I admire the LA Phil’s Green Umbrella series. I really, really do. It’s adventurous and exciting in ways that regular programs rarely achieve. However, there are nights where it’s punishing and it hates me. The April 29 program, Vocal Dimensions, was one of those. At the end, in spite of the two brief bright spots, I wanted to throw up my hands and proclaim, “Just burn it all down!”
The first piece, Only the Words Themselves Mean What They Say (2011), was by Pulitzer Prize finalist Kate Soper, whose work ranges from sleep-inducing (Voices from the Killing Jar), to stupid (The Romance of the Rose), to astoundingly pretentious (IPSA DIXIT). I was morbidly curious to see if she would do something better at Disney Hall, but the three-movement Only the Words… is merely the second movement of IPSA DIXIT, a fact the Phil conveniently omitted from the program. It is written for flute (played by Rachel Beetz) and voice (Soper), and starts with Beetz growling into the flute. The gist of it is the vocalist recites text by Lydia Davis, while the flutist mimics her. There are random notes, ear-piercing shrieks, prolonged silences, and other unexpected noises, but it was all so fatiguingly predictable. This is less music, and more poetry reading, but spoken so it’s impossible to follow. Something about splitting up with an angry boyfriend. There were a few times that the audience received some moments as humorous, but in true Soper fashion, she pummeled the life out of that.
That ugly business now out of the way, next was New-Made Tongue (2020), by Nico Muhly, on piano, with soprano Eliza Bagg. It is a gloomy mood piece, angular and dramatic, then slow, quiet and light. Bagg sang the first five stanzas of Thomas Traherne’s The Salutation, but it was so pretty, I didn’t pay attention to the words. It was about five minutes long.
Daníel BjarnasonBagg and Muhly stayed on stage for Odi et Amo (2002), by Jóhann Jóhannsson and arranged by Daníel Bjarnason for 16-piece ensemble, voice, and laptop. It was sad, mournful, and full of finality. Bagg’s voice, singing the Catullus poem in Latin, was run through the computer to sound like a robot. Very strange, but very pretty, and very short, about four minutes. The woman behind me when it ended: “But it was too short!” Guaranteed, the last time anybody uttered that phrase that night.
The first premiere of the night was NO! A Lament for the Innocent, by Chaya Czernowin. The intriguing setup involved two orchestras, Bjarnason conducting on the left, and Luis Castillo-Briceño conducting on the right. Soprano Sofia Jernberg, on the left, and Bagg, on the right, joined them. I would have been excited, but, alas, sitting on the side in Orchestra East, the promising stereo effect was wasted. The two orchestras basically played the same thing, except one played with a little delay. My initial disappointment quickly turned to revulsion when the singers began their gross, high-pitched, tongue-y vocalizing, mostly “ahh” over and over. Meanwhile, the players alternated droning long notes and blowing air. On the whole, a played note equaled a sung note. The singers breathed heavily. Sometimes the percussion section did something to break up the monotony. In the midst of all the gloomy long notes, huffing, and giant BLARGs, the THX Deep Note appeared. There was no dramatic through-line. At the climax of this interminable 15 minutes, the singers let out a long scoopy “No!” that swung up and down, ending with “Don’t take my child away!” Then some whines, and it was over. I could tell you about how this piece is about our President’s child-separation policy in 2017 and how this all makes sense on an academic intellectual level, but who cares when the music is this stupid?
The final work of the night was a premiere LA Phil and Crash Ensemble co-commission, Hands on Me, a song cycle with music by Bjarnason and lyrics by Royce Vavre, for an eleven-piece ensemble that includes keyboard, electric guitar, and vocalist Mariam Wallentin. The eight songs were varied enough, clear and chill, then sharp, stabbing, and driving, but by the end of the second song, I was already bored (with 25 minutes to go!). I lay a large part of the blame on Wallentin, whose singing consisted almost entirely of vowels and lacked breath support. I could not understand her–and she was miked! Phrases that did come through didn’t make much sense and were almost certainly wrong (did I hear “Porno inflection?”). The syncopated and boozy fourth song was a little easier to understand, given that words were sung faster, but I still wandered off. The snoozy, dreamlike fifth song was pleasant enough, but defeated my caffeine pill. The final song was unsettling and seedy, seemingly about unwanted sex.
All good art should be enjoyable on a superficial level. Whether happy or sad, where is the joy? I shouldn’t have to read the manual to enjoy music. Where does the LA Phil find these people? I can’t help thinking that these are composers skilled not in music but in wooing donors. Why do these dry intellectuals keep getting LA Phil commissions? Are there really so few interesting young composers that could do something really special with that kind of grant? You can gauge audience response by the gift shop. After a great concert, the shop is PACKED. Not after this Tuesday performance. Empty like a morgue.
