Confessions of a Triskaidekaphobe

Friday, December 13, 1996, I found myself driving eastbound on Los Angeles Avenue in Simi Valley, on my way to a Carl’s Jr. to order food for myself, my friend Andy, and several other coworkers at Edwards Simi 10 Cinemas. And as I approached the intersection of L.A. Avenue and Sycamore, I suddenly realized I was in the rightmost lane and would soon miss the left lane that would allow my approaching turn. In a moment of haste, I began to merge left having checked only my side mirror, but not my blind spot. No matter what anyone says, it will forever be the case that the one instance you fail to check said blind spot during a lane change, it will be hiding an enormous Peterbilt, with a bumper wide as a bulldozer blade and front grill like the grimace of a giant Halloween mask. Murphy’s Law, it seems, in all its

A Flowering Moment

The evening of Friday, May 15, 2009, was a most auspicious point of felicity. In one of the final performances of the 2008/2009 Los Angeles Philharmonic concert season, I heard a resplendent work performed under the baton of the composer himself, John Adams, who, it so happens, is now the philharmonic’s new creative chair, which not only enriches the artistic potential of the orchestra, but might also bless future concerts with Adams’ music, attendance, direction, or perhaps all three.

The program consisted of A Flowering Tree, one of Adams’ most recent operas, based on an extremely old South Indian folk tale of a beautiful young peasant woman named Kumudha, who discovers herself endowed with the magical ability to transform herself into a tree, the flowers of which are sold by her sisters to support their impoverished family. A love burgeons between Kumudha and a rather selfish young prince, who happens to witness the transformation. The prince’s father eventually consents to their union, and on their wedding night, Kumudha discovers the prince quite obsessed, having almost “fetishized” her ability. After a cruel incident plotted by the prince’s sister, who also discovers the ability, Kumudha is left in a grotesque state of mid-transformation and subsequently disappears in horror, leaving the prince in shame and despondence at having driven her away. Kumudha is later discovered by the queen of a neighboring city—another of the prince’s sisters, as it turns out—and is brought to her residence in an attempt to raise her brother’s spirits. Upon being reunited, Kumudha and the prince recognize each other at once, and the prince uses two pitchers of water to return the young woman to her human form.

The opera was commissioned for the New Crowned Hope Festival in Vienna, for which the festival director and longtime Adams collaborator Peter Sellers had invited a variety of artists to respond to the late work of Mozart in commemoration of the 250th anniversary of the composer’s birth. Adams used The Magic Flute as his thematic impetus for A Flowering Tree. Both works use fantastical narratives to explore universal human archetypes, and both occur in far-off locales seen as somewhat exotic to Western minds. The premiere of Adams’ work, however, demonstrated an unprecedented cultural alloy—an opera on an Indian folk tale in both English and Spanish premiered by the Joven Camerata di Venezuela, performed by Indonesian dancers from Java, sung by the Schola Cantorum Caracas chorus, and written by a composer from California. Peter Sellers, who co-wrote the libretto with Adams and is responsible for the stage direction, remarked at Upbeat Live before the performance that opera may be the art form of the 21st century, simply because it begs the question, how many people can we fit in the room? Unlike the multiculturalism that characterized the 90s, in which it was common for people to share their culture with one another, in our present era, we find that people actively participate in each other’s cultures, and opera involves a unique degree of artistic collaboration that reflects this. A Flowering Tree, then, shows how such an aesthetic can yield a result at once grounded in tradition and, at the same time, fresh and original.

The music of John Adams has captivated my spirit and mind ever since my dad first played the final movement of the pseudo-symphony Harmonielehre on the stereo in my parents’ living room some 15 years ago. Adams’ music has a relentless ethereal quality, as of dreamscapes continually unfolding. And though he has used the language of minimalism as rhythmic subtext for much of his work, it is far more organic than pure minimalism, a la Philip Glass, Steve Reich, et al. Harmonielehre was my first significant exposure to a minimalist aesthetic, however peripheral, and my first moment of intense adoration for Adams’ art. The final movement is a thing of ebullient sublimity. I remember my dad describing the first few minutes as so euphorically beautiful, it reminded him of the soul’s wonder at entering paradise. He used this analogy, I remember, in reference to four different works, of which the other three were the Verdi Requiem, Death and Transfiguration by Strauss, and the Second Symphony of Sibelius. As with so much of Adams’ music, however, the movement doesn’t remain long at this point of transcendent beauty, but is gradually transformed into what my father described as a “wall of sound,” pounding, shining, and spiraling its way up to an expansive tumult and a final plume of blazing brass. This is music at once introspective and majestic, music that reaches deep into the heart and stokes the fires of the imagination with harmonies and instrumentation of a singular, otherworldly nature. Few words can describe the awe with which I approached this piece. And so began my odyssey with the music of this remarkably gifted composer.

My first experience seeing Adams in the flesh followed a performance of Harmonielehre at the Barbican Centre in London. I attended the performance with my parents, and none of us expected him to actually be there. So it was a real treat to see him take the stage to be recognized during the applause. I saw him again six years later, the afternoon of January 21, 2007, at an L.A. Philharmonic performance of one of his more recent symphonic opuses titled Naïve and Sentimental Music, which had been commissioned by the philharmonic. Esa-Pekka Salonen led the orchestra in a splendid performance of the piece following Beethoven’s Second Symphony. I have to say, as wonderful as Beethoven is, Naïve and Sentimental Music was exhilarating beyond measure. Adams ascended the stage just prior to the performance and offered a few words about how it came to be and what it means to him. It’s tremendous when composers and performers enrich the concert experience in this way. He said the piece was meant to evoke a journey of gradually-shifting musical vistas. The second movement, for example, he described as a desert landscape in which more massive forms, such as mountains and canyons, gradually take shape. The steel-string guitar in that movement, gently weaving through the string accompaniment, was particularly beautiful. The third movement was a rhythmic riot, full of thrilling pulsations and a transcendent, explosive conclusion, after which I was so moved, I started clapping and thought I would never stop. The Upbeat Live that preceded this performance was conducted by a music professor who shared some interesting insights. Apparently, Adams himself had found it meaningful to think of the haunting, plaintive melody that opens the first movement as the protagonist of a Dickens novel, who wanders into the story and, through a series of developments, pursues his destiny—an altogether satisfying analogy given the deep affection for David Copperfield I’ve been harboring these past few years. What an experience! I remember leaving the auditorium that night thinking, thank God there is such music to quench and renew a thirsting heart.

The evening on which the opera was performed, this sentiment was crowned with a new and richer experience. The score of A Flowering Tree is intensely luminous, and the performance was magnificent. Adams himself conducted the philharmonic, a handful of soloists and dancers, as well as the Los Angeles Master Chorale. Furthermore, my mom and I had discovered at a performance the previous week that Adams would be on hand in the Grand Avenue lobby afterward to sign copies of his CDs and his newly-released memoir. Needless to say, I was aquiver with anticipation. And after the shimmering glory of Kumudha’s final transformation and the transfigured embrace of husband and wife supported by the irrepressibly sonorous fire of the orchestra had brought the opera to a gorgeous, arresting conclusion, we clapped fervently for what seemed like an eternity, then headed downstairs and ended up only third or fourth in line in the lobby. It was astounding. Not only had I sat less than twenty feet from Adams before the performance while he shared thoughts and details about the opera and his craft, I even got to meet the man and shake his hand, a moment of transcendent delight, to be sure. I told him how greatly I enjoyed his work, and he asked me if I played an instrument. I shared that I was a percussionist, to which he smiled and simply replied, “Well, we need you.” It was a rather ordinary and pleasant little conversation, reminding me of course that he was simply a person like anyone else. Mom and I shared how much we had enjoyed the performance of Harmonielehre at the Barbican Centre some years before. He seemed so appreciative, so benevolent, and even allowed us a quick photo before we left. However extraordinary, Adams is simply a man. And yet, I'm doubtful as to whether residents of the 19th or 20th centuries felt any less a spirit of adulation in the presence of greatness having met and shaken hands with Beethoven or Stravinsky, and this was certainly a moment of equivalent quintessence.

I cannot convey my excitement about attending the upcoming November 29 concert at which the philharmonic's new music director Gustavo Dudamel will conduct Adams' latest work, City Noir, a piece commissioned by the philharmonic for the new season and also as part of a celebration of California music titled "West Coast, Left Coast," which is being curated by Adams. But rather than speculate or paraphrase on what might await the audience and myself at this momentous offering, I should like to defer to the man himself. This is a video I took of Adams during Upbeat Live, just before the May 15 performance of A Flowering Tree, in which he elaborates on being commissioned and the dark side of L.A. that drove the aesthetic of City Noir.


My father once remarked, after we had finished listening to Adams’ Violin Concerto one evening, that he believed John Adams could turn out to be the greatest composer of his generation. Truly, I find nothing in the present life of modern music to contradict this notion. Here’s to you, Dad.

It's a Randy Newman Thing

A couple of weeks ago, a shroud of disillusionment having settled on the evening one Sunday night, my best friend called suddenly and invited me to a movie. It’s the same sort of thing that’s happened a hundred times before, but I came to realize what a sobering effect it tends to have on me. And on the way home afterward, thoroughly recovered from what I had been feeling earlier, I began to reflect on exactly what had occurred the two or three previous hours. A guy’s best pal is a cache of leaning, a kind of muted trust. The connection often acts like subtext—unspoken but totally understood, totally true. I’m not talking about machismo or golden parachutes, secret handshakes or scandalous secrets. No, I mean true friendship, which doesn’t vanish or seem disquieted by delicate matters or moments of vulnerability. My best friend has stuck by me no matter how I might act or sound. He’s let me pour out my deepest concerns and still paid truth for truth, offering frank but compassionate feedback mingled with a tasteful hint of flippant irony, a curious brand of counsel that might seem like teasing one minute and resonant wisdom the next. Does it reject candid trust or moments of cathartic grief? Not at all. I’m talking about something so deep that nothing need be said much of the time. But when something is said, it is received,

Painting the Carcass

A good friend and colleague of mine once referred to plastic surgery and other age-defying measures as “decorating the carcass,” which she has made perfectly clear to her husband she will never do. And while I certainly want to keep myself attractive to my future spouse if I can, I have to agree with her stance, since the sacrifice of money and risk for these cosmetic endeavors does seem a bit drastic, and catering to the superficial preoccupation with beauty and appearance can definitely draw us away from the improvement of the spirit and the mind. Admittedly, most of us do spend a good deal of time maintaining our appearance, which has the effect of projecting a certain attitude and, in some cases, a particular worldview. Façade or no, the manner in which we present ourselves does, at least in part, define our character and personality, not only to others, but to ourselves. Hairstyles, jewelry, make-up, and even clothing are some of the most obvious examples. And in recent years, tattooing has become a more popular facet of this cultural disposition.

Body art among performance artists and more eccentric types is nothing new, and tattooing in particular is an extremely old

On Synergy and Sound

My name is Chris, and I have an addiction, not to alcohol, tobacco, marijuana, cocaine, opiates, or prescription pharmaceuticals, but to music. The shaking of air as melody, harmony, and rhythm is one of the primary ways in which I experience the divine, a portal through which to glimpse the eternal; music stimulates my imagination almost instantly and speaks to that part of my spirit that dreams of heaven. And in this age of information, how fortunate that we should enjoy the ability to have music digitally enshrined in compact discs, iPods, and other media that allow for perennial accessibility with almost no generation loss. And yet, while media such as the commercial record, or album, have entered a period of either ensuing or latent obsolescence, I still

The Discipline of Dentistry

In the first act of the macabre rock musical Little Shop of Horrors, Alan Menken and Howard Ashman inserted one of off-Broadway’s most side-splitting numbers in which the character Orin Scrivello begins by revealing the sadistic childhood thrills that led his mother to believe him uniquely suited for maybe the most contemptible of all professions, the mad science, civilization’s most abject excuse for personhood. In short, he became a dentist. Specifically, he sings of his “talent for causing things pain,” and despite his patients’ distress, they “pay him to be inhumane.” Seriously, the song is hilarity itself, and highlights a cultural aversion too common for a single ounce of the satire to be misunderstood. Somehow everyone gets the joke. And why? Because all dentists are sadists, of course. Is it even a true satire to begin with, or merely an exaggerated refraction of the truth? In light of my own blatant love of satire, let me offer that

Twelve Angry Words

As the current idiomatic heritage is passed to posterity, there seems a strong tendency not only to withhold correction, but also to bestow complete approbation and to characterize a blunder in speech as simply a respectable mode of expression or reflection of individuality, as opposed to a true, genuine, and wholly incorrect screw-up. The blooper reel of the human mind is certainly full of these, and for sure, there’s no shame in that, though I fear certain words may not survive the massacre of language that occurs today with alarmingly rare objection. In the years since I came of age and took to heart the subtleties of accurate usage, the beauty of language, and the true eloquence revealed by those who craft their manner of expression with care and conscience, these are a few of the words that have stood out to me (or perhaps whose ruin has just left me personally the most peevish), twelve with good reason to be irate, for they are the orphaned and abused, living in the foxholes of the English lexicon. They are linguistic piñatas, continually thrashed in the mosh pit of mental laziness by members of nearly every social stratum. Perhaps I put too much

Embracing the Murse

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man, regardless of fashion sense, staunch enthusiasm for preparedness, or rigid will to ignore social convention, may not reasonably endeavor, by any acceptable standard, however alternatively framed with respect to history or tradition, to carry a bag in ordinary society, for in so doing, his appearance, mannerisms, and movement so closely resemble that of the opposite sex that the humor harvested by ridiculing him never seems to lose its flavor. In modern times, many lines can now be crossed that were, in previous eras, impassable to one or the other gender. Of course, the male practice of carrying a purse is hardly novel. And yet, in the annals of social more, there seems to have been a point at which the paraphernalia of the average guy was deemed pervasively negligible or less burdensome than that of the average gal. For me, the appeal is one of utility. As a young man, I found myself constantly forgetting things; I happen to have been “cursed” with a somewhat uncooperative memory and a mind prone to wandering, neither of which is conducive to being prepared, comfortable, or prompt.

The Most Pitiful Saga

There was once a man named Jack. A Cadillac on life’s thoroughfare, he was a man of letters, whose eccentric flare for storytelling and offbeat sagacity were the stuff of legend on the campus of a small independent university tucked away in the Conejo Valley of Southern California. Now a professor emeritus residing comfortably in that same region, he has on occasion, or so I have heard, been tempted back into the classroom for a time, a great boon to those enrolled in these classes, as what they encounter is far more than a somewhat enlightening or rather piquant scholastic cruise through the wiles of Flaubert or Milton. Indeed, much more. Jack Ledbetter is a Father Time, a spinner of tales from the great Midwestern firmament of stanchion and of cow, whose Rockwellian flare for gritty characterization and ludicrous juxtaposition is a drug you scarcely know you’ve taken. I was fortunate enough to have passed through the university during Jack’s tenure there, and I managed to land before his oracular tutelage four times in the course of my undergraduate career. In those tempestuous years of self-searching, attempting to