Wednesday, September 26, 2007

A Well Deserved Plug

One of my college roommates had his first byline yesterday in the New York Post. The subject is Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's visit to Columbia University.

John is a fine journalist, so give it a glance.

Fortwo Admire an' Fortwo See

I read the online edition of The New Yorker religiously, and my zealotry has not waned during my tenure in Europe. Thus am I fortunate enough to be able to bring to your attention the following article from last week's Talk of the Town. The Smart Fortwo, the little European coupe that could, made its first visit to New York recently, where it demonstrated many incredible feats including, but not limited to:

1. Cutting across three lanes of traffic without incident;
2. Occupying, via a perpindicular-to-street orientation, a mere THIRD of a standard New York parking space; and, certainly not least,
3. Deflecting a moving violation ticket from the NYPD

David Schembri, president of Smart USA, hopes to bring the little bugger to the States' major metropolitan areas in order to assuage traffic conditions.* The economists in my readership recognize this argument for the temporary fix it is -- an increased supply of driving space will simply be consumed by more drivers -- but the more assured upswing of the introduction of the Fortwo is that more cars will indeed fit in America's cities, which means more people will be able to drive, should they so desire.

I am not immediately certain what the total range of ramifications a full-scale invasion of Fortwos would have on American cities. The hassle of driving in places like New York and Los Angeles is a mainstay of modern American life, and I doubt that a single model, particularly one that makes the Mini Cooper look butch, will be able to change that.

The Fortwo does come in an electric model, which makes it an ideal purchase for the modern green consumer looking to decrease his carbon footprint. The electric model of the Fortwo is infamous in parts of Europe. When I lived in Austria, I heard it referred to as an "Ohne." This is a Wortspiel off the German system of bottled water; since many Germans and Austrians prefer their bottled water carbonated, one must always specify when ordering water whether one wants "mit" oder "ohne," with or without gas.

There is an additional joke that the "Ohne" is actually short for "Ohne Sex," since no man is going to pick up ladies in a Fortwo, let alone a whining electric version thereof that tops out at 45 mph. Such is the price we pay for saving the envrionment and maximizing parking space.

--------

*What a saint.

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Gushing over Genia

I'm calling it, right here, right now. I want this in the Google cache, so that all may know, from this moment to Ragnarok, that I called it.

Genia Kühmeier is going to be huge.

Though maybe that's not the best choice of words when describing a classically trained singer. After all, there's a good chance she actually will be, erm, huge. She's a soprano. To paraphrase Victor Borge, she could very well end up being four and a half feet tall... lying down. It's kind of an occupational hazard of the profession.

That aside, Ms. Kühmeier is unabashedly amazing. I had the great fortune to hear her at the Kölner Philharmonie last night, where she performed six Strauss Lieder for soprano and orchestra. Particularly stunning were her renditions of Strauss' "Zueignung" and "Morgen." I do not often indulge in closing my eyes at concerts, but Ms. Kühmeier's voice demanded it. She generated a tone, a color, a sensation that filled that house and created the feeling any great musician should create: that the audience is so very lucky, so very privileged to be exactly where thay are at that moment, hearing what they hear.

If you don't believe my word that Ms. Kühmeier is going to be the next Renée Fleming or Anna Netrebko (or at least the next Angelika Kirschlager), just look at her track record. In the past year, this wonderful performer has premiered at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden, the Théâtre Musical de Paris Châtelet, and the Bayerische Staatsoper, undoubtedly three of the most important opera houses in Europe. She will also perform the role of Pamina in Die Zauberflöte at the Metropolitan Opera in New York during the 2007-2008 season's run. Pamina is admittedly not the most important or demanding female role; it's not even the most demanding female role in The Magic Flute. But Genia is too young to be performing roles like the Queen of the Night, anyway. She is, however, cornering the market on performances of Pamina. That she has been so frequently hired for it as of late may mean she is on the cusp of fame.

Long story short, for those of you who are in New York, make the most of this opportunity, and hear her when The Magic Flute returns to the Met. Tickets don't seem to be available yet, but stay sharp.

And just in case you still don't believe me, please feel free to sample her talent as Pamina for yourself.

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

English Interlude: A Weekend off the West End

Despite having come to Europe primarily for an education in the arts, I have had blessed little exposure to live performance since my arrival. This is largely because summer is tour season in Europe, and the local venues (i.e. the places where cheap student tickets are available) have mostly been closed. This dramatic dry spell is one reason among many I was so happy to be able to travel to London this past weekend. I was given a wonderful inside tour of two of London's theater hot spots, and all free of charge.

My lovely hostess for the weekend brought me to tech and dress rehearsals of the two shows with whom she is currently employed. The first show, which opens this weekend at the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art, is titled "Wireless," and is written by Josie Long, a promising young writer who, despite having obvious talent, also works on the hit British television show Skins.* As near as I can tell, Skins is some twisted amalgam of the Disney Channel, "St. Elmo's Fire," the sillier portions of RENT, and bad internet fan fiction about all of the above. But I digress.

Ignoring the at-first-glance-seemingly-pretentious-post-modern-title, I found the play very intelligent, from what scenes I was able to view during tech rehearsal. The plot follows Richard, a young Irishman as he heads to London to move in with this girlfriend, leaves after he discovers she is cheating on him, and eventually becomes involved with Vix, a deaf woman who lives in a massive pile of collected oddities she keeps in her house. This framework developed out of what I am told was originally a somewhat political piece about the horrors of human trafficking.

The end result felt intelligent, and made good use of being a stage script, rather than a screenplay. The play hops from scene to scene in a way that should be jarring, but maintains a sense of connectivity, in no small part thanks to my hostess' wonderful set, a rotating platform which blends one scene into the next as Richard goes about his journey. I had the good fortune to be allowed to contribute a small part to this set, as we spent Saturday morning affixing a few last minute knickknacks to Vix's pile.

Even more exciting was the dress rehearsal I attended Saturday evening at the Battersea Art Centre's Old Town Hall. Punch Drunk Theatricals has come up with one of the most innovative productions I have ever had the pleasure to experience. The company's modus operandi is the transformation of entire buildings into interactive performances, where the audience actually dons costumes and walks about the building as the play is performed all throughout. Their current show, "The Masque of the Red Death," blends the plots of ten short stories by Edgar Allen Poe, with "The Fall of the House of Usher" as the somewhat counter-intuitive hub around which the evening's events turn.

Experiencing this show cannot be adequately described. Though some small portions of the building remained contemporary in appearance (e.g. fire exits), most of it had been reverted to a theatrically convincing nineteenth century manor. Moody lighting and foreboding music haunted every corner, and the actors were absolutely terrific. Half the cast are trained dancers, whose performances, rather than spoken, are acted out through furious duets in their chambers. All the characters travel the building, and you can wait in one room for more to arrive, or pick your favorite and follow. I had special fun following about Inspector Dupin of "The Purloined Letter" as he attempted to solve one of the evening's grislier murders. The plot, I am told, is not altogether important, though I still found myself roped into a couple of its lines. Rather, the point is to experience the show as it happens and allow oneself to get caught up in it. Every element of the performance is pointed towards this goal, including the costumes the audience wore. Each guest wears standard masquerade attire of cloak and mask, which, while giving the whole evening an "Eyes Wide Shut" feel, also helps preserve the illusion since the faces of the other spectators are never seen. Finally, the evening closes with a masquerade party for the audience and cast, where a special last performance is given. I loved this last touch, and I won't ruin it here, in case you get a chance to experience this incredible show.

Though there is no discussion yet of "Masque" touring, its predecessor, an adaptation of "Faust," is coming to New York in the spring. Keep an ear out. If it's half as fun as "Masque," it will be worth every penny.

Though I wouldn't bring anyone under fifteen or so. Let's just say certain performances throughout the evening, particularly some of the, um... choreography... takes a page out of Skins' playbook. I had heard the phrase before, but I didn't know you could actually rip a bodice.

Bussi bussi.

--------

*I hesitate to even link this trash since I know my siblings occasionally peruse my blog. Molly, go do your homework.

Monday, September 10, 2007

My Kingdom for Some Oregano

I have been living with my Gastfamilie over a month now, and relations continue to be lukewarm at best. There is another boarder here now, a French student whose name I cannot spell and will only embarrass if I try, and his relationship is the same. Thus it has become quite clear to me that I am looked upon as a Mieter, a lodger, and that is all. I suppose that is all well and good, though I was expecting a little bit more from my experience of living with a family in another culture. Thinking some of the fault may fall on my end, I thought I might warm our relationship a little with a token of my gratitude. So, I asked the Langes if I might cook them dinner. They agreed, and the meal was set for this past Wednesday.

My mother has Italian heritage, and her particular recipe for tomato sauce continues to be the barometer by which I judge pasta.* I thought, therefore, that it would be nice to throw something together in this variety, since the Germans don't get a lot in the way of spices. My Gastmutter's kitchen, for instance, has four whopping containers of paprika (the Germans love the stuff), three shakers of cinnamon, a little nutmeg from the Weimar era, and little besides. I could not very well cook tomato sauce correctly with what I had on hand, so during my grocery shopping I went spice hunting as well. It was relatively easy to find garlic to brown, and basil only took a little longer. Oregano, on the other hand, appears to be wholly foreign to German culture. In three supermarkets, I saw not a hint of the stuff. I did find plenty more paprika, God help me. In fact, I asked for help everywhere I went, but this only made matters worse, since no, I didn't want any paprika; it's not even the same color as oregano, and yes I saw the Weisswurst was on sale, but no I don't want that either.**

Anyway, I managed to cobble together a decent spaghetti with baked German sausage and an almost acceptable tomato sauce. It was the first evening of serious cooking I had done since I got to Germany, and I was actually in rather high spirits by the time everyone sat down to dinner: myself; the Langes; Michael, their daughter Lena's boyfriend; and the new French tenant. I served everyone their salad and pasta, and we dug in.

I am disappointed by how the meal itself went, but I suppose I have my own high expectations to blame for that. Nothing particularly bad happened during the meal, but the conversation was not exactly animated, either. My Gastmutter thanked me precisely once for buying and cooking everyone dinner, and no one else made a comment regarding the food at any other point. I also managed to cook too much, thanks to both an unfamiliarity with the metric system as well as being used to servings sufficient for a hungry American family of seven. As such, the remainder of the meal was unceremoniously stuck in my corner of the fridge as leftovers,*** and no one save myself touched it again until I managed to eat it all.

On the plus side, Frau Zielinska-Lange was kind enough to take the occasion to bake a cake for dessert. She and Herr Lange left the table after dinner plates were cleared, but what remained of the evening became a little friendlier as the younger portion of the table chatted over our evening coffee. The french tenant and Michael even bonded over European heavy metal. In retrospect, I must admit everyone's moods may also have brightened because they no longer had to face my cooking. In any case, I was at least able to say that everyone ended the evening in some manner of positive bearing.

I haven't cooked for the family since, and I am not sure if I will again. I have comfortably accepted what is clearly a landlord/tenant relationship, albeit a somewhat odd one since we're all in the same small house. But what can I say? I am still very new to the culture here, and it is probably wise not to be overly sensitive to these early experiences. The experts all say culture shock can be at its worst around this time, so I should be especially vigilant right now about maintaining an open mind. I don't want to slip into a negative, snap-judgment mindset. That would just inhibit my experience here, and hinder my ability to use this once-in-a-lifetime experience to learn about a different place and a different way of life.

Besides, they're all a bunch of assholes over here, anyway.

--------

*As a good son, I should clarify that the barometer analogy does not leave room for superior sauces. I like to think of my mother's tomato sauce as a sort of Platonic ideal of pasta, to which other Italian dishes aspire through the pursuit of examined shelf life.

**And trust me, neither do you.

***Leftovers are a rare occurence in this house, and it has been my experience that this family looks on revisitng a meal about as warmly as most people would regard revisiting major dental surgery.

Sunday, September 2, 2007

Street Music

When I was in Austria last summer, I toured Burgenland singing with a classical music festival. Our little band managed to fill virtually every venue we visited. This experience gave me a real appreciation of what music lovers Europeans can be. Likewise, while I worked in Austria last summer, I was able to hear a number of free concerts in one of Austria's best venues. As I went about my errands today, I chanced upon great music three times, and I thought both the quality and serendipity of the experiences were worth sharing.

Along the west bank of the Rhine lies St. Kunibert's Basilica, one of the more impressive Romanesque churches of Cologne. As I walked past, I heard the distinct sound of a powerful organ as muffled through thick walls. I went inside to find one of the largest organs I have ever seen. At the bench was one Gerhard Blum, who filled the church with Baroque music for the next twenty minutes almost without pause. Besides three assistants of some sort, I was the only other person in the church. After he finished playing, I stopped him for a moment to get his name and thank him for the pleasure of his playing. He seemed in a hurry, so I let him go, but I afterwards regretted not asking him when I could hear him performing again.* It had been a while since I had heard live music that impressed me so.

I was not long in waiting for more. I came across another act about a half kilometer south on the Frankenwerft, a scenic part of the western Rhine filled with charming restaurants. This time it was some sort of amateur drum corps, performing an ongoing circular routine to cheer on the spirits of runners in the day's marathon as they blasted past. Their performance place was at the base of a semi-circular staircase between Frankenwerft and the Rhine, and an appreciative audience assembled on that staircase as they played, including a pair of homeless men who managed to get a decent portion of the crowd to dance. I watched this routine slowly develop into a small impromptu street party, which was still going on when I left for the evening.

Just south of Frankenwerft on the Fischmarkt I came across a street band composed of accordion, fiddle and bass. I have seen them a few times in this vicinity, and while it would probably be a stretch to say they have a following, the crowd usually appears pretty appreciative. One would think the band makes enough in tips, since they come around so often. The band's repertory was very familiar: an Oompah rendition of Joplin's "The Entertainer," what I believe was "Monty," and selections from Fiddler on the Roof. If for nothing else, my day was worth hearing two entire outdoor restaurants break out together into singing along to "Wäre ich ein reich Mann."

This town is starting to grow on me.

--------

* It turns out Herr Blum is the Kantor at St. Kunibert's, so if you're in town and Baroque music is your thing, Mass at the basilica is probably a safe bet to hear him.