nevertheless, The Concert is a movie that reconcilies anyone with the musician herewithin, wheter you are a professional or a simple music lover.

Lucie