The wind turns the umbrella inside out, the trouser legs drip with rain,
parking is an expensive nightmare, etc., etc.  -- who needs this?

Why not rely exclusively on the inexpensive, sure-fire comforts of the
audio system at home -- where you get what you expected? Well, perhaps
the expected is not what you want.

Because when you brave the elements and pays your money and takes your
choice, the *unexpected* can happen.

Taking a leaf from the New York City Ballet's current policy, I wasn't
even thinking of the music when going to the San Francisco Ballet matinee
today.  (If you haven't heard the NYCB orchestra lately, the reference may
be obscure:  they don't play well these days, while the SFB orchestra
excels beyond local pride.)

I went to see Joanna Berman in the Tudor "Gala Performance" (her, not
the work which is fun only the first three times; no, two); Muriel Maffre
in Stanton Welch's obnoxious "Taiko," and, especially, the brilliant and
still-unrecognized Leslie Young in David Bintley's "The Dance House." And
that's when I became aware of the music, hearing it "for the first time"
as I never could while sitting at home.

I love Shostakovich with the best of them, but of the rough circus-music
in his "humorous" works, a little goes a long way.  And so it is with the
first and third movements of his Op.  35 (known either as Piano Concerto
No.  1 or "Concerto for Piano, Trumpet and Strings") Bintley used for "The
Dance House."

The unexpected happened in-between.  I've seen (and heard) the work many
times, but today, it stunned me how little Young (and her partner, Benjamin
Pierce) actually "danced," how boldly and dramatically their pauses spoke
of Bintley's requiem to AIDS victims ("Ye all must to the dance house go").

From the utterly simple and powerful choreography, attention is
logically channelled to the music -- and there was the glorious discovery,
that "first-time" listening -- a Bach-like quiet, serene, grieving and
accepting flow.  Fabulous, fantastic music from the young master,
sandwiched in-between hulking examples of "Russian humor." Minimalist in
its simplicity and hushed, almost motionless progression, this movement
is simply one of Shostakovich's best.

Also, if I listened a recording, I would have picked the "sure bets"
of some big names -- but then I would have missed out on a staggering
performance from artists I hardly know.

Even in local circles, you don't think of Patrick Flynn on the podium and
Michael McGraw as the soloist -- Denis de Coteau is dead, may he rest in
peace, and Emil de Cou is the fine music director, Scott Speck is his
second-in-command; Roy Bogas is usually the (outstanding) pianist.

But at unexpected performance today, quite out of the realm of CD-dom,
Flynn and McGraw were performing.

Together, when they played that second movement, they made time stop.

Janos Gereben/SF
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